White Skin, Brown Skin, Broken Heart

After Trayvon was killed, I had several friends who wanted discussion about raising kids with brown skin in this nation. This was an attempt at a response.

In an attempt help others along, I will reveal my experience as an anglo girl married to a brown man for 15 years, and raising brown kids for 14 years in the hope that sharing my story can enlighten others or something like that. Some of my story may be superfluous for now, but perhaps it will become more meaningful as years go on.

I realize that you may have never thought of racism much more than as a part of the history of our nation. I also realize that you may well have been living in the bubble that white skin allows and which keeps people from knowing the serious effects of hatred toward non whites. You've not been exposed on any real level to the way white people can act toward others whose skin is different than theirs. Not just any difference, because Greeks, Brazilians are thought of as beautiful people to white America. The browner the skin, the worse it is. And if you are American and Black you are considered the least important, the least intelligent, the least appealing. I hate saying those things, but I have watched time and time again, first hand, how true those foul statements are.

The first thing I noticed when we moved to Vancouver, WA, was how few brown people there were and how segregated everybody's social interactions were. It was strange. I came from San Francisco where my closest friends were mostly African Americans and immigrants from all over the world. They were family to me and only a few of my friends were white. It took me years to understand this difference. I spent until I was 16 growing up amidst colorful, wonderful, loving people who I never thought of as this race or that. But their cultural diversity and experiences made them all the more special to me. I am sure they each have stories they could tell of discrimination which I did not witness. But I was unaware that there was such distinction, let alone hatred. I certainly didn't catch that my dad disliked the brown boys particularly. I thought it was all boys we shouldn't talk to. But the day I was told that I would not have brown babies in his house was shocking. (he has changed his attitude fully and is now nothing remotely like this) He didn't even realize it was in there.

When Janus and I met in highschool, we were forbidden to be friendly to each other by my father. (again, he has since changed his heart and his mind and loves Janus as a son) I was harassed and threatened by the black girls at our school. I was called white trash by his family members and black friends who also called him a sell out. My white friends didn't understand and made comments about his penis. It didn't matter to me. I loved him and didn't think of him in terms of his skin color except that it is beautiful. He was very kind and handsome and upright. We lost contact then, but reconnected again as adults and found that we truly loved each other deeply.

When I first met Janus' grandmother she would not even acknowledge my existence. She would place her hand on his shoulder between us and look only at him. We became engaged. My grandmother wrote a letter to my mother asking if we knew it was adultery to mix races. My mother graciously withheld this information until years later. Both of these women changed their tune and grew to love their new family members entirely before their death and we hold no ill will against either of them. His brother was vehemently opposed to Janus dating a white girl. When we went places together people would smile at me until they saw I was with him and then try to hide their disgust. They still do this sometimes and others just stare while they try to comprehend what they see. Once while walking in Portland, a truck full of guys drove by and threw a full drink container at us and shouted 'nigger'. I was sneered at by old white men and called a 'nigger lover'. Then we had kids.

When my oldest was born, the staff sent an intern up to have me fill out paternity papers. 'Why do I need those?' "Well, um, uh, is this your husband?" 'Yes'. "I guess you don't need them." That poor intern. I suppose someone didn’t notice my wedding ring. Or his listing as my husband on our hospital paperwork. When Ridge was born, thankfully, I was only drug tested (somewhat secretly). When Tennessee was born, they drug tested her multiple times as well as me, and kept me in the hospital until a social worker could interview me. She went home for the day and so I was not given discharge until a wiser, more experienced nurse took over the shift and realized it was unnecessary. A doctor on duty came in, took one dirty look at my sweet baby's little raspberry on her leg, asked me 'What's this?' She didn't even try to hide the condescending look on her face. She was born with it, aren't kids born with those sometimes? 'I guess so'. She turned and left the room.

I was once shopping at the grocery store where I had shopped for years. I had my children and my niece, who is a beautiful sweet girl whose skin is a luscious chocolate color. The checker looked at me several times out of the side of her eyes, and circling around at my brood of smart, polite babies and stopped short. 'I'll have to...run this check. I'll, um, be right back.' With her suspicious eyes, she took my check away from her register to the manager's office and called the bank to see if it was good. It was. It always had been in all the years I had gone to that store. His brother held a family meeting to discuss how untrustworthy I was and his belief that I didn’t respect them because they were black and I was a ‘controlling white bitch’.  

