activism (Page 31)

My friend won’t let me kill my baby. Or, to be much more accurate, she wants politicians and laws to decide when or if it’s okay to kill my baby. I’m 23 weeks pregnant and I’ve had a human life in me since the day I got the first positive pregnancy test. Now, we’ve named her, she’s a she (as far as we know), she wiggles like crazy, she’s about a pound and a half with almost all fully functioning organs (just her lungs need serious continued growth). She’s been “viable” since 2 weeks ago. Still, she’s inside of me. My body. Not someone else’s. If I wanted to kill her, that’s my right.
The language I’m using is provocative. If anti-choice and pro-choice believers want to come to any sort of agreement on the issue of personal choice in abortion we need to be willing to speak or at least hear each other’s language. I’ve written my description in horrifying terms: killing a baby. It makes my skin crawl just reading the title of this essay. But I realize that’s how my friend would see it. And, in my own case — for me — that’s how I see it, too.
Since I can remember, I’ve known in my heart I couldn’t have an abortion. Of course we can’t ever know what the future holds, but I went to extraordinary measures to avoid pregnancy. I didn’t have intercourse until I knew I would be able to care for a child. Then I always used birth control. No matter how wasted I got (those were some challenging times, the 90s) I never had sex without birth control. Because, as I’ve said, as soon as I know I’m pregnant, logic or science aside, I feel I’m carrying my child inside me. Immediately I begin the relationship that will last for both of our lives where I will care for that child forever.
My position as a pro-choice woman is just as strong, however, as my personal choice not to have abortions. There are several facets to this position. The first, and the least digestible for the anti-choice movement, is that I believe knowing when life begins is a personal and spiritual decision. I have friends who believe life begins with the quickening (feeling movement of the fetus). I have friends who have had multiple abortions who still aren’t sure when life begins. I also have friends who believe life starts at conception, but have had abortions. This aspect of the pro-choice movement is typically pointless as we debate with the anti-choice believers. To most of them, abortion is always murder.
Carrying a fetus, a baby, inside our bodies is an ability only for people who have a uterus. It is this fact alone that makes abortion different than all other laws governing our bodies. We have laws that say we can not physically beat each other up. We obviously have laws against murder. We have laws that try (in vain) to prevent self- or other-harm through drug use or acts like drinking and driving. And, as soon as an infant is outside of its mother, we have laws protecting that child. Thankfully, infanticide is illegal in our country. There is no comparable situation, however, where cis-gender men or boys have a life growing inside of them.
When we begin legislating medical decisions for one group of people and not for any other, we say that group has fewer rights than the others. Therefore, no matter how difficult it is for some people to accept, no laws should govern what happens to someone’s pregnancy. Until my baby is born, what happens to her is entirely my decision. And I will fight for the right for anyone with a uterus to control their body however they see fit as fiercely as I will fight to keep my own baby safe and healthy.

Would you get your hands off my child, please? How would you like me to poke you in the belly? Want me to try and tickle you? Maybe I’ll insist you hug me and not take no for an answer? I’m sure we both think not.
Even the most well-intentioned adults around me lately have let me down. Sure, our daughter is off-the-charts-cute. Not just in the parents-always-think-their-kid-is-cute kind of way, she’s simply gorgeous by most objective standards. She’s also very small for her age with a huge head and huge eyes. Just calls out to the mother in most every person (male and female) she meets.
Why is it, though, so few adults on this earth seem to have a clue that children are people?
I heard the beginning of a great This American Life on the subject of “talking to children.” It began with interviews with children about what annoyed them most about adults talking to them. The children were obviously older than Baby1 (she’s 4 and a half), but they are still putting up with some of the same shit.
Adults seem to flail around wanting to say the right thing, thinking there’s some kind of code language children speak. The adults get goo-goo gah-gah when talking to them. Really sing-songy. Trying to connect, they instead treat the child as some kind of stuffed fluffy toy who might enjoy being bent this way or that.
Baby1 even has a defensive “cutsie wootsie” mode she goes into where she swings herself all around, hanging on to my legs, looking up in an almost flirting coy sort of way that shocked the hell out of me the first time she did it. I asked her after why she was behaving that way (didn’t say it was wrong, but was surprised) and she told me that when people talk to her in baby talk, she just wants to do that. The goo-goo-gaa-gaa talking tone that grownups often take with her sometimes slips past me until she begins her little “I’m just cute” dance behind my legs.
Some advice to those of you who really, truly would like to communicate with that little person in the shopping cart in front of you at the market? You are looking at a small person. An individual. A human being.
They like smiles, but feel weird if you stare at them too much. Sure, if they’re very small infants (not holding themselves up, yet), they might like a little peek-a-boo. For any child, though, your best bet is to just imagine children are just small adults.
Speak in your regular voice. Bring up something you might bring up to an adult if you were going to be so outgoing and bold as to talk to a stranger at the market. Perhaps you might comment on the pretty flowers nearby, or compliment an article of clothing the person is wearing. Maybe you, too, enjoy sweets, so you could empathize with the experience of enjoying a lollipop (that surely some bank teller thrust into the child’s hand without regard to her parents’ wishes).
Think of how odd you’d feel if someone came up to you and started cooing, “Oh, you are so beeeeeautiful!” Sure, you might feel flattered. If you were available, you might hope to get lucky later that night. But, under most circumstances you might feel pretty freaked out.
Yesterday at Target I decided I needed to help out my little girl. I said, “When someone says something like that (a woman had just said over and over and over, “you are so beautiful! adorable! so cuuuuuuuute!”), they would love to hear you say, ‘thank you.’ What that means is you are telling them you appreciate they are trying to be kind. You don’t have to say anything, but a ‘thank you’ is probably what they are hoping for.”
Baby1, like any normal human being, tends to freeze up in shock when these strangers begin gawgling all over here. And, no, she’s not “shy,” she just thinks you’re being really strange and it makes her a little confused and uncomfortable.
And, no, I’m not going to make her give you a hug even if you are a relative. I’m not going to expect her to kiss you or even accept a hug from you. I understand she’s so cute you want to gobble her up, but even her Father and I check in before we slobber all over her (most of the time).
Thankfully, my closest family dwells in the realm of respect. I think they may sometimes wish they could force the issue (LET GRAMPA HOLD YOU we all sometimes want to say). But they see clearly that Baby1 gives her affection and receives her affection on her terms (she loves being held by Grampa when she’s in the mood). Knowing her body is hers, that she decides who touches it, how, and when, may be one of her greatest (thus far, well-learned) lessons.
We’ll continue giving her tools for responding to adults who mean well but don’t have a clue. We’ll continue not forcing her to interact with strangers, and we’ll continue not expecting her to give hugs or kisses to anyone when she doesn’t want to. Without apology.
Once again, let me encourage you. The next time you are interacting with a child, try to imagine the roles reversed. Whatever you do or say to that child, what if someone did or said that to you? Would you be comfortable? How would you respond?
Because, seriously, the next time someone tries to tickle my child or tries to get her to say something to them (“come on, tell me about your little doggy-woggy-woo”) I might just haul off and slug them. Now that’s not a lesson I want to teach my cute as a button sweet as a plum little angel girl.

