I saw Blood Diamond yesterday, and I just finished reading Makes Me Wanna Holler, by Nathan McCall. The movie is about white greed, manipulation, and the ensuing genocide in Sierra Leone; the book is a black journalist's memoir of street to prison to the white mainstream. Now even writing about this gets me a little anxious: what do I know? Am I supposed to say something about guilt? I don't feel guilty, so there? I might feel guilty, but it's more like confused? One classmate in graduate school told me "that's just white guilt, and I'm over that." She shrank me down, but why? I am certainly ignorant. Personal politics interest me. World politics intimidate me. Racial politics intrigue me, but seem too complex for any but the very well-informed to comment. Still, if I don't say anything about race, that's a bit pathetic. Saying nothing would mean I think every thing's okay. I know it's not.
I think one branch of my ancestors was slave-owners, and I think I have black relatives somewhere. My other grandparents were Eastern European Jews who came here to avoid the Nazis. The Nazis murdered the family members who stayed behind. I grew up in the same town with the immigrant - yiddishe side of the family. We saw some combination of them every week. I was also particularly close to my southern grandparents, despite the distance. My southern grandfather - who converted to Judaism after he married - had ancestors on the Mayflower. My parents have the family tree, which a southern relative created and distributed about thirty years ago. All of my grandparents, those who spoke Yiddish, and those with a southern drawl, died awhile back.
A few hundred years after the Mayflower gig, I was on my couch doing bed rest, watching television. The dreaded Oprah was on (anyone who has ever been on bed rest knows one sinks to the lowest levels just to have something to do). In this particular episode, a young white guy talked about how he had found his black relations. He had researched his family tree, discovered that his ancestors had been "slave owners," and further discovered that he shared ancestry with black people descended from the same place. They shared the same surname, which happens to be my middle name. Hmmm. It is an old name from the southern side of my family. (I do not mean to imply that I had - or have - anything but affection for them, but refer to them as "the southern side" for clarity.)
(Regarding clarity, is 'slave owners' an accurate term? A person cannot really own another. Should we say murderers? Torturers? Mainstream southerners? Slavery is utterly inhumane. One can hardly skip over that for semantic purposes. I do not know that proper nomenclature exists to describe the act of enslaving another person.)
Back to the show: naturally, Oprah trotted out the black relatives, and everyone was happy(?) to see each other. The white man talked about how weird it was to think of his ancestors owning slaves, an idea that was apparently abhorrent and confusing, and the black people seemed far less surprised that he did that they had white relatives. They certainly knew that their ancestors had been slaves.
Following this discovery, I could never figure out if I was related to those people. Other relatives seemed to have little interest. I soon had a new baby. And even if I did have black relatives, what, exactly, would that mean? I dunno. A few years later, I saw my name as caption under a photograph of a black woman. I saw it a couple times after that, as well. I tried googling. Really, nothing came of it. Today I googled again. Many, many people have the name, and they are all black people.
So here I sit, perhaps the quintessential stereotype, but bewildered nonetheless. Nathan McCall wrote about the cruelty and humiliation of white society, and the violence he propagated in response. Eventually, after serving time in prison, he was able to gain perspective and re-gain his soul. In Blood Diamond, white people manipulate black people, and terrible violence ensues. The genocide in Sierra Leone was real, and the movie dramatizes the horror of the situation there. How does the following fit in: a short time ago, my great-great-great auntie may have sipped tea on a porch while a black lady, separated from her children, poured the cream. Or maybe the black woman worked in a field. Sometime later, a white man raped her.
So here I sit. What the hell does a white lady do, really? Try to lead a good life? Check. Study sociology in school, read the works of African-American writers? Check, check. Work with people of color? Check. Live in an integrated neighborhood? No check. Live in a place where my kids can get a good education? Check. Pretend it's all fine with me? No check. Feel that something is very wrong? Check. Notice the irony of having written all of this without more than a passing mention of money? Check.
