New Year's Ruminations

Pregnant with my firstborn, I felt the universal fears described in childbirth books: Would I feel immediate love for the baby? Would the baby be healthy? I harbored another fear, too, more unique to our marriage, about whether it was safe to bring a biracial child into our imperfect world. This was 1992, the year of the Rodney King trial and the L.A. race riots, and I was aware of the tensions between blacks and whites in this country--a rumbling, potentially explosive dynamic that felt at times like it was playing itself out within my own body.

Just last month, Keith Bardwell, former Louisiana justice of the peace, resigned after refusing to marry an interracial couple. Unapologetic about his stance, he said, "I think those children suffer, and I won't help put them through it" (AP). Bardwell's discriminatory action is now illegal. But he leaves us to wonder whether biracial people--a group that includes our president--are ostracized or suffer emotionally.

* * *
When they placed newborn Colette on my chest, seventeen years ago, she was so perfect, my beautiful biracial baby. I had not imagined her flesh-and-blood beauty--skin light at first, like a pistachio shell, hair silvery and soft, mouth wide, lips red.

At her one-week checkup, the pediatrician remarked while examining her, "She'll darken up," a straightforward, objective pronouncement that nonetheless surprised me. I guess I expected him to note the thing that was truly remarkable, that there was a new human being among us--a small, perfect infant on the threshold of an unimagined life, right there in his office. Instead, he thought to advise me, "When one parent is white and the other is black, they tend to darken up."

Just how dark? I did wonder. Would she look like my child at all? How out of place would she feel at my white family's reunions? To my mind, dark skin is lustrous and attractive. But I was unsure of my own act of creation. I had lived through a drawn-out emotional battle with my parents over my interracial relationship; I'd listened to countless cautionary tales and odd insinuations from acquaintances; and, together with Steve, I'd experienced things I had not experienced before: glares, disrespect and the pointed unfriendliness of strangers, not to mention several racially-tinged and otherwise inexplicable incidents with police.

How would my own child adjust, and would her adjustment depend on her coloration? I relied mostly on one data point--Steve--whose complex identity I had fallen in love with and whose own complicated inner life was at once cause for concern and reassurance.

Our daughter Colette is growing into a lovely and intelligent young woman. She's been raised in a world of good, Sesame-Street-inspired values, a world largely of our own choosing and creation, in which her multi-ethnic background is celebrated. She has the benefit of attending one of the most progressive and diverse schools in town--another intentional choice--and of having one parent who shares her experience of being biracial. She loves people of all kinds, and they genuinely seem to love her back. I'm not afraid for her anymore.

In 1997, her younger sister joined her as one of the approximately seven million multiracial Americans counted on the 2000 census. It's a new, growing population that barely existed when my husband Steve was a little biracial boy, moving with his military family between Europe and the United States in the early 1960s.

These days, I'm happy and grateful--grateful especially that our family continues to thrive and that our community and extended families embrace us. I'm delighted by the changes I witness in the world around me, and at the same time I carry within me old strains and emotions from a complicated journey, as well as a sense of mission to know and support this new generation of multiracial Americans.

Black Santa?

As a young girl, wrestling with anxious thoughts at bedtime, I discovered I could soothe my mind by closing my eyes and concentrating on an image of Santa Claus, no matter the time of year. I now know that people often meditate on an image of a candle flame; I chose instead a jolly, pink-faced, white-bearded Santa.

I've always loved Santa. When Colette turned four, we hosted a Santa-themed December birthday party for her, and I asked Steve to play the role of Santa.

"Me?" He raised the eyebrows of his young, clean-shaven, brown face. "I don't look like Santa," he said.

"C'mon. You're the best we've got. They'll love it!"

Wearing a red sweater, he snuck out of the room toward the end of the party to stuff a pillow under his sweater, put on a Santa hat and grab a burlap sack of wrapped party favors. In he strode, bellowing, "Ho, Ho, Ho!" Thrilled and spellbound, the preschoolers received their small gifts.

