Yesterday I received an email from a close friend, alerting me to a must-read New York Times article. It's part of a series called Race Remixed. And it was on the front page! Yes, we have made it to the front page of the New York Times, continued on two subsequent pages deeper in the A Section, complete with charts and graphs. I won't synopsize it here, because you should check it out:
"Black? White? Asian? More Young Americans Choose All of the Above" by Susan Saulny
The friend who sent me the link to the article is biracial.
We met as high school freshman, in 1980, and bonded instantly. There were three of us: another girl in our grade rounded out the trio. Three, in a class of over 700 kids. We talked amongst ourselves about whether we were mulatto, black, or mixed. We tried to fit into a prescribed category, and none of them felt right.
I believe we were the first generation to dare to question the "One Drop" protocol: If you have a drop of black in you, you're black. End of story.
The "African-American" label became popular just when we had grown tired of explaining ourselves. "African-American" people seemed to bear the benefits of empowerment and self-actualization, without the implicit subjugation of the One Drop principal. So we used it. It entitled us to membership in a much larger tribe. We were Americans, of known African descent. The label answered the fundamental question of whether we belonged.
My own racial identity has evolved since then.
I believe I've found a resting place with the self-imposed tag "mixed race". Not because it's easy, or clear, or empowering. It just fits. I identify with white and black Americans. I am Russian Jew, Spanish, Irish, Native American and Black. I don't mind explaining my background anymore, and I am excited to share these great heritages with my children. I am thrilled to know that a group of college students in College Park, MD has made a game of the "What Are You?" question. I dreaded being asked that question throughout my young life. But as a game, it sounds wonderful! Challenging, enlightening, and fun.
I trust that my little brown girls are going to have much less confusion about their own racial identity, because their world will let them be who they decide to be.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Ya Can't Censor History
If you missed the latest censorship nonsense out there, here's a taste:
(excerpted from a brilliant piece by Michiko Kakutani, for the New York Times, linked here. )
Why would a professor of English Literature want to convince the general public that omitting the work "nigger" from Huckleberry Finn is a good idea? To avoid offending the reader? To protect our children? Really? Check the embedded link "slave", in the excerpt above, for an explanation from the hopeful censor.
The blogosphere is full of clever explanations and reactions to this latest bit of Uncle Tom-foolery. Check out mixedraceamerica.blogspot.com and The Colbert Report for starters.
Here's my take.
Every time I type the word “nigger” I hurt. It’s a horrible, ugly word swollen with hideous imagery of brutality, hatred, and victimization. I resist saying it, and sometimes opt for “n-word” because “nigger” burns my mouth and lingers like bile. It hurts the ears too. Reminds us of an ugly past that most Americans (but not all) are ashamed to recall. But the power of words must be honored! Writers of the caliber of Mark Twain choose/chose their words carefully. Ya can't go around changing the written word as it suits ya, Blanche! Ya can't!
(excerpted from a brilliant piece by Michiko Kakutani, for the New York Times, linked here. )
"A new effort to sanitize “Huckleberry Finn” comes from Alan Gribben, a professor of English at Auburn University, at Montgomery, Ala., who has produced a new edition of Twain’s novel that replaces the word “nigger” with “slave.” Nigger, which appears in the book more than 200 times, was a common racial epithet in the antebellum South, used by Twain as part of his characters’ vernacular speech and as a reflection of mid-19th-century social attitudes along the Mississippi River."
The blogosphere is full of clever explanations and reactions to this latest bit of Uncle Tom-foolery. Check out mixedraceamerica.blogspot.com and The Colbert Report for starters.
Here's my take.
Every time I type the word “nigger” I hurt. It’s a horrible, ugly word swollen with hideous imagery of brutality, hatred, and victimization. I resist saying it, and sometimes opt for “n-word” because “nigger” burns my mouth and lingers like bile. It hurts the ears too. Reminds us of an ugly past that most Americans (but not all) are ashamed to recall. But the power of words must be honored! Writers of the caliber of Mark Twain choose/chose their words carefully. Ya can't go around changing the written word as it suits ya, Blanche! Ya can't!