I was raised to speak up, so I am trying to say something here. I don't know what to advocate for: political organization, human kindness, compassion, informed consumerism, an anti-racist outlook, pacifism. I got all those. Some thing's wrong - a lot of things are wrong - and I know enough to know I don't know.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
A Flintstone Friendship Fable
I gotta tell a story about my parents. They definitely have flaws. Fortunately, I don't, but I am compassionate, so on with the tale.
Years ago, like in the seventies, they had three couple-friends, as in six people, in hitched sets. We rarely do the couple-friend thing nowadays, but they did, along with The League of Women voters, the casual cigarette, and dinner parties to which I was not invited. We hung around the top of the stairs, coveting the adult conversation and undoubtedly excellent food. Or, if Mom & Dad went out, we had a range of babysitters, some with boyfriends on the phone, and others with apparent abnormalities that kept them from having boyfriends: short brittle hair and a mannish expression, or another with a birthmark running down half her face. We ate American Chop Suey - macaroni, hamburger, and tomato sauce. Yummm.
My parents had more elegant ideas. Chinese food, the symphony, and movies. One set of friends, The Rubbles - as I actually thought of them - were particularly intelligent, polite, and also petite. My parents were both tall, so there was a physical similarity to The Flintstone situation, as well. The other two couples were very friendly, except for one woman - we'll call her Wicky - who seemed to have a bitter edge, and looked at me like she might clip my ear off if I said the wrong thing. Her husband was a jovial furniture salesman, aptly named Joe - at least here, if not in reality. The other folks were a charming and wealthy couple. The wife, Flora, was a gracious, warm woman, and her husband, Earl, was easy-as-pie. He had a pipe hanging out of his mouth and a croquet court in the back yard. She had a large mole and crinkly eyes.
After a few years, it dawned on the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls that they had not been invited to Barney and Betty's for years. There started to be tension, and Wicky made lots of cutting remarks, out of earshot, or when the Rubbles were not in attendance. No invitation was forthcoming, however. The four couples visited together at three homes, but never at the Rubbles' house. My mother told me about it, and I got a bit Wickyish, really. It seemed unfair, and just plain wrong. Friends were supposed to reciprocate. Mom said that she knew that when she called, Barney and Betty were happy to hear from them - my parents, of course, were Fred and Wilma. Jeez, I thought, when Mom rationalized the Rubbles' behavior. My mother's such a wimp! I wanted to tell her to get a grip, that if they were never calling, and never inviting, the Rubbles just weren't great friends.
Eventually the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls dumped the Rubbles. Someone had finally had words, and what the words were remains a mystery to me, but they were had, or whatever. It was awkward for my parents - Fred and Wilma - but they continued their friendship with the Rubbles. They saw the other two couples separately.
Eventually, the Rubbles confided in Wilma and Fred. Barney had had a major problem with major depression for a long time, and having people in their home had not been an option. They never knew when Barney would be well, or not. They also never told Wicky et al, and they remained my parents' dear friends. Later, Barney got rich and gave bucketloads of money to universities and hospitals for research and support for psychiatry. He spoke openly about his own depression, and when we talked on a few occasions, he tried to be supportive of me as I became accustomed to living with depression myself.
The morals of the story are: the Flintstones and the Rubbles were better friends than any of those other extras that wandered into the scene now and then. Also, even when they didn't understand the eccentricities of the Rubbles, Fred and Wilma stuck with them. Never mind that Bam-Bam was a horrid kid, and Barney a bit of an oaf. They were pals, and that was that. Also, Pebbles may have grown up to be a lovely person, and she undoubtedly tolerated her parents' foibles, because they were themselves so forgiving. Plus, Pebbles knew that her own perfection would be hard to match. Finally, it is wicky important to say something when a friend's behavior is hurtful. Otherwise, you may never get to be in another episode.