No beard, makeup or fake wig was involved--not even a belt, red pants or boots. It was just Steve in a sweater and hat. One little girl boldly approached him, clamoring, "Are you Colette's dad? I think you're really Colette's dad!"

He stuck to his script, saying, "Ho, Ho, Ho!" and "Merry Christmas!" before ducking out to ditch the pillow, hat and sack.

When he returned, slim again in his sweater, a couple of kids poked him shyly, saying, "Were you Santa? I think it was you."

Steve looked at them with great surprise. "What?! Did Santa Claus come in here?!" and the kids were delighted--ecstatic--at this response.

Later that evening, he and I chuckled together. We were fascinated that so many in this diverse group of bright four-year-olds hadn't been able to identify Steve and had readily accepted a black Santa.

* * *

A few years later, friends brought us a present in a gift bag decorated with an African-American Santa flying through the night sky with reindeer and sleigh. They handed the present to Steve, saying they thought he'd appreciate the bag.

Our families feasted together, played games and stayed up late. After they'd left, Steve thought to remark while getting ready for bed, "That gift bag really warmed the cockles of my heart."

Around Christmas each year, I think about what he said. I keep an eye out for black Santas. I've purchased two ornaments from a short-lived series of African-American Santas. I've bought wrapping paper with tan-skinned Santas who could pass for light-skinned black Santas.

One Christmas, I drove with Adele to a big mall where I hoped to find any black Santa to give to Steve with his Christmas presents. We searched and searched and to my dismay found nothing. We bought hot chocolates and sat on a bench in the mall to rest. I suddenly felt alienated from our culture and conscious of all the black families shopping around me. They looked happy enough. Didn't they also want some wrapping paper with black Santas? Didn't they want ornaments of black Santas? The cockles of my heart grew cold.

Little Adele tried to understand my quest and my disappointment. "Why do you like black Santas so much, Mama?" she asked, her little hands cupped around her hot chocolate.

I tried to explain. "Well, sweetie, nobody really knows what Santa Claus looks like. There are no photographs. Every time an artist draws Santa, the artist has to decide what Santa looks like. And I just think there's a pretty good chance that Santa's skin is brown."

For twenty-eight years, my life and loves have been wrapped up with a man with brown skin. He's the person I talk with across the table every night. Together, we raise daughters whose skin tone is none other than brown. When I look around the table, I see brown. My image of Santa has morphed over time. I now picture in my mind's eye a heavy-set man with a deep voice, twinkly eyes and a kind smile; he is distinguished, and he has creamy brown skin a lot like my husband's.

It'll Transform Ya

What the girls on the team love is imitating the YouTube video of Bon Qui Qui taking orders at King Burger, yelling, "Don't interrupt! Rude. Suhh-curr-ity!" Or reenacting the MADtv sketch of Lorraine at the buffet, where Lorraine tries to pay with nickels from a Vegas slot machine: "Last time I checked, nickel was legal tender!"

The best part of Colette's day nearly always happens between 3:15 and 6:15, during basketball. Being with her team puts her in a good mood, despite the fact that practice is hard work. Before or after practice, she and her teammates dance to their favorite hip hop songs, singing loudly, "I can trans-, I can trans-, I can trans-form ya. I can transform ya, like a transformer!" From what I understand, they have serious conversations in the sanctum of the locker room, and they also fine tune their dance moves and their inside jokes.

When they're in the gym, there are no cell phones, no parents, no boys, no facebook, no textbooks, no grades and no worries about the future. Each player puts aside her own concerns for three hours and joins in fully. It's a concentrated immersion experience, the team. For Colette, practice seems to release her soul from the considerable social and academic pressures of junior year of high school.

The coach cultivates their dedication by valuing each player and making the team a safe place emotionally. "What happens in the team," Coach tells them, "stays in the team." She shows them she cares about them and about how they're doing, checking in with them personally and checking in with their teachers. She's fair. For my teenager and the others, she's creating a safe, alternate family--something that, developmentally, Colette needs right now.