When my son was in the second grade we were told by his teacher that she'd never seen a child so off task and unable to work and who was so rarely on track with what the class was doing. I viewed the classroom several times to see what she was talking about. I was ready to get Rhys in line! Every time I went, I observed him through a window without his knowing I was there. He was right on task doing what the class was doing. For those of you who don't know him, he is one of THE most polite, sweet kids ever who always tries to maintain good rapport with the teacher. And I'm not just saying that because he's my kid. She suggested we have him looked at by a doctor who, surprisingly, found nothing to report. The following year, she made the same comment to the mother across the street. Try to prepare yourself for shock when you read that he was also a child of a mixed race couple. That stigma never went away. The other students began calling Rhys stupid. He is neither stupid, nor unable to participate in class. He is a young boy. He is nonlinear. And he is black.

Ridge began to be racially harassed in the third grade by a classmate. He was called 'nigger' and spit on, pushed, laughed at because of his afro. ‘You’re nothing but a black slave’. I cannot convey the stories here. There is simply not enough space in my heart to remember it all. I finally had enough of what I discovered was the principle’s lack of action and threatened to go to district when the behavior spread to other students and continued into the fourth grade. When Ridge saw that boy's name on his class list, he was so upset he reverted to wetting the bed for a short time. To her credit, his fourth grade teacher is the person who finally stopped the abuse. Thank God. My heart breaks just recounting these stories. He was always so nurturing and friendly and less than confident.

My daughter has thankfully had far less disruption to her schooling, but people see her as an object of beauty. This is harder to pinpoint,  but they often talk about her in terms which are objectifying. But she has witnessed the things her brothers have gone through. It has impacted her deeply. And, of course, she is good at hip hop dance. Couldn’t it be because I, her white mother, love dancing and music and hip hop and soul. It's because she's black? She's fast on the track too. Is that because she's black? Or because her genetics come from athletes? Even white ones. She is also extremely mathematically gifted and poetic. Is that a black thing? She is so much more than the color of her skin and the curls on her head. She is so brilliant and loving and precious.

Is Rhys good at sports because he's black? Or because he's been gifted with body brilliance? He is also mechanically inclined and extremely interested in human anatomy and meteorology. Ridge likes basketball for the same reason he likes soccer. Because its a thinking game. He is also an engineer who has a knack for electronics and design. Are the traits of academic genius attributed to their black ancestry? Or just the athleticism. Why? He is so caring and thoughtful and powerful. On paper, any mother would be proud to let their daughter spend time with a respectful boy like Rhys. He’s not dating age yet, but I know there’ll be moments to come where the hard truth is that some people can’t see past the skin.

We have had to fight for our children's peace and safety. I feel that it is important to bolster their self esteem but also that they experience reality. Even though it's difficult. I don't know what major changes we will see or be a part of, but I hope still. I am trying to teach them that their value is intrinsic. That no person can take away their potential or their knowledge. And that their own mistakes are not less hurtful to others than the ones made against them.

My beautiful children have been so gracious while people want to touch their hair and examine their skin tone and while children call them names and treat them strangely. They are more than gracious when they have to tolerate their own cousin announcing to the room that there’s ‘no gum for black people’ , (his father explained why that was not ok).

My husband has been surrounded in the grocery store parking lot by police with guns trained on him. He apparently ‘looked like’ a suspect from an earlier crime. I thank GOD he was calm and collected. When pulled over for speeding, (Twice. I know.) I have been treated very kindly, even joked with. Once I got pulled over for crossing a solid white line. Ever been pulled over for that? Janus was in the car with me, and the officer thought it wise to unsnap his pistol and approach the car slowly while turning his body strategically so that his hand on his weapon was more readily accessible. I know, I did cross a solid white line. Which is illegal. I didn’t think it was pistol worthy. But then, he wrote me a ticket for turning left from the wrong lane (which I definitely did NOT do) and charged me the maximum on top of another maximum charge for not having my driver’s license with me. It was in the trunk with my purse because we’d been moving furniture that day...’No, ma’am you can’t go get it, you should keep it accessible in the car with you.’ Can I say with certainty that the threat he obviously perceived didn’t come from me? No.

At one point I determined to trace our family heritage using an online family tree builder. All of the people, except one or two, on my parents side of the family were relatively easy to trace back to their native land. However, when I set out to find my husband’s, I had to do special research and learn how to trace slave history through the slave owner. It was hard work to begin with, but what I found made me physically ill. I could not actually continue. The weight of what I was doing and the terminology I had to use along with the route I should follow to get the information I needed made me ill. I’m glad for the history I uncovered on behalf of my husband as well as for my children, but there’s more to this than just family lineage.

People say racism is dead, that it doesn’t have its grip on society like it once did. I say bull. Hundreds of years of degradation don’t just disappear after one or two generations. You have to work and work and work. That is not happening here.

