Rachel Dolezal Turns White Privilege On Its Booty

Rachel Dolezal has left the headlines, but she won't leave  my brain.

My family and I refer to her as "the white black lady." We would have believed her claim to blackness had we met her. We know women who look a lot like her: a mixed brown girl, like my daughters and myself.

When her story broke, I wondered along with everyone else, "Why on earth would a white woman from Montana work so hard to pass as black?" Her commitment to the Spokane, WA chapter of the NAACP was clear and authentic, her achievements commendable. But why the costume? What drove her to abandon her own heritage, in the cause of working within the black community?

The blogosphere was bubbling with commentary about Rachel Dolezal's delusional blackness. The haters made farcical comparisons to Caitlin Jenner, and decreed the general "foolishness" of identity reassignment. My own reaction was one of sympathy, for her seemingly desperate need to define herself. The big question looms: Is racial identity determined by oneself, or by public perception?

Press reports detail her evangelical upbringing, her parents adopting black children, even a pending lawsuit in which her biological brother is accused of sexually abusing the adopted siblings. Her legal guardianship of one of her younger brothers begs even more questions about the family dynamic.

Having a black child, a black spouse, and black colleagues doesn't make you black.
Wearing a frizzy hair weave makes you an impersonator.
Getting caught fooling an entire community makes you a loathsome fraud. A target of satire.
Until a hate-driven massacre re-alligns our sights.

"Passing" is part of our human heritage, but the general consensus is that Rachel Dolezal's choice is ass-backward. White folks just don't try to pass for black! Stupid woman has her transitioning directions reversed! Passing has always been about escaping the marginalized classes, in pursuit of a thing we used to call Freedom. Now it's White Privilege.

The basis of white privilege is not knowing that urge to escape; not knowing the feeling of wishing for blue eyes and peachy skin; not understanding the dehumanizing effect of car brands and sports franchises named for American Indian tribes. It's living free of the fear that a racist stranger might attack you or your children.

I have trouble with the idea of White Privilege. It's a concept put upon us by the media, with indefinite  parameters and scope. Somehow Rachel Dolezal's story gives it context.

White privilege is so powerful and so deep, we can't comprehend Rachel Dolezal's motivations.
We reject the possibility that a grown white woman can admire African-American culture so deeply that she reassigns herself into it. We label her a nut and a freak, and we get on with our lives.

William Zinsser, R.I.P.

(photo from WilliamZinsser.com)

William Zinsser was, by all accounts, a brilliant writing teacher. And because he wrote books on the subject, he will continue to be a brilliant writing teacher, even now that his physical body has died. It was just yesterday, May 13th, that he passed. I found out this morning, thanks to my husband's daily trolling of the New York Times headlines.


"I feel like I've spent a lot of nights in bed with that guy - well, you have, anyway," my husband said, alluding to the Zinsser standbys in my pile of nightstand books. His famous manual on the craft of writing nonfiction, On Writing Well, is my go-to handbook when the voices of self-doubt derail my writing intentions. It reminds me of the many good ways to proceed. And always leaves me grateful for his clarity and conviction.

I used to feel satisfied with my early writing, and resisted being taught. My writing voice was tight and sassy, and I liked the raw emotion in it. Like my music. In high school and college, I played bass guitar in a band without ever having taken a lesson. It was fun, full of youthful energy. Now that I've lost most of my punk rock badass attitude, I can admit that I play bass like someone who's never taken a lesson: limited, brimming with unrealized potential.

I appreciate the power of good writing. It's what I want to do. I've studied the craft with a number of inspiring teachers, and have workshopped my essays and manuscripts, always wanting to "go deeper" and improve. I can't count the times William Zinsser's name has come up during my writing education. Suffice it to say, his books are recommended often. By everyone.

I hope that Mister Zinsser rests in peace, as the impact of his legacy lives on and on.

Baltimore Sorrow

(photo: E!online.com)

Monday was the first day on the job for our new attorney general, Loretta Lynch.

As the first black woman to hold the position, she is facing the latest wave of riots – this time in Baltimore – protesting systemic racial and social injustice. Sandwiched between our (black) president and the (black female) mayor of Baltimore, she has her work cut out for her.

I wonder what goes through those three big brains, as they witness such potent expression of disillusionment by so many black Americans.

It can seem as if the past fifty years of civil rights progress was a trick.