In a rigorous academic prep school where 27% of students are students of color, the girls' basketball team this season happens to consist of 90% students and staff of color. It's a different grouping, and maybe the overlapping experience of race for the majority of the team intensifies their bond. These girls share a fierce love for one another. After riding the bus home from a game in Memphis a couple of weeks ago, Colette reported that she and six other girls crammed into two seats for the three-hour drive. "It was such a blast," she told us repeatedly. When eleventh-grade girls choose to squeeze themselves into a seat with ninth-grade girls, something out of the ordinary is happening. The players are coming together over a physically demanding game that challenges them on many levels. They join in with something larger than themselves and seem to find themselves in the process.

At the grocery store one Sunday recently, Colette stopped the cart and exclaimed, "Oh, crap!" She checked her cell phone. "Phew! I thought I forgot Coach's birthday!" Without me, she headed to the baking aisle and picked out ingredients for a cake. At home, she put aside her research paper, made the cake and spent an hour meticulously decorating it with colored frosting. Then, she drove out to buy flowers with her own money and came home to create a handmade card for the team to sign. I watched and smiled to myself. Her love doesn't need to be directed toward me or this family, I thought; I'm so glad she feels it.

Colette announced during pre-season, back in October, that she wanted to see a movie and sleep over at a friend's house because, she said, "when basketball starts, I won't have a life."

I corrected her: "When basketball starts, you'll have more of a life."

Holy Basketball

"Basketball is not my life!" Colette told her assistant coach last year when pushed to stay after practice for more skills work. Already, she was spending ten to fifteen hours a week at regular practice, two nights a week playing home and away games, two weeks of every summer at basketball camps and clinics, and a number of weekends and holiday breaks playing tournaments.

Colette knows what she doesn't want. She doesn't want to give up her limited free time to watch game videos. She doesn't want to stand under the basket, repeatedly executing post moves with a trainer in the gym. She doesn't want to use her study breaks to practice shooting in the driveway.

For better or worse, what she wants is more time to read books, watch movies, bake brownies and lounge around with friends in pajamas. She wants to learn languages.

I've had to adjust to this harsh reality. When Colette was named most improved player after her first high-school varsity season, I admit I had visions. She could be good! If only she'd dedicate herself fully, give it everything she's got--commit to the holy basketball--she could do it. Play college even!

My husband did not share my vision. "Her classes are a lot more important," he told me. "We should be standing outside her science classroom cheering."

Once I told my therapist that I wished Colette had more drive in basketball. If I could convince the therapist that my daughter's stagnating numbers in blocks and rebounds were evidence of a more global problem of ambition, then maybe I could get some support for my expectation that Colette continue to improve on the court. The therapist's response: "It sounds like she knows what she's doing. The likelihood of her having a future in basketball is almost nil."

I've backed off considerably. Colette gives to her team, and her team gives to her. In so many ways, she's an active contributor. It isn't about her achievement with an orange, round basketball, really, but about something less concrete, bigger.

Look Alive

I'm not a gardener: you won't read here about crocuses poking up through the thawing earth or about my desire to get my hands in the dirt to plant pansies. More likely, you'll hear about the unwrapping of tasty cheeses and the uncorking of wine to aid in my study of the brackets for women's March Madness.

Generally speaking, six inches of snow must suddenly cloak the entire landscape, or big hailstones hit me on the head, for nature to get my attention.

But the leaves on the trees surprised me this fall. Driving to Adele's soccer games, I was pulled out of my everyday life, transported to some magical reality, just by the leaves on the trees around me.

It was a big, unforgettable farm feast in the sky. Great swaths of glittering color lined the roads: towering stained-glass windows of candy-apple coating; flaming orange tissue-paper persimmons; a giant pomegranate forest; humongous baked-sunset meringues, moving and alive.

It was as if the trees themselves were daring me: Just try to proceed with business as usual! Maples and oaks screamed from the bleachers, This is an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime moment! Pay attention! Look alive!

Sensitive to stimuli, the trees prepared to shut down as the light changed and the days became shorter. They didn't go dormant quietly. They became a stadium of fans all cheering for life and change and beauty, wildly waving their glowing handkerchiefs.