For those of you who think racism is dead: We’ve watched as my husband has dedicated himself to his work as an electrical engineer for nearly 20 years. He’s inspired, creative, honest, hard working, and loves what he does. He has repeatedly been passed over for promotions and raises by far less experienced white guys. Who then call upon him to help them do the job that’s should have been his...It’s not really their fault, see. And the dirty part? Managers who exploit him and promise him raises and promotions and who turn around and give those to white guys. Can you say with certainty that the kid who’s been there three years can do a better job than the guy whose expertise you keep borrowing can? I know he can’t. He already relies on my husband to help him do his current job.  But congratulations, friend. Be well. You have NO idea what’s happening, do you?

White people, especially white guys, don’t have the slightest clue. That’s my experience. Even sensitive ones, who have black friends are free of the reality of the glass ceiling. Or as I like to call it, the ‘white’ ceiling. White people usually have no clue that they would be capable of getting a black kid killed for looking suspicious. Or that, in the mildest case, their propensity to tell you all the stories they have about interacting with black people is weird. I mean stories that aren’t even remotely interesting except that you are telling me because my husband is black and my kids are black and you saw a black person at your gym. Seriously? Or that because you are friends with my husband, sort of, you can say that one racist thing bursting in your mind.  After all, you’ve seen black people before, even ‘been friendly with them’. I guess people need some awareness, which I don’t always mind having to provide. But the surface is only being scratched here. I’d like to know how many women have been asked about their husband’s penis size? By strangers.  Or if you’ve been asked when you got your kids. I realize that people adopt and I’m not really angry about it. But it’s all part of the system that got Trayvon killed.

What makes me cringe is the thought of my 8th grader, 6’3” 220lbs, playing airsoft gun wars with his buddy in the field down the street. The thought of my 6th grader walking home from the corner store with his soda and chips. Or my daughter being anywhere alone, ever. Trayvon isn’t the first African American to be treated this way, but it’s about time there was some celebre about this type of problem. I, for one, am pretty tired of white people who act like it doesn’t exist, or that we’re just reading too much into things.

I have to teach my kids that they might be the only person who defends, believes in or admires them. Because of nothing else besides the blending of alleles between their fathers delicious brown skin and my fair freckly skin. They have to accept that grades and promotions and extrinsic rewards may not come their way all the time, but it doesn’t take away from who they are and what they are capable of. Even if teachers and other people think they’re lazy or underestimate their intelligence. Or how many times they are passed over for promotions or raises by younger, less experienced white co workers. Now, I have to figure out how to let them be kids and at the same time warn them that, despite their instinct to run from danger or fight someone who tackles them, they may be endangering their lives by doing the very things we would expect of them naturally.

Hotlips!

Introducing Hotlips! These warm packs are handcrafted by me. Made with soft fleece fabric on the back, and "recycled" fabric on the face. Recycled meaning, these were fabric scraps or leftovers from other projects or, in some cases, discontinued upholstery fabric samples which were headed for a dumpster.
The design and pattern was created by me.

Click the tab at the top.

The Bean Sprout

This is the first of what I hope will be many, many, many blogs. Just kidding. I've always been told to journal. But something about writing to myself always seemed wierd. And what's more, I hate keeping all the notebooks laying around. Since I've started journaling a hundred times, there's notebooks and journal books bound in pretty patterns all around that have one or two or even ten random scattered entries and 64 blank pages. Or better yet, phone message notes scratched on a page here and things I was supposed to remember on other pages. It's too cluttered for me.
I'm much better at typing on the computer anyway. Something about the click of the keyboard appeals to me. Like the smell of vanilla and the taste of chocolate, I enjoy it. So here it is. Blog city, welcome your newest neighbor.
Jobeans is a nickname I was given before can I remember and used by my father and elder sisters into my adulthood. My dad calls many of the children in our family with some chip of their name adding beans, or bean to the end of it. So, beans is not especially special, but I claimed it after rejecting it for a long while. And now I like it. My daughter is Beansie to me. Or Bean Bean. Of course, right? I have three children, two sons, twelve and ten, and a nine-year old daughter. I've been married for fourteen years with speed bumps along the way.
This is wierd and a little scary. I've been told that I write interestingly enough for others to read. And encouraged to do it where people can read it. I guess this will be a combination journal, blog, writing practice thingy. Get used to that, because I am a fan of made up words. I am also a fan of life, which can be as interesting as it is varied in its experiences.
So, listen up: I expect misunderstanding. And I may not always respond to comments. And I may not always feel apologetic about my stuff. Oh well. Get over it. I like feedback, and I like hearing the other side of any story. I also believe that to whom much is given, much is expected. We've been loved much, and so I believe we should love much. As well as other things which I hope make some sense once put together. Here's to the great journey of life: putting it together.

Much Love
Love Much