Years ago, like in the seventies, they had three couple-friends, as in six people, in hitched sets. We rarely do the couple-friend thing nowadays, but they did, along with The League of Women voters, the casual cigarette, and dinner parties to which I was not invited. We hung around the top of the stairs, coveting the adult conversation and undoubtedly excellent food. Or, if Mom & Dad went out, we had a range of babysitters, some with boyfriends on the phone, and others with apparent abnormalities that kept them from having boyfriends: short brittle hair and a mannish expression, or another with a birthmark running down half her face. We ate American Chop Suey - macaroni, hamburger, and tomato sauce. Yummm.
My parents had more elegant ideas. Chinese food, the symphony, and movies. One set of friends, The Rubbles - as I actually thought of them - were particularly intelligent, polite, and also petite. My parents were both tall, so there was a physical similarity to The Flintstone situation, as well. The other two couples were very friendly, except for one woman - we'll call her Wicky - who seemed to have a bitter edge, and looked at me like she might clip my ear off if I said the wrong thing. Her husband was a jovial furniture salesman, aptly named Joe - at least here, if not in reality. The other folks were a charming and wealthy couple. The wife, Flora, was a gracious, warm woman, and her husband, Earl, was easy-as-pie. He had a pipe hanging out of his mouth and a croquet court in the back yard. She had a large mole and crinkly eyes.
After a few years, it dawned on the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls that they had not been invited to Barney and Betty's for years. There started to be tension, and Wicky made lots of cutting remarks, out of earshot, or when the Rubbles were not in attendance. No invitation was forthcoming, however. The four couples visited together at three homes, but never at the Rubbles' house. My mother told me about it, and I got a bit Wickyish, really. It seemed unfair, and just plain wrong. Friends were supposed to reciprocate. Mom said that she knew that when she called, Barney and Betty were happy to hear from them - my parents, of course, were Fred and Wilma. Jeez, I thought, when Mom rationalized the Rubbles' behavior. My mother's such a wimp! I wanted to tell her to get a grip, that if they were never calling, and never inviting, the Rubbles just weren't great friends.
Eventually the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls dumped the Rubbles. Someone had finally had words, and what the words were remains a mystery to me, but they were had, or whatever. It was awkward for my parents - Fred and Wilma - but they continued their friendship with the Rubbles. They saw the other two couples separately.
Eventually, the Rubbles confided in Wilma and Fred. Barney had had a major problem with major depression for a long time, and having people in their home had not been an option. They never knew when Barney would be well, or not. They also never told Wicky et al, and they remained my parents' dear friends. Later, Barney got rich and gave bucketloads of money to universities and hospitals for research and support for psychiatry. He spoke openly about his own depression, and when we talked on a few occasions, he tried to be supportive of me as I became accustomed to living with depression myself.
The morals of the story are: the Flintstones and the Rubbles were better friends than any of those other extras that wandered into the scene now and then. Also, even when they didn't understand the eccentricities of the Rubbles, Fred and Wilma stuck with them. Never mind that Bam-Bam was a horrid kid, and Barney a bit of an oaf. They were pals, and that was that. Also, Pebbles may have grown up to be a lovely person, and she undoubtedly tolerated her parents' foibles, because they were themselves so forgiving. Plus, Pebbles knew that her own perfection would be hard to match. Finally, it is wicky important to say something when a friend's behavior is hurtful. Otherwise, you may never get to be in another episode.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Secrets, Rejection & A Plastic Jesus
I found a very excellent book at the bookstore called "Secrets." A man named Frank put it together, based on his blog, Post Secret. People send in artful-ish postcards and disclose secrets. Many are quite powerful. One of the first notes said "I don't like sex," mounted on an Calvin Klein ad close-up of a man's crotch. Others were about suicide, cheating of various forms, and events people regretted, or felt they should have regretted. I found myself drawn to the book, as I do have quite a few secrets myself. Despite my efforts to be open here, there are certain matters of which I am so ashamed, or so confused, that I choose not to write about them. Or maybe I do write about them, without realizing it, when I write stories or poetry. I am never been able to express my state of internal isolation: I approach, then balk. My first attempt, thirty-five years ago, failed, and the rare efforts since then failed as well. I could write a book about that, but it would probably not be of particular interest to other people.
