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Reflecting on the Dark Side

 Co-written with David White

My cousin, David, is a deep thinker, much more so than I am. I often marvel at his insight and what I see as his skill at analyzing situations. He is also very modest, so I’m sure he will admonish me for gushing over him in this post. But I call it as I see it. In addition to many things my cousin and I have in common, our intense dislike for small talk and delight in engaging in stimulating conversations often lead us into deep discussions, usually about politics and social issues. And since at least one (moi – and perhaps both) of us dislikes marathon phone conversations, we primarily correspond via email.

Yesterday, inadvertently, on the eve of Black History month, our topic was the Tyre Nichols tragedy. I did not watch and have no plans to watch the infamous video. Whenever a newscast predictively includes a portion of the videos, I change the channel or mute the TV and look away. I DON’T WANT TO SEE IT. The whole situation has become a repeat of an ongoing practice that keeps many of us (black people) in a perpetual state of sorrow for the victims and their families. The needless killings keep repeating like reruns of old TV shows.

Copicide, as I call it, is a modern-day Shakespearean-type tragedy not made for TV. Here’s how I described the plot of the ongoing series on my FB page: “Unwarranted murder by cop. Heartbreak and outrage expressed by the family. Calls for justice by Crump and Sharpton. Protests by activists. Expressions of regret and condolences to the family by city officials. Calls for reform by those same officials and politicians. Hashtag, here we go again. Second verse same as the first.”

As he often does, my cousin impressed me when he laid out his perspective.

I could write a dissertation on my feelings regarding the Tyre Nichols situation. It is so painful. But humans who feel they are licensed to hierarchize human life on a scale of “more or less worthy of humane treatment ” leads to this – one of the reasons (among many) I’m against the death penalty. Once you deem someone else’s life worthy of less respect than you would give your own, it logically proceeds that things like this happen. It gives [carte-blanche, my two cents] the authority and power to act on those prejudices.

I didn’t watch all of the videos but [saw] enough to know what it was about … Everyone intuitively knows that if that young man had been white and every other circumstance were the same, there would have been a totally different outcome, if any incident at all. 

I worked at a prison, and I know how easy it is for people to be depersonalized and dehumanized. And, to get into the racial part … Eddie Glaude on MSNBC alluded to a Baldwin citation, which I can only attempt to paraphrase. [He said] that racism becomes a systemic way to view others, and blacks can easily assimilate that same racist attitude given the right conditions. It makes it much more painful because many black people are oblivious to how we have adapted and internalized the attitudes we ostensibly rebuke.

I will never forget how hurt and ashamed I felt while walking the historic campus grounds at the predominantly white University of North Carolina. I passed a large group of black students in front of the main library and heard one female approach another person (a male, I believe) and, with a smile, greet him with “Hey nigger.”

Keep in mind that scores of students (mostly white) were making their way to and from classes at that time. I wanted to find Star Trek’s Scottie and have him beam me to my dorm and erase the memory. I’m sure they [the black students] thought they were being hip, cool, and defiant by uttering such an offensive word, and in their mind, making it powerless or some mark of distinction. But I know what they were really saying is “You may be at a white school, you might be academically gifted, but I see you the same way a lot of these white folks see you.”

That’s the sentiment that comes to mind when I hear about [the Nichols tragedy].  

 I know I’m going to sound like an old fogey, but whenever I hear the N-word, it jangles me. I will never be comfortable with that word, and it pains me when I see young people blasting their music, and every other word in the song is N-word this and N-word that, and white and black [people in proximity] hear this. I feel [that those who use the N-word] have an [warped] idea about what racism is and what it is not. For example, some think that a particular effect, attitude, and worldview make you “black.” And if you don’t conform to [that way of thinking], then you’re not really black.

When I was in college, many students dropped a class if they didn’t see any other black students taking the course because they had assimilated the idea that there are certain places where they don’t “belong;” not because anyone overtly told them that but because they had been acculturated to believe it. That’s why [some people] can treat a black stranger entirely differently from a white stranger and not see how that is a form of racism.  

Not to throw fuel on an eternal flame, I’m piggybacking on David’s thoughts about the intricacy of racism and the angst it causes by adding one more thing. I did watch the video showing an intruder’s break-in at the home of now-former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. When the door opened, the police saw a hefty-looking white guy grasping the arm of Peloski’s elderly husband with one hand while welding a hammer in his other hand, and the intruder still lives to talk about it. I’ll leave that right there.