Anger is everywhere.

Average citizens across the land are incensed that another black man, young Freddie Gray of Baltimore, MD, has died at the hands of police. The mayor of Baltimore, along with police officials and clergy, was angry that some protesters reacted with hostility and aggression. The rioting crowds are the raw embodiment of anger, bigger than their words can convey.

I scanned the morning paper, perched on the sunny front steps of my spacious ex-urban house. The birds broke the neighborhood quiet with their cheery wake-up songs, while I tried to imagine what all that hopelessness must feel like - a desperation that could push me to desecrate my own community? It would require blind rage like nothing I’ve known.

As harmful and counter-productive as the rioters’ actions are, they don’t incite my anger. Instead, I’m deeply saddened. Because in 2015 we are still a nation full of disenfranchised, angry people dying to be heard. 

"Little White Lie": a film review

I'm a big fan of documentary film, memoir, and multicultural stories.  Suffice it to say, Lacey Schwartz's movie Little White Lie checked my boxes.  I was floored by the many parallels between her story and my own: the scenes of her as a little brown girl, in the arms of her Jewish white mother, then growing into an ambiguously brown young woman with "black friends" and "white friends", and being the only brown face in family photos...  she could have been me. But our stories are far from identical.

We differ in the Paternity Department.  My biological father was no secret.  Although my parents split up very early,  he was present in my life, and I was always told by my mother that I was black, because he was black.  But my father distanced himself - and me - from his family.  All of my memories of family gatherings are with my mother's people.  I grew up in a Jewish and Irish neighborhood, and had only white playmates outside of school.  So it's no wonder I've been accused of "acting white".  I've even been taken for white.  Which I am.  Just as I am black.  I have struggled to balance my two-sided identity, while Lacey Schwartz's family secret delayed her ability to even address hers.  Her black father, and her black identity, were hidden from her until her late teens.

In every scene, Lacey reminds me so much of myself that I can only see her as a mixed brown girl. She incredibly managed to get through the first sixteen years of her life without any friends or family members questioning her lineage. When she finally confronts her father, the man who raised her, he's unable to put the truth of her paternity into words. He's clearly pained, but waits until a much later point in the film (and their lives) to divulge that his wife never confessed her affair to him. They raised Lacey as their white, Jewish daughter, because that's who they were.

I admire this family's willingness to let the cameras roll through such deeply personal moments.  Ms. Schwartz and her parents expose their secret, and their hearts, in order to share this strange and powerful story.  It's a great addition to the Independent Lens catalog of documentary films, one that will surely prompt new discussions about race, identity, and being mixed.

You can stream the film in its entirety at IndependentLens.org

Related memoirs: The Color of Water, by James McBride; Black, White and Jewish, by Rebecca Walker; Bulletproof Diva, by Lisa Jones.

Browngirl Gets Paid

When you sign a freelance writing contract, and you're not a fabulously well-known author, the entity who will be signing your checks wants to own the copyright to your work. They want publishing exclusivity, and they usually get it.

So PLEASE check out this piece I wrote for LifetimeMoms.com, sponsored by Wells Fargo (yes, that Wells Fargo). It's the kind of gig I never would have considered in my punk-rock youth. But I think this deviation says as much about a changing corporate mindset as it does about my own willingness to get in the game.

Enjoy! And please comment and/or share.

http://www.lifetimemoms.com/parenting/labels-dont-fit-our-multicultural-family

Black History Month Bash

I still don't like Black History Month.
I last wrote on the topic in 2011, and my feelings haven't changed. Well, maybe they've intensified. It's not the recognition of Black History that I don't like; it's the objectification of Black History that makes me crazy. Example: the African-American sections in our libraries and book stores. The systemic segregation of black stories is not a constructive approach to Equality.

Black history is a critical component of American history and world history.
Isolating black history appreciation, by formally confining it to a month in the calendar, trivializes and limits its importance. Forty years ago, this kind of focus read like a best effort at long-overdue acknowledgement. But we now have a black President of the United States! Will his story be relegated to African-American studies twenty years from now?

I realize that Black History Month provides a certain "uplift" in the minds and deeds of many. But our collective energy would be better spent improving school curricula and social policies for the here and now, in the interest of true equality for everyone.

It seems the constructive works of our contemporary artists and activists are overshadowed by the destructive acts of the few, both in the media and in daily conversation. Maybe what we need in 2015 is a Modern Heroes Month.

