When I realized I was Black.

A few weeks back I was doing my daily morning routine of reading headlines on NPR, when I came across a review for a book called, 'How To be Black' by Baratunde Thurston. Before I read a word, I knew I needed this book in my life. I may not judge books by their covers, but I do by the words on that cover. After reading the synopsis, I was mad that I didn't write this book first. So out of spite but mostly out of curiosity, I put myself on the hold list for it at the Seattle Public Library and as luck would have it [or just by being one of seven black people in Seattle], I was the first one to check it out. I started reading it the other day and found myself laughing aloud and nodding to no one but myself. The white people congregated in  Starbucks were probably both frightened and amused by the large print title and the crazy woman behind the cover. At least I wasn't yelling, "I heard that" like my mom often does in movies. [I love you mom].

The two parts that I have appreciated reading most thus far are the "name-calling" section and the accounts from Thurston and some of his friends about the first time they realized they were black.

Through my 27.75 years, I have been called 'white washed,' 'a sellout' and on more than one occassion, have received the shocked look on the face of someone I've only corresponded with over the phone when they meet me face-to-face for the first time. I call this the, 'she's  b l a c k?' look. I always thought it was a bit silly that I was called these names. What does it mean to be white washed anyway? Being smart is only a trait that white people are capable of attaining? If we're being stereotypical, then I should've really been called Asian washed. Having the ability to speak in non-broken English is a white person trait? Weird, because I'm pretty sure most of my white friends hate me for correcting their grammatical blunders all the time. My favorite might be the protest of, "you're not really black!" Then I just look down at my arm in astonishment and back at my friend. Then down at my arm again.

These names came after I made the discovery that I was indeed black [amidst the protest]. So here's my story:

There are three specific times in my young life that I came to the realization that I was in fact black. This may seem like a weird 'revelation'...to suddenly notice the shade of skin that envelopes your entire body that you spend all of your time in. No I wasn't slow or late to the party, but with the exception of my family, I was surrounded by [mostly] white people. I grew up in Oregon. And those friends that I had weren't really concerned that their friend Teela had a year round tan, they just wanted to play barbies and blade around the block with her. So given my non racist social circle, I had three very vivid instances where it was brought to my attention that I wasn't just different, but that I was less than because of this distinction. I was utterly confused why this darkened pigmentation warranted negativity.

1. The first instance finds a young Teela in Kindergarten. Back then, I was not much different than who I am now. I know [a little] more now, still sang every chance I got, and one of my most favorite times to test my high notes was during nap time. I refused to sleep [still do, different reasons].

One day a little [white] girl came up to me. I don't remember what we were doing and she told me I had a really big nose and that hers was smaller and cuter. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and walked away. Picture Dumbo's insecurities about his ears. Or Pinocchio about, well, his nose. That day I started to examine the noses of all my white classmates and did realize that mine seemed to be taking up a larger portion of my face. I'm sure this was exacerbated by embarassment, but I went home upset and told my mom what the kindergarten nose police had said while she was giving me a bath. I will never forget what my mom's big comeback was: "Tell her that you can breathe better."

Years later, I would pierce my nose.

2. The second time I realized I was black, I was in the third grade and I had a crush. Possibly my first...followed by another first-rejection. And oh was Nathan a looker! [Note: Names have not been changed. This douchebag deserves to be called out.] His face was covered in freckles, his skin detested the sun and refused to surrender to its tanning efforts and instead, turned as red as his hair when exposed to it. Hey, they say opposites attract.

It was Valentine's day and we had these heart-shaped books to pass around the room to write nice notes to our friends and classmates in. I think I still have my book. When I got Nathan's book, I wrote "I like you." My girlfriends and I giggled over it and later during recess, one of my friends asked while I was standing a few feet away, if he liked me. He said he didn't like Negroes "like that." It was 1992.

3. And of course, we all remember the first time we were called a 'Nigger.' I was probably 10 years old, so two years after this Negro was rejected by the monkey bars, and on a soccer road trip with my team. My mom came along to chaperone. This soccer trip was in Medford, OR which if any of you are familiar, well we aren't surprised that it took place here.

We had pulled up late to our hotel and were going to check-in. We were collecting our things out of the trunk when we heard the loud talking of some nearby men outside of their pick-up. I like to imagine them drinking Hamm's or Natty Ice [something classy], wearing overalls sans undershirts letting their beer bellies spill out of the sides of the denim, and probably mourning the loss of a few of their late teeth. Truth is, I remember nothing about what they look like. I just remember what they called my mom and me in that awful Medford parking lot.

This is why I don't use the N word. Because of how disgusting those men meant to make me feel, did make me feel and do make me feel even now 17 years later just thinking about it. They knew nothing about me and used this word to encompass my existence. There is never a time I would deem this appropriate to refer to my friends with this language and mean it as "brother" or "sister." There's already words that mean the same thing...look, I just used them. Right there ^  ^. 

I think this is one of the reasons I hate Tyler Perry so much [yes, we're back there]. He makes a career off of putting people in boxes like these men put me in. And being in boxes is no fun. That's why mimes are constantly trying to get out of them.

I'm not done with Baratunde's book yet, but I already know it's one I'll be recommending to you regardless of what color you discovered you were 15 or 20 years ago. On that note, I turn to Baratunde:

"My version of being black adheres as much to the stereotypes as it dramatically breaks from them, and that's probably true for most of you reading this-if not about blackness itself, then about something else related to your identity." -How to Be Black, Baratunde Thurston


Happy Black History Month.

Why Tyler Perry isn't Funny

I have a long standing disdain for Mr. Perry. Simply put, he's not funny and it continues to baffle me that he has such a following and is making so much cash over dressing in drag as an elderly black woman while perpetuating racial stereotypes.