Today is Christmas. My parents accepted an invitation to come be Christmas Jews with us, but then decided to go to my brother's home instead. This is the second year in a row that they committed the same blunder. Even when reminded of the gaffe, they chose to go to my brother's house, since his family is usually less available than us. It is a new low to be ditched, not by a friend, but by one's parents, for a sibling. It is even lower when the faulty parties - Mommy and Daddy, as it were, do not correct the error, but choose to keep the second commitment. My mother occasionally reads the blog, but it is my blog, so I will say whaddevah I wanna say. Perhaps my parents will write into the Post Secret guy, Frank, and tell him what exactly they are thinking: the firstborn really is the favorite? Our house is too small? They have better food? Daughters are more loyal and so ditching them is not a hazard?
Other secrets I am not keeping: I am in a genuine, actual panic about the state of both my hair and my face (if I am not pretty, what the hell am I?); I really wanna cigarette; I would like to have more sex but I am fundamentally shy and remote; I am not as smart as virtually everyone I surround myself with, so I often have to 'cover,' I have a vast amount of affection for people, and that embarrasses me, because often they like me, but they don't quite adore me as I do them; my former therapist, who is a world-renowned, much-quoted expert, said a lot of personal stuff to me and I sorta knew it, but I was flattered until I realized it was wrong, and I, well, I gotta stop there because the others just aren't coming out.
One more thing: there is an inflated plastic, bigger-than-life sized Jesus about two miles down the road. Not a secret, but rather an example of something that never should have been let out of the bag.
Today is Christmas. My parents accepted an invitation to come be Christmas Jews with us, but then decided to go to my brother's home instead. This is the second year in a row that they committed the same blunder. Even when reminded of the gaffe, they chose to go to my brother's house, since his family is usually less available than us. It is a new low to be ditched, not by a friend, but by one's parents, for a sibling. It is even lower when the faulty parties - Mommy and Daddy, as it were, do not correct the error, but choose to keep the second commitment. My mother occasionally reads the blog, but it is my blog, so I will say whaddevah I wanna say. Perhaps my parents will write into the Post Secret guy, Frank, and tell him what exactly they are thinking: the firstborn really is the favorite? Our house is too small? They have better food? Daughters are more loyal and so ditching them is not a hazard?
Other secrets I am not keeping: I am in a genuine, actual panic about the state of both my hair and my face (if I am not pretty, what the hell am I?); I really wanna cigarette; I would like to have more sex but I am fundamentally shy and remote; I am not as smart as virtually everyone I surround myself with, so I often have to 'cover,' I have a vast amount of affection for people, and that embarrasses me, because often they like me, but they don't quite adore me as I do them; my former therapist, who is a world-renowned, much-quoted expert, said a lot of personal stuff to me and I sorta knew it, but I was flattered until I realized it was wrong, and I, well, I gotta stop there because the others just aren't coming out.
One more thing: there is an inflated plastic, bigger-than-life sized Jesus about two miles down the road. Not a secret, but rather an example of something that never should have been let out of the bag.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
The Tele-Polygamy Solution: A Cure for Man & Strife
Oh I do so question the fundamental idea of American marriage. Why are we so down on polygamy? I could still be with my kids, but the Ball & Chain's tendency to act as if the television were a soul-mate would be another gal's burden. Actually, I may have hit on something right there. It was gradual - when we first met, there was no t.v. in sight - but over time, B&C has made a heart-felt commitment to the television. There was no sudden something, there was just a gradual tendency to tape shows, assume that I knew he'd be watching hours-long homo-erotic videos, i.e. football, and the tendency to pay far more attention to that square box, its general health and schedule, than to me.
Jealous of the television? Hardly. If we can ever get a big-screen plasma mega-wall covering, I may covet the television, and devote myself. Currently, the television has saved me from the above-mentioned drench of American marriage. Here are my perfectly lovely kids. Why must they be related to B&C as well? It is so inconvenient when I am compelled to listen to his opinion regarding their care. In truth, his efforts have improved of late. Nevertheless, I am confident in the assertion that any of my judgments regarding children will be superior to his. Not necessarily because I know all, but because I always know more than him. Adolescent boy sex education is the exception. But even then, I had to direct him from 'behind the scenes.' This is what fathers do, etc. Yawn.