Martin Luther King, Jr. 2015

"Violence as a way of achieveing racial justice is both impractical and immoral. It is impractical because it is a descending spiral ending in destruction for all. The old law of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind. It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding; it seeks to annihilate rather than to convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love. It destroys community and makes brotherhood impossible. It leaves society in monologue rather than dialogue. Violence ends by defeating itself. It creates bitterness in the survivors and brutality in the destroyers."

- Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Reading List 2014

Whether you look at the past several weeks of “talkin’ ‘bout race” as a tipping point, a watershed moment, or a wake-up call, the fact is that a lot of potent writing has occurred on topics that clearly need our attention. The problem we call Racism stems from a lack of understanding and empathy. At the root of all the upset surrounding the recent police shootings is a systemic illness of distrust, disrespect, and ignorance.

So for this year’s READING LIST, I chose to highlight five (of the many) books I read this year, each of which enhanced my understanding of the history and the reality of black/white misunderstanding.

Please note: The title links will take you to Amazon.com synopses, intended for ease of research. But PLEASE, buy from independent booksellers whenever possible. Or borrow from the library. Amazon’s bullying tactics toward the publishing industry should not be supported.

OK. Here you go:

BROWNGIRL’S YEAR-END READING LIST, 2014

FIRE SHUT UP IN MY BONES, by Charles M. Blow (c. 2014)

This new memoir details the author’s childhood in the poor, segregated South, and follows him through college, to his first job in big city journalism, and fatherhood. As a pre-teen, Blow was molested by a male cousin - an event that would haunt him throughout his sexual relationships with women, as well as his friendships with men. Questions of sexuality underscore the bigger issues of self-labeling and conformity, in the context of a modern, urban, professional black man emerging from his rural southern roots.

THE GRACE OF SILENCE, by Michele Norris (c. 2010)

I was struck by the distinction, “A Family Memoir,” on this book’s cover because I wondered whether the story was a collection of family members’ memories, or of Ms. Norris’s family memories. It’s both. In researching her Alabama past, specifically the mysterious circumstances of her father having been shot in the leg, Ms. Norris uncovers her family’s Jim Crow-era survival stories. In the telling, she offers the historical context of black “silence” with regard to struggle, as well as anti-white racism in the black community. The personal accounts of both near and distant relatives are compelling and convincing.

WHITE GIRLS, by Hilton Als (c. 2014)

This is radical writing. It’s a collection of long essays, and reminds me of James Baldwin’s work in that it speaks so richly of a time and place. And know that I don’t make that association lightly; James Baldwin is one of my few heroes. By showing us his raw self in an array of unpredictable scenes, Mr. Als reveals American race relations with real clarity. He also depicts 1980’s New York City the way I remember it, though I was too young to have enjoyed the decade like he did. (I’m also too female, and too straight.) He gives clear, hard-to-hear testimony about being a black, gay man “on the scene”; i.e. with none of the privileges of being a white girl. Some of his strongest prose tackles the trappings of art and fame. When he rants, his point of view is cohesive, engaging and real.

THINGS FALL APART, by Chinua Achebe (c. 1959)

This poetic novel retains its relevance, bedecked in fifty-five years of accolades. It’s a beautifully paced story of a man caught up in his traditions, family strife, and community conflicts. His struggles are both universal and specific to his strange tribal paradigm. Achebe’s memorable last pages expose the racist ignorance of the empowered outsider, through a missionary’s utter lack of compassion for the Nigerian people.

THE SILENCE OF OUR FRIENDS, by Mark Long, Jim Demonakos, and Nate Powell

(c. 2012)

I didn’t expect to find a book like this in the Graphic Novels section of our local library. I generally browse the shelves on behalf of my young daughter, hoping for material that will engage but not terrify her. She likes comics, “but not the babyish ones.” The cover illustration has obvious racial connotations. The story is about an incident in Houston, TX in 1968, which divided a community along racial lines. The author Mark Long explains that the story is based on real events, involving himself and his family. I enjoyed the graphic treatment of the story, as well as its message of brotherhood.

- - - - - - -

I hope these recommendations help you with any last-minute book shopping you might be facing, for loved ones or for yourself.

Happy Reading… and Happy New Year!

No Staten Island Indictment? What The Fuck??

There is no justice or peace for the family of Eric Garner, or the rest of us.