Before I continue it must be noted that I like racial humor. Like is an understatement. I LOVE racial humor. I devoted an entire year researching and analyzing it and was able to snag myself a Masters because of it. The difference between what I researched and what Tyler Perry creates is that he isn't funny.

Humor is obviously subjective. I appreciate when comedians who use racial humor point out the ludicrous nature of stereotypes in clever ways or use self-deprecating humor to make light of a discussion of an otherwise difficult to discuss topic. Of course we have some of those 'it's-funny-because-it's-true' moments, but the overall purpose of racial humor is to shed light on topics that we don't necessarily talk about around the water cooler because we are terrified at the possibility of offending someone and coming off as racist.

I like the dark, non-laugh track, intuitive humor that makes me think about a joke further. I realize that not everyone is like this but when you are the creator of racial humor, I think it is your responsibility to not make buffoon caricatures based on race. Why? Because people that have limited to no experience with that group of people will begin to sketch a picture in their mind that represents what they believe that group of people to be like. Unfortunately, a lot of minority groups haven't been traditionally cast in a variety of roles. On the contrary, we can see a white male playing many different parts and therefore, it is much more difficult to categorize them as representing just one thing. You can turn on Showtime and see him as a serial killer; flip to NBC and see him as a stay-at-home dad; change over to ABC and see him as a lawyer; finishing off the night by spending an hour on AMC and see him as an ad man. Or a maker of methamphetamines.

When you lack this variety, it's very easy to create stereotypes and I believe Tyler Perry to be a master of this. Just turn to TBS. I think he does his entire race a disservice when he continually puts a certain number of unchanging characters in his casts.

Why the Cosby show was revolutionary in the 1980's was because here we finally saw a well to do black family where Claire and Cliff were working as a lawyer and doctor respectively, while successfully raising their large family. Their kids were even going to college. It gave America a new perception of the black family. And guess what? It was still funny.

Tyler Perry, you've set us back. Take notes from the 1980's and maybe you can start moving forward in 2012. Preferably off any TV or movie screen. To that, I would say 'hallelujer.'

The Perception Check.

I know a lot of people that hate their job. They don't get paid enough, they work long hours, their co-workers suck, they don't get paid enough, they hate what they do, their boss is the spawn of Satan, they don't get paid enough, etc.

I think we know which one of these complaints I am guilty of making.

For the most part, I enjoy what I do. And note to any of you that makes any of the aforementioned statements of discontent...stop bitching. You have a job.

This past week I was informed I was being a 'Negative Nancy.' This annoyed me. First, because my name isn't Nancy, but mostly because I hate cliches. But it was true. Bad week(s) tend to bring out the side of me that is angry that the beer is only half full.

[I. Hate. Cliches.]

I understand that everything is relative to our own experience and therefore we are limited in what we consider to be real problems. In fact, to account for this conditional state, we have added the term "first-world problems" into our vernacular as if this compensates for us whining. Although not as bothersome as the incorrect and overuse of the term "epic," this phrase is still starting to become problematic for me. I'd never use a term like that in say, the title of a blog. 

What snapped me back into the realization of my pretty swell life were three things (in order of occurrence):

(1) A reunion with some of the best women on Earth. How our lives led us to be in the same place, at the same time, so we could be apart of each other's stories, is so fantastic.

(2) An assignment I gave my students on their identity that is blowing my mind.

(3) Having story time with my niece. I do the reading, she does the page turning. Backwards, forwards and back again...I'll read these pages forever to her.

All of these is a blog in itself, but I'm going to talk about #2.

In an intercultural class I teach, I assign an Identity paper to my students. They're challenged with picking two of their many identities (ie: age, sex, religion, sexual orientation, physical ability, race, etc) and writing about the ones they consider to be the most influential in their lives. They must talk about their experience, a historical event within this culture, and stereotypes they've dealt with. Two of these papers shattered my heart.

[Paper #1-An Indian Woman:] "This paper was really hard for me to write because I don't feel like I have an identity." She goes on to explain that she was arranged into a marriage to someone she didn't love by her parents and her husband controls everything; including what she "likes" or is "interested" in. Therefore she feels like nothing is just hers.

I try and live my life on the basis of originality. How terrible it must and does feel for her to have nothing be your own; feeling you have nothing to separate you from another person. She goes on to explain that she did love someone at one point that validated her, but this man was from a lower class and was unacceptable to her parents.

[Paper #2-Korean Woman:] She is a lesbian that can't come out to her parents because in Korea, homosexuality is not an option. She said she felt comfortable in the states because this lifestyle was acceptable. In reading that, I immediately wondered if we were living in the same times as this is a constant point of political contention. But for her to make that statement, I realized that hers was a much different reality. And it was. If she were to come out to her parents, she would be disowned by her family.

There is literally nothing I could do to have my parents disown me. I haven't tried [all that hard] in finding ways, but there is too much love there for me to ever fathom this fate. 

From knowing these stories, my perception changed. Just like my friends stories intersecting with my own, I believe these women are sitting in my classroom for a reason. Maybe just for opening my eyes to another reality or for me to at least have been an outlet where someone would listen to their stories. How liberating words can make us feel; even if you're the only reader of them. I write to myself all the time.

I'm not saying that it isn't valid to be upset over things that happen to us just because somebody out there has it worse. Because frankly, things are crappy sometimes. What I am saying is that we all need to expand our limited perception and consider what somebody else may be going through if only to serve them with a smile or to hug someone we care about a little tighter.

I try to make people laugh. I have one student that comes into class everyday and his face is always so stern. He volunteers quotes from Nietzsche, will ask an occasional question, and is a very intelligent student, but his face is full of stress. I make it my goal in the two and a half hour class that I have with him to make him laugh at least once. If I get him twice, well, then I think I've done my job as an educator. Or maybe just as a human being.