“She’s Black, she’s Black, she’s BLAAAAACK!” was just about all my brain could handle. Maintaining a simple and polite conversation was barely possible. No matter how much we had in common, no matter how likely a future friendship, I could think of nothing but that amazing dark skin, the transcendent hair texture, and my entire personal history of race relationships. Oh, how I wanted to prove to this woman that I was not like just any white woman! I knew, of course, it was just this level of self-consciousness that would make me utterly annoying to her. But, I just couldn’t help myself.
Helping myself, though, is really what race relations is about for me these days. I do care about the greater socio-political issues (shocking disregard for people’s lives all across the continent of Africa, overt brutality in our country, job discrimination, and of course the list goes on). However, my personal journey with racism now centers around me, my husband, and most of all, my daughter.
When I sat for coffee with the “she’s black she’s black she’s BLACK” woman, I was reminded of a time in college in the late 80’s when a fellow student raged at me something like, “I am not all black people! I can’t solve your problems!” The disgust, the tears, and the absolute giving up I felt from her did change me. I was so ignorant, so inexperienced with people who were not white-upper-class-and-highly-educated that I lumped anyone unlike me into a group. This group, I thought, would be my source for how to fix the world. Surely, they knew what I could do to not be like a bigot, a racist, a slave owner.
It was then I began to try and get over myself. Trouble was, I just didn’t have anyone to practice being just a person with. There was no one in my life I could intentionally not discuss race relations and curing the world of injustice. There was no one in my life with darker skin, or fancier hair. There wasn’t even anyone I knew whose family had struggled financially, dark or fair skinned. And, yes, I recognized how this desire to not look to someone for all the answers was just a different side of the same coin.
I don’t believe in the concept of being “color-blind.” I find it offensive to everyone involved. Why should anyone pretend someone doesn’t look the way they do? How is that respectful? One constant in my life is my need for authenticity. Facing tough issues by talking about them; I don’t do well with elephant’s snoozing on the throw rug nearby.
It my own need for honesty and clarity that had me obsessing, desperate for an intense and intimate conversation about race every time I ran in to this woman. Entirely annoying, of course, since I knew I was just doing it again. Not seeing her as a woman, a mother, a wife, a writer, a social justice activist, but only seeing her Blackness. I really didn’t want to, but I knew if I pretended I wasn’t, it would just make it worse.
In college, I studied and fell in love with “Symbolic Interactionism.” Put forward in force by Herbert Blumer but made real to me by Erving Goffman, the idea that we all together strive most of all to maintain a coherent sense of reality. The “presentation of self” is disturbed when an individual becomes obsessed with their own performance. Smooth interactions between individuals are the goal of most players in life, most of the time throughout our daily lives (most don’t walk down a crowded busy street intentionally slamming into other people, we work together as individuals to keep the peace).
I know in my past I have suffered from white guilt and that has prevented me from behaving naturally. It’s humiliating, really, but, it’s my own shit.
Playing with dollhouse toys, my daughter announced one afternoon that she called one set of dolls the dark-skinned dolls. She didn’t say that the other set was the light skinned dolls. I gathered myself together enough not to launch in to a whole history of race issues in the USA. She’d made a simple observation. We’ve tried to always be sure she has characters in books with lots of different backgrounds, tried to always have dolls that are not only blond and white, knowing every little thing is part of the greater picture. We talked to her about melanin when she first asked about darker skin after visiting my parents’ church. We’ve done everything we can to not make a big deal, but to still keep the option for deeper discussion open. And, yes, I am probably over-thinking it way too much. But, then again, I’m really not.
We live in a state (Maine) where it’s not common to see people who aren’t white. Economic status is more varied than where I grew up, but trying to recognize those differences takes a judgmental frame of mind, not easy for a four year old to pick up on. We visit Boston (awfully white city, but relatively International) and come across families speaking other languages, wearing interesting clothes, looking remarkably different. It’s nice, and we talk about things with her, but what will help Baby1 most?
