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.
12/30/09
12/20/09
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.
* * *
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.
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.
12/10/09
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."
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."
12/4/09
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.
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.
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