They put on their show, a veritable circus full of shimmering costumes. Fantastically, they rode in on elephants and swung from trapezes. Stand up and take notice! they cried to the onlookers.

This is how I want to be. Just when I become so familiar to all that the pharmacist knows my prescription, the neighbors know where and when I walk, and my family knows what's for dinner, I want to surprise them--POW!--with some unexpected and generous act of beauty.

Size Large, and Holding

While Steve and Adele and I were walking our dogs one morning recently, an acquaintance called to me from far across the street:

"Every time I see you, you get smaller!"

"What?" I yelled back, thinking I hadn't heard right.

"Every time I see you," she yelled again cheerfully across the four-lane thoroughfare, "you get smaller!"

"Oh," I yelled back, stupefied, thinking, No I don't. I don't get smaller.

For the record, the nice woman was incorrect. I am still nearly six feet tall, and for the past ten years my weight has vacillated only a few pounds. But more importantly, my goal is not to be small. I have come to believe that it's a misuse of a woman's energy to try to be small. My goal is to be the strongest woman I can be in this body. I want to feel my power. I want to bring some muscle to all of the things that I do.

It bothered me, too, when Adele scolded me after this interaction.

"Why did you say 'What?' You knew what she said," she accused me. "You just wanted to hear it again."

"No, I didn't," I said, indignant. "It was weird! I didn't know what she said."

"It wasn't weird. You knew what she meant. You knew it was a compliment."

The fact that my younger daughter, not even a teenager yet, understood this odd exclamation to be a compliment instead of the mystifying utterance that it was means that her thinking about women's bodies is already being molded by our culture. Why else would she consider it a compliment when her tall, sturdy mother of stable weight, whom she counts on to meet all of her needs, whom she depends on to be strong and alive, is told she is shrinking on every encounter?

C, as in "Capable"

I was shocked in high school to learn that the women's tennis team my mom played on was called the C team. For years and years, she'd played tennis, and I couldn't understand how she could hold her head high if she couldn't make it beyond grade C.

My pre-teen, Adele, now plays on a C team in club soccer, the next step up from youth recreational leagues. From what I observe, A teams (premier) boast prodigies, the best trained, most athletic players in the state. B teams (elite) claim on their rosters extraordinary young athletes whose speed and skill with the ball are rare. And C teams (select) are not to be sneezed at either. The kids on these teams love the game and are developing into competitive players with impressive skill sets.

I see so much growth in the girls on the C team. Each one brings her own strengths to the group as a whole. One player can run down any opponent and cut her off; one can blast through the defense, booting the ball powerfully to the goal. Another can consistently clear the ball and send it up to the forwards; my own daughter can outwit her opponent with footwork and complete a smooth pass to her teammate.

I see the girls pushing themselves for the sake of the team, for something bigger than themselves. I see them cheering on each other's successes. Sometimes, I see them crushed and defeated. Occasionally, a game is awful, and they can't accomplish much of anything. After some games, they're convinced the referees were against them, or the other team cheated.

But other days, in the crisp fall air, they seem to rise up together, in a swell of skill and self-confidence and teamwork. They play important roles in a game that exists outside their everyday life, and they're temporarily removed from the constraints and requirements of being twelve-year-old girls. There are new rules--the game has its own logic and structure and beauty--and they rise up to the challenges and express all their potential. For one hour, they lay it all out on the grassy field for themselves and all the world to see.

Two Points

During our twenties in the San Francisco Bay Area, Steve and I noticed a slow proliferation of interracial couples. We developed a shorthand, private descriptor--IRCA, which stood for "interracial couple alert"--that we'd say aloud whenever we saw one.

At first, when we started dating twenty-seven years ago, there were hardly any. Since then, there are ever more IRCAs all throughout America, so many now that we often don't bother to mention a sighting anymore. In recent years, we've even spotted a few IRCAs in magazine ads and brochures, something we never thought we'd see.