I have been called a lot of things. Nigger makes the list. Only once, when I was ten.
I understood the mentality of the white girl who said it, and the superiority of her tone, because I understood the history of the usage of the word. She was not a stranger, nor did she ever pretend to like or respect me. She tolerated me. We hung out in the playground together with a bunch of other kids - all white - on a regular basis. She and I had a disagreement, a conflict, and she wanted to overpower me. She did it with words. My response was loud and profane, and then I ran home. Finished with that group, none of whom spoke up on my behalf.
It was the first time I felt the ugliness of racism firsthand.
My mother urged me to appreciate that moment for what it was. The girl revealed her true self, and released me from that bogus social club. My youthful interpretation of our country's racist history helped me appreciate the promise of brighter days.
More rants about race labels to come.
My mother urged me to appreciate that moment for what it was. The girl revealed her true self, and released me from that bogus social club. My youthful interpretation of our country's racist history helped me appreciate the promise of brighter days.
More rants about race labels to come.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
My Ancestry.com
My father died in 1996, suddenly, and completely unexpectedly.
He was 59. He was luxuriating in early retirement from a successful career, when a massive stroke caught us all by surprise. It's likely that, had he known he was going to die, we would have managed to spend some quality time together during his final days. Maybe some of my questions would have been answered.
We were distant, but not estranged.
I was 29, and had been making an effort to get over our past conflicts. We were on a slow mend.
When my father died, he took his family history with him.
I had known his parents, but I knew nothing about their people. I saw them a total of five times in my life. I loved them dearly, idolized them from afar. They were my black family, my grandparents who lived in Harlem. What little I knew, I gleaned from short anecdotes they shared, and the simple facts my father offered in hopes of quieting my curiosity. My grandfather had worked as a pullman porter, sign painter, elevator operator, and banjo player. My grandmother suffered from glaucoma, but still held a clerical job with the NYPD for many years, and played piano. Every visit featured an impromptu jamboree, their tired bodies rocking and swaying to the old-time tunes they played by heart.
I never asked them where they came from.
Where were they born? Who were their parents? These were black people born at the turn of the twentieth century. How did they experience Jim Crow? Segregation? How did they come to be educated? Were their parents the children of slaves? Sharecroppers? Did they have brothers and sisters? Nieces, nephews? Where was everybody?
Grandma's photo albums held the only clues.
She made notes on the backs of some of the pictures, with names, places and dates. But they were first names. And places like "Woods house, Massachusetts". The folks in the pictures were fair-skinned. Same as my grandparents. So the likelihood of Irish and Native American bloodlines, as referenced by my father once in non-explicit terms, seemed viable. But what were the real stories? And how would I find them?
I am writing a book.
It is memoir, a coming of age story: my life as the biracial daughter of a black man who decidedly disconnected from "the black world". I have hundreds of pages written, some of which will appear in chapter form somewhere in this blog, as it evolves. My father left a lot of stones unturned, and the writing has been helping me clear my head. I want to understand who he was, and why he chose the paths he did. The writing exposed a huge hole: I can't tell his story without knowing the family details he kept secret. I flash on the microfilm research I did in high school, and the ancient public records that might shed a trace of light on where my grandparents came from. And I've heard that a lot of those public records are accessible on the web site Ancestry.com. It seems like a place to start. So I put aside an afternoon and try to have faith. I imagine I will stumble through a tangle of family trees, produced by countless irrelevant strangers, linking arms/branches across nations; the blissful interconnectivity of all humans. Sprinkle fairy dust here.
Ancestry.com unlocked the answers.
First impression, the simplicity of the search protocol was too good to be true. But after a few carefully crafted stabs, I learned that my grandfather was born in Asbury Park, NJ in 1906. He was one of six children. I learned the names of his parents, his grandparents, and his great-grandparents. And my grandmother's story was just as clear. The trail started with their marriage certificate. Then their death certificates, and birth certificates. Aged, handwritten documents held the details of their lives, perfectly legible, even the complete address of the "Woods house, Massachusetts". With the help of GoogleMaps, I was able to locate that house without leaving my desk. And I unearthed a long chain of cousins, some of whom posted their family trees, ripe with my history.