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The Gift: Contemplating the Black Doll, White Doll

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” ― C.G. Jung

In this Sunday’s Washington Post Magazine, Damon Young wrote a column titled, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” Young’s column is published weekly on the inside back cover of the magazine in the space previously utilized by Gene Weingarten, a former syndicated humor columnist for the paper.

Young, a noted journalist, has written for numerous newspapers and other publications and is also the author of What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker: A Memoir in Essays. In addition, he is the winner or nominee of several awards, including the NAACP Image Award. He has earned his props.

Since Young began publishing his (humorous?) perspective columns in The Washington Post Magazine, I’ve read many of them. One that impressed me, entitled “The Whitest thing I’ve ever seen,” was about the infamous Will Smith slap at the Oscars.

The column in today’s paper flashed me back to an afternoon decades ago, sometime in the mid-1980s. One of my former employers, Harper (Note: I am using pseudonyms for my employer and all of his family members) and his wife had invited me to their home to visit with his adult daughter, Sandy, and her first child, a daughter Ashley. If I remember correctly, Baby Ashley was around three or four months old.

Sandy’s husband, Nick, may have been there too, but I don’t remember seeing him. I had an excellent relationship with these people and had met Sandy on a few occasions before when she had visited her dad from her home on the West Coast.

I could go on about the genuine friendship I had with this family. I liked them a lot, and I feel those feelings were reciprocal, but I want to cut to the chase and reveal how this ties in with Young’s column.

Before visiting the Harper’s home that day, I had contemplated what gift to buy for the baby. I figured that perhaps baby showers and the couple’s friends had already brought numerous presents for Ashley. However, I wanted to give her something unique, so that’s what I got.

After I gave Sandy the nicely store-wrapped gift box during my visit, she opened it to discover a beautiful black baby doll for Ashley.

Some people might question my gift choice, but I saw it this way. Although Sandy and her husband are white, I felt they would have no problem with the black doll. (For my readers who may not have noticed from some of my previous posts, I’m a black woman. Now, back to the topic.) I usually bought black dolls for my daughter but wasn’t bothered when she was gifted white dolls (as she sometimes was). My cousin, Andre, had even sent her a Cabbage Patch doll when he was in the military and stationed in Germany. I still have that doll in my home.

If I were right in thinking that Sandy and her husband were as open-minded and socially conscious as Sandy’s dad, then I knew they would see nothing wrong with diversifying their daughter’s doll collection.

Sandy thanked me and expressed her appreciation. Several months later, I don’t remember whether Sandy sent me a note or if her dad delivered the message, but Sandy wanted me to know how much the child was enjoying her doll. Ashley is a grown woman now, and the doll — I don’t know what became of her.

After reading Young’s column this morning, I was a bit irritated and had some serious cognitive dissonance going on. I was questioning my gift choice all those years ago while at the same time feeling disturbed by Young’s reaction to his daughter’s white doll.

I saw no harm in my choice for Ashley’s doll collection, which I figured would likely grow as she would. But talk about second-guessing a done deal. Young’s column had me wondering if my idea had not been good despite how it seemed at the time. After I left the get-together, did the Harper family react the same way the Youngs had toward the white doll? Did they contemplate what to do with the black doll? My gut feeling says no.

Click on the link to read Young’s column, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” And, since I am always curious to know what my readers think, I’d appreciate your comments on this post.

 

 

 

 

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Guess What Day It Is

Guess what day it is? I sound like the hump day camel, don’t I? Well, it’s my birthday, so I can be giggly if I want to.

Yesterday, my neighbor baked me a pineapple cake to die for. (Yes, Word Police, I know that sentence ended in a preposition, but this is my party.)  Aside from being grammatically incorrect, to die for was also probably a poor choice of words considering that I am on the downside of the hill. Nevertheless, I ate a slice, and that cake was delicious. Thank you, Hazel.

If I place a single candle on the remaining cake, then make a wish and blow out the candle, my wish would be for world peace.