Some of the couples we saw years ago appeared to be in the lowest socioeconomic class; they looked down and out--ill-kempt, sometimes obese or driving rusted out cars, swearing at kids in the back seat. I feared we might become like them--social outcasts--and I didn't want my life or my children's lives to be drastically limited by interracial marriage.

But, eventually, finally, I committed--not only to Steve, but to an interracial marriage and family, and to being defined by it, whatever it might mean.

* * * *

At dinner, Colette says she really likes the new freshmen on her basketball team this year.

I nod and observe out loud, "Almost all the girls on the team will be black this year." She knows I'm happy for her that she's such an integral part of this select group of girls within her diverse school. She knows I even envy her insider status with these varsity basketball players. Gently, I tease her, knowing I'm pushing the boundaries of what I should say: "You think you're so black," slips out of my smiling mouth.

She harrumphs. "Uh...yeah...blacker than you."

"But," I counter, "it counts to marry a black man and have biracial children."

"Not as much as being black," she says, in the dry manner we use to humor each other.

"I know," I acknowledge, "but you have to admit, it does count for something."

Trainable

Over a glass of wine Saturday evening, a volleyball mom told me she doesn't know what she'll do when the season ends this month. "The screaming is so cathartic!" she said. Our high school daughter doesn’t play volleyball, but we were invited to dine with team parents because of friendships forged on the bleachers during basketball season.

I come from a family of sports fans. Growing up, I didn’t count myself among them. The noise of the TV during football games irritated me, and I sequestered myself in my room to color, play or read books. Even as a teenager, I preferred to study or talk on the phone while the family roared in the den over each touchdown, each interception.

I happily married Steve, who had little interest in football.

Only in the past ten years have I become a rabid sports fan, screaming like a wild woman at my daughters’ soccer and basketball games. I started out slowly--quietly observing my big, non-competitive firstborn move from dance into soccer. But, within a year, I was overshooting all parental boundaries, calling out critical instructions to Colette from the sidelines.

The season of my distasteful yelling culminated in an embarrassing Sunday afternoon when I walked purposefully down the sideline toward the goal my daughter was protecting and screamed for the entire soccer complex to hear, “IF YOU DON’T WANT TO PLAY GOALIE, THEN TELL THE COACH AND GET OUT OF THERE!”

Eventually, Colette taught me that the only thing she wanted to hear out of my mouth while she was playing a game was “YAY!” or “Go team!”

Both of my daughters have impressed upon me that since I can’t dribble well and I can’t do a decent lay-up, I have no business calling out advice to them. I’m still loud, but I keep what I yell entirely positive. If I really need to curse their performance, I do it quietly, to whoever’s standing next to me.

It's True

Like our new president, my longtime husband is brown-skinned and biracial--a black man for all practical purposes--and I am approximately the same age and height as our new first lady. We also have two lovely daughters, but ours are older, almost seventeen and twelve now. The similarities end there for the most part. I'm white; I wear tee-shirts and jeans; I'm treated for anxiety; and I tutor part-time in a college writing center.

Last February, we pulled up to a motel on the outskirts of Memphis, on a weekend trip to watch our older daughter's varsity basketball team play in the sub-state tournament. Second-born Adele asked, "So there's an indoor pool?"

"I think so."

"Awesome!"

"True dat!" I said, for fun.

"Stop it, Mama."

"What? I can say that."

"No. You can't."

"Why can't I? There's nothing wrong with that."

My husband answered for her. "It's not something you say when you're a middle-aged white woman."

"That is so mean!" I said in disbelief. "I can't believe you just called me that."

"What? That's what you are," he said as we got out of the car. "What do you think you are? A hip, young black woman?"

"Um. Yes!" I shut my door assertively. "Don't ever call me that other thing again."

He shook his head, chuckling. Since then, Steve and the girls regularly refer to me as a hip, young black woman, which I do appreciate. I want to be whoever I want to be, and I don't want anyone to put me in a stifling box where I'm expected to talk and act and dress a certain way. I want to be free to imagine the whole world, to try to understand and laugh with everyone in it.