The stories are making sense.
The people and places have names. The cousins are out there. I will keep writing, and continue searching, and wondering.
He was 59. He was luxuriating in early retirement from a successful career, when a massive stroke caught us all by surprise. It's likely that, had he known he was going to die, we would have managed to spend some quality time together during his final days. Maybe some of my questions would have been answered.
We were distant, but not estranged.
I was 29, and had been making an effort to get over our past conflicts. We were on a slow mend.
When my father died, he took his family history with him.
I had known his parents, but I knew nothing about their people. I saw them a total of five times in my life. I loved them dearly, idolized them from afar. They were my black family, my grandparents who lived in Harlem. What little I knew, I gleaned from short anecdotes they shared, and the simple facts my father offered in hopes of quieting my curiosity. My grandfather had worked as a pullman porter, sign painter, elevator operator, and banjo player. My grandmother suffered from glaucoma, but still held a clerical job with the NYPD for many years, and played piano. Every visit featured an impromptu jamboree, their tired bodies rocking and swaying to the old-time tunes they played by heart.
I never asked them where they came from.
Where were they born? Who were their parents? These were black people born at the turn of the twentieth century. How did they experience Jim Crow? Segregation? How did they come to be educated? Were their parents the children of slaves? Sharecroppers? Did they have brothers and sisters? Nieces, nephews? Where was everybody?
Grandma's photo albums held the only clues.
She made notes on the backs of some of the pictures, with names, places and dates. But they were first names. And places like "Woods house, Massachusetts". The folks in the pictures were fair-skinned. Same as my grandparents. So the likelihood of Irish and Native American bloodlines, as referenced by my father once in non-explicit terms, seemed viable. But what were the real stories? And how would I find them?
I am writing a book.
It is memoir, a coming of age story: my life as the biracial daughter of a black man who decidedly disconnected from "the black world". I have hundreds of pages written, some of which will appear in chapter form somewhere in this blog, as it evolves. My father left a lot of stones unturned, and the writing has been helping me clear my head. I want to understand who he was, and why he chose the paths he did. The writing exposed a huge hole: I can't tell his story without knowing the family details he kept secret. I flash on the microfilm research I did in high school, and the ancient public records that might shed a trace of light on where my grandparents came from. And I've heard that a lot of those public records are accessible on the web site Ancestry.com. It seems like a place to start. So I put aside an afternoon and try to have faith. I imagine I will stumble through a tangle of family trees, produced by countless irrelevant strangers, linking arms/branches across nations; the blissful interconnectivity of all humans. Sprinkle fairy dust here.
Ancestry.com unlocked the answers.
First impression, the simplicity of the search protocol was too good to be true. But after a few carefully crafted stabs, I learned that my grandfather was born in Asbury Park, NJ in 1906. He was one of six children. I learned the names of his parents, his grandparents, and his great-grandparents. And my grandmother's story was just as clear. The trail started with their marriage certificate. Then their death certificates, and birth certificates. Aged, handwritten documents held the details of their lives, perfectly legible, even the complete address of the "Woods house, Massachusetts". With the help of GoogleMaps, I was able to locate that house without leaving my desk. And I unearthed a long chain of cousins, some of whom posted their family trees, ripe with my history.
The stories are making sense.
The people and places have names. The cousins are out there. I will keep writing, and continue searching, and wondering.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Who Is Browngirl?
I have been called
Nigger
Bitch
Mulatto
White
Mommy
Sweet Wife
Daughter
Sister
Beautiful Brown Girl
Sexy
Thoughtful
Sarcastic
Moody
Capable
Good
Critical Thinker
Ethicist
Artist
Pacifist
Jewish Atheist
Tree Hugging Ex-Urban Mixed-Race Mother of Mixed-Race Children
I am Browngirl.
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