Where has the time gone? I feel like the years have passed like falling dominoes. Wasn’t it just yesterday when I was only ten wishing I was a teenager, and then 18 wishing I was 21? And along the way from then to now, I kept wishing – to be a wife, a mother, a social activist, a published author. Finally, at some point in time – not dictated by me, but assigned by the Higher Power who controls all – I achieved all of those earlier goals and then some. I have a few other things on my bucket list, and I hope to realize those ambitions before running out of tiles.

I’m not and have never been materialistic. Simple things in life make me happy. Knowing that my loved ones and friends are safe. A comfortable home. A good book. A tasty cup of coffee. I thank God every day that I awake to see another sunrise.

I often think about what I’d tell my younger self when she wished to be grown. I’d tell her . . .

  • You will always encounter naysayers throughout life. But, don’t be discouraged by their negativity. When they tell you that you can’t accomplish something, continue to pursue your dream and prove them wrong.
  • The world is filled with disgruntled people who will lash out at every opportunity about everything and anything instead of counting their blessings. Don’t let their unhappiness disturb your peace.
  • Keep in mind that there is no level playing field, and life is not fair. There are slopes, potholes, and other hindrances along the way waiting to trip you up. When you fall, and sometimes you will, rise up with even more determination. And let your mantra be the words of Nelson Mandela, “Do not judge me by my successes, judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.”
  • Don’t yield to racists who will stereotype and try to define you and then claim that you have a victim mentality. Define yourself. Show them that you descend from warriors. You are a survivor.

I have numerous other life lessons that I’ve learned and want to share with you, little girl, but I’ll save those for some other time. Meanwhile, keep in mind the words of Nikki Giovanni, “I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure, but I can’t imagine that I’d forgive myself if I didn’t try.”

It’s your day — enjoy it!

 

 

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Yoga, High Lunging to a Happy Place

This morning was the first time in a long while that I performed the entire 60-minute yoga exercise routine that I once practiced regularly. I was proud of myself.

I’ve enjoyed doing yoga poses since a close friend sparked my interest in 2006 after gifting me with The Complete Guide to Yoga by Judy Smith, Doriel Hall, and Bel Gibbs. That book encouraged me to learn and practice yoga poses. So I did it regularly for several years. And although I eventually slacked off from my routine, I never ultimately gave up the practice.

This morning’s exercise was even more enjoyable because I didn’t miss a beat. Downward dog. Tree pose. Warrior. Oh yeah! It felt like I was back in the period when I was practicing three to four times a week. My memory did not let me down. Instant recall. Nailed it!

I wasn’t impressed in the early 1960s when yoga became a big deal in the U.S. I thought it was just another organization designed to draw naïve participants into a cult. After all, the sixties and seventies produced some of the most infamous cults in history. Jim Jones’ Jonestown, Charles Manson, the Branch Davidians, and Heaven’s Gate come to mind.

Some people consider yoga a non-Christian belief system or see it as a cult-type religion and condemn it without prudence. I beg to differ. If one considers it to be a cult with brainwashing tactics that alienate members from their family and friends, then, as I see it, some standard religious organizations fall into the cult category. The downside of reckless or irresponsible thinking is that it prevents us from expanding our knowledge about something before condemning it with hair-trigger speed.

Over the years, I’ve educated myself about yoga by reading books and studying videos on the subject. One of the books I enjoyed was Deepak Chopra’s The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. Among the numerous educational videos that I use, at least half a dozen are produced by Peggy Cappy. Still, I’m sure that yoga experts would say that books and videos only skim the surface, and that’s okay—different strokes.

As far as yoga being rooted in spirituality, I guess that is a matter of individual interpretation. Regardless, I omit the chanting, rituals for unblocking chakras, and other practices that I find discomforting. Instead, I practice and enjoy yoga’s gentle flow and restorative poses, and breathing exercises. I find the poses for stretching and strengthening muscles extremely beneficial (especially at my age), and meditation is so relaxing.

On a pop quiz, I couldn’t name or explain all of the various kinds of yoga for a million bucks. And although I never tried to memorize them, two, Hatha and Bikram come immediately to mind.

I enjoy doing yoga. And I so relished this morning’s session that I still feel a natural high this afternoon. My daily mantra is – Start each day with a grateful heart and do what makes you happy. Yoga takes me to a happy place.

Namaste!