When the Ferguson ruling came down, I wrote about it for LifetimeMoms.com.
Here's a link to the article - they have the exclusive right to it. Fair enough.

LifetimeMoms.com

The piece also appears on the LifetimeMoms Facebook page, where it continues to draw heated reactions from all sides, including accusations that I'm perpetuating racist attitudes with my writing. So I've been resisting engagement with the haters, trying to keep my head low and my nose out of trouble.

But here we are again, with another sickening story of a police officer escaping indictment after killing an unarmed suspect. This time out of Staten Island, NY. And this time there are plenty of video, audio and photo files depicting the crime as it occurred. Yes, crime! Strangling an unarmed man and ignoring his repeated cries of "I can't breathe" is a crime. It was ruled a homicide by the Medical Examiner.  Which begs the question: Who is the real perpetrator in this case?

Earlier today I heard an elderly black woman say, "It's like the civil rights era all over again."
Her companion replied, "One step forward, two steps back."

And I thought, Oh no. We are much better than that. Aren't we?

"Black-ish" TV: Biracial Mom Alert

Rainbow Johnson is a biracial woman, an anesthesiologist, and the mother of four charming children. Andre Johnson is her black husband, an executive at a predominantly white Los Angeles advertising firm, and arguably the lead character of the new ABC sitcom Black-ish. The following exchange takes place in the couple’s bedroom. Andre is bemoaning the way that blackness has been coopted by American pop culture. He hates that his boss has just made him the Senior VP of the company's new Urban Division. 

Rainbow:   “Just keep it real.”

Andre:       “Keep it real? This coming from a biracial or mixed or omni-colored-complexion whatever-it-is-they’re-calling-it-today woman, who technically isn’t even really black?’

Rainbow:   "If I'm not really black, then can somebody please tell my hair and my ass??"

Andre:       “Hey. You don’t get it.”

Rainbow:   “No?”

Andre:       “This is how it starts.”

Rainbow:   “What?”

Andre:       “Junior wants to play field hockey.”

I love Rainbow, like a favorite relative.

She doesn’t care whether her son plays basketball or field hockey.

Her parents were nudists: my mother was raised on a commune.

She has a big head of wild dark frizzy hair: in my house we call it wild-woman hair. 
She lovingly bats her doe eyes at her sweet-faced children, marveling at their ability to ignore color lines and labels. She’s not worried that they don't think of Barack Obama as the first black American president - because he's the ONLY American president they've known! Isn't that so wonderful?




Some of her words and attitudes come straight out of my multiracial mothering handbook. Her wifely antics are scarily familiar too. The fact that my husband is white makes our family ineligible for direct comparison to this fictional clan. But we all see ourselves in them. And what I appreciate most is that through all sorts of domestic/marital/parenting disputes, Rainbow wins.

Rainbow is the progeny of Norman Lear’s groundbreaking biracial character on The Jeffersons, Jenny Willis. The daughter of the Jeffersons’ “zebra” neighbors, she eventually married their son Lamont, and appeared sporadically throughout the show's eleven seasons. But Jenny Willis never shone like Rainbow does.

Like the Jeffersons, the Johnsons' family portrait is one of affluence. They live in a fancy neighborhood, in a very large house with a swimming pool and immaculate landscaping. The adults, including Andre’s father (whose residential status is unclear but who’s in their business all the time), have differing views as to the condition of their own blackness, and the potency of blackness in the modern world. Race is not the central topic of every scene, or even every episode. In fact, its their conspicuous wealth that really qualifies their lifestyle.

During episode 2, my detail-oriented daughter said, “I wonder who keeps such a big house so clean, with both parents so busy working.”  She's right, there’s no sign of any hired help. It's impossible to believe that Rainbow and Andre are managing to work full-time AND keep all that house and all those children so clean and lovely without help. 

I remind my daughter of the importance of there being a biracial mom (who happens to remind us of myself) on TV. Focus on that, dearie.

My daughter tells me that I think about race too much.

She’s eleven. She doesn’t care how the Johnsons are being perceived/received in other parts of the country, where wealthy black families are nonexistent.  She doesn’t think about race much. She's more interested in people’s abilities than in their ancestry. A product of whose influence? I wonder. Like the Johnsons, my husband and I want our children to be informed and self-aware, but not burdened.

This “keeping it real” is a mighty task.