My main consultants are the women in my life, of course. My Mama, once smart and now phenomenally smart regarding people and child-rearing; Chrystal, whose child-rearing talents include kicking out her lazy-ass ex; Becca, who also lives with 2 children and a human husband; and other peoples, including my sister and two lovely and intelligent neighbor-friends who are with "grown men." We often chat, house-to-house, about the mediocrity of marriage and the most recent unfortunate events. I'd call it a series, but that name's been taken.
Back to the television. Not all marriages have a television. If you have been with the same man - lesbians, I envy you, I once thought I was a lesbian, I am certainly oriented in either direction, but I must exclude you from the idiocy that is man and wife - I do recommend getting a television and introducing him to some nice attractive shows. Perhaps he likes sports? Cleavage? Sexual content? Guns, car chases, idiotic cartoons? If he fits into any of these categories, you may have a chance at the Tele-Polygamy Respite Program. Mind you, it's not for everyone. If you enjoy your partner's company most of the time, well, you have obviously not been married long and I don't know why you're reading. Similarly, if you have a long-distance relationship, you're all set. At-home-moms may enjoy the solution because even when he's there, he's not. But then again, you may want to use his at-home time to bitch and ditch, off to see a friend and get a break from the house.
I am hereby creating the Tele-Polygamy Respite Program for all aggrieved overly-married women. More qualification requirements will be forthcoming, but I suspect you know who you are. In the meantime, there is not much on today, so I have some serious errands to run. The daughter rejected B&C's offer to go to an event, so that she could be with me. Like mother, like daughter: a genius.
Jealous of the television? Hardly. If we can ever get a big-screen plasma mega-wall covering, I may covet the television, and devote myself. Currently, the television has saved me from the above-mentioned drench of American marriage. Here are my perfectly lovely kids. Why must they be related to B&C as well? It is so inconvenient when I am compelled to listen to his opinion regarding their care. In truth, his efforts have improved of late. Nevertheless, I am confident in the assertion that any of my judgments regarding children will be superior to his. Not necessarily because I know all, but because I always know more than him. Adolescent boy sex education is the exception. But even then, I had to direct him from 'behind the scenes.' This is what fathers do, etc. Yawn.
My main consultants are the women in my life, of course. My Mama, once smart and now phenomenally smart regarding people and child-rearing; Chrystal, whose child-rearing talents include kicking out her lazy-ass ex; Becca, who also lives with 2 children and a human husband; and other peoples, including my sister and two lovely and intelligent neighbor-friends who are with "grown men." We often chat, house-to-house, about the mediocrity of marriage and the most recent unfortunate events. I'd call it a series, but that name's been taken.
Back to the television. Not all marriages have a television. If you have been with the same man - lesbians, I envy you, I once thought I was a lesbian, I am certainly oriented in either direction, but I must exclude you from the idiocy that is man and wife - I do recommend getting a television and introducing him to some nice attractive shows. Perhaps he likes sports? Cleavage? Sexual content? Guns, car chases, idiotic cartoons? If he fits into any of these categories, you may have a chance at the Tele-Polygamy Respite Program. Mind you, it's not for everyone. If you enjoy your partner's company most of the time, well, you have obviously not been married long and I don't know why you're reading. Similarly, if you have a long-distance relationship, you're all set. At-home-moms may enjoy the solution because even when he's there, he's not. But then again, you may want to use his at-home time to bitch and ditch, off to see a friend and get a break from the house.
I am hereby creating the Tele-Polygamy Respite Program for all aggrieved overly-married women. More qualification requirements will be forthcoming, but I suspect you know who you are. In the meantime, there is not much on today, so I have some serious errands to run. The daughter rejected B&C's offer to go to an event, so that she could be with me. Like mother, like daughter: a genius.
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