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Sister, Sister

“I smile because you’re my sister. I laugh because there’s nothing you can do about it!” Anonymous

 

Ida Staton White & Mildred Staton Parker

It’s funny how, at the oddest time, a long-suppressed memory will creep out of the gray matter in my head and then rewind and replay like an old movie.

This morning, I awoke near dawn and was lying in bed trying to decide whether to get up right away or stay there for a while and catch a few more zzzs when, out of the blue, I remembered a humorous incident that occurred years ago. It involved my Aunt Ida, my mother, and me.

I must have been around seven or eight years old at the time. My family was visiting my maternal grandma’s farm down south, as we did on occasional weekends or frequently during school break.

The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

I remember that it was a beautiful morning. One of my mother’s sisters, Ida, my mother, and I were in grandma’s vegetable garden, gathering veggies for that day’s dinner. Aunt Ida was wearing a long-sleeved, light blue shirt and faded blue jeans. Mother wore khakis and a lightweight dark-colored jacket over a green short-sleeved blouse. Because the dew was still on the ground, mother and Aunt Ida had put on old galoshes to protect their shoes from the droplets. I didn’t have galoshes and was aware of the dampness seeping into my sneakers. It amazes me how I can remember details of something that occurred years ago, but ask me about something that happened yesterday, and I draw a blank.

The garden was enclosed in what I believe was a chicken wire fence to prevent deer and other animals from eating the crops. Mother was at one end of the plot pulling a few cucumbers. Aunt Ida and I were a few feet away at the opposite end. Auntie was identifying for this naïve city girl some of the other veggies growing there when my eyes scanned the next row and landed on an elongated, curly green thing, about a foot long and half-inch thick. I starred and it for a few seconds, and my childhood imagination kicked in.

“Aunt Ida,” I whispered, drawing her attention, “Look, there’s a snake.” Aunt Ida followed my pointing finger to the object on the ground, briefly observed it, and then cracked a smile. Having been born and raised on the farm, she immediately recognized it for what it was or, in this case, what it wasn’t.

“It’s not a snake,” she laughed as she reached over the crop and picked up the slightly curvy bright green thing. “It’s just a piece of vine,” she said. Then, she glanced at mother, who had her back to us and was leaning forward, perhaps deciding on whether or not to pull up some veggies.

I am smiling now as I recall what happened next. Aunt Ida asked if I wanted to play a trick on my mom, and I nodded yes. Of course, innocent me had no idea what was about to unfold.

She handed me the piece of vine and positioned it in my hand to hold one end of it with the tips of my index finger and thumb. Next, she told me to put my hand behind my back and then walk over to my mother, stand before her and say, “Mom, look what we found,” and then bring my arm around in front of me.

Obedient and unsuspecting, I did as I was instructed. When I was a few feet in front of my mom, she lifted her head to look at me and said, “What’s up, Lo?”

I noticed that Aunt Ida, who had quietly walked up and was standing a few feet behind mom, was smirking like she was about to bust a gasket.

“Muh, (that’s what my siblings and I called our mom) look what Aunt Ida and I found.” I immediately moved my arm around in front of me and extended it toward mom. The curly green vine swayed in the breeze. Mom let out a scream and began hop-scotching away from me while yelling, “PUT THAT DOWN.” Aunt Ida was howling with laughter. Mom was screaming, jumping all over the place, and yelling, “Put that snake down.” I dropped the vine and slowly backed-pedaled. Some years later, I would wonder if grandma had been standing at the kitchen window enjoying the comedic drama as it unfolded.

Unbeknownst to me at the time but well known to Aunt Ida, my mother was scared to death of snakes.

“Bootsie (that was the nickname mother’s siblings called her), it’s not a snake. It’s only a vine,” Auntie said to mother to calm her down. Mother angrily scolded her, “That’s not funny, Ida.”

Aunt Ida could not stop laughing. Mother could not stop fuming. And I just stood there thinking, “Oh- oh. I’m in big trouble.” But I wasn’t because Aunt Ida rightfully took the blame and fessed up that it was all her idea.

Mother and Aunt Ida would laugh about that event over the years. Today the two sisters are with my grandparents and some of their other siblings together in eternity. And until I join them, I will always smile at pleasant memory like this one when they resurface.

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