I tried signing her up for a Kwanzaa celebration class for toddlers, but was vastly disappointed when the instructor slipped up and asked the class if they knew about the country of Africa. I do believe that experience with people with darker skin, with different languages, and with different cultural backgrounds is the best thing we can give Baby1 (and ourselves). But, how can this happen and not be contrived?
I’ve written previously about my six grade field trip on a bus into Hartford where the teachers showed us “urban decay” and “urban renewal.” They actually stopped the busses in stressed out neighborhoods and said “this is urban decay.” I guarantee you there were people around those streets. How can [my husband] and I be sure that signing Baby1 up for classes or working to have playgroups where the kids aren’t just white isn’t a lot like that? I suppose it makes a difference if there is a genuine interest in the topic, or if the playgroup participants are actually friends. Knowing I have the motivation of “exposure” however, is what feels too close to that old frame of mind (“these people will give me the answers, ease my guilt”).
Today we went to the toy store where [my husband] and I very blatantly purchased an excessively expensive and annoying toy strictly for bribery (you reach this milestone, we’ll celebrate with this toy!). We reached the shelves and the Baby Alive toys available were only the dark skinned, curly haired dolls (sort of African American looking, though I think they all look like aliens). We had watched a movie on the computer that morning as we whetted her appetite for the thing where the freakishly large-eyed blond baby says, “uh oh, I made a stinky!” I flinched at the shelf. I wondered if I should be prepared for Baby1 to say, “That isn’t the doll we saw, I want the other one!” I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to say, “It’s this doll or no doll,” because I didn’t want the darker doll to be the disappointing choice.
Baby1 didn’t say a word about how she looked different (even though the doll was surrounded by the blond dolls of the “pee-pee only” version). She hugged the box to herself. She has been cherishing the boxed doll all day (she gets to open it after she reaches her milestone).
On the way home from the store, this is what she said, “The company that makes these dolls must really want children to buy them!”
“Yeah, hunny, why is that?”
“Because she has dark skin and dark skin is the most beautiful.”
“Dark skin is beautiful, hunny, yes, they must know.”
Inside I’m not afraid her pale-skinned self-esteem is suffering, I’m doing a touchdown dance with fireworks. Thinking, at least at the moment, she’s making good associations.
A few months ago (a year?) I said to the “she’s black she’s black she’s BLACK” woman who I had come to know on some deeper levels, “It’s so nice to finally know you as a just a person.” I honestly don’t remember if we went forward with that conversation at that point, or later in safer email, but, it’s true that she’s the first Black woman (and Latina, it turns out) who I consider a friend. And, it’s most definitely true that while I have fleeting thoughts of “wow, that hair is so cool,” or, “her skin is so stunning,” I realize I have thoughts like that about all of my friends in different ways (“how does she pull of those knit caps?” “when does she have the time to shave her legs?” “her hair always looks so clean.”). They are fleeting and I’m not obsessed.
[My husband] doesn’t have the same hang-ups I do. He grew up in a much more culturally diverse world (Southern New Mexico). He’s also blessed with an ability to not over-think things. But, he knows what I’m talking about when we try to decide how to help Baby1 not think that this world (Maine) is typical of the rest of the world. He knows how gross it feels to imagine signing Baby1 up for a playgroup or class only because we know she’d meet kids who aren’t white. I suppose, like everything, I’ll have to turn this over to faith. Trusting that it will all work out because God’s in charge and I’m not.
I don’t know the answers. I don’t know how I can help Baby1 make friends without having an internal explosion about race or class issues go on in her brain. For this day, for this moment, I’ll take Baby1 finding the “dark skin is the most beautiful” as a pretty good start.

“All Whites Are Racist!” screamed giant red letters on the yellow banner in the student center. It didn’t say much more than that, except to come to the theater at a certain time that day. I was outraged and I wondered what in the heck was going on, after all, that was total nonsense — I wasn’t racist and neither were my friends. We were good people, not scummy ignorant bigots. How dare someone imply otherwise?

What followed was a workshop with a man named Tony Harris. I don’t remember many details of the workshop but I walked out of there with a deeper understanding of my own racism and the impact it had on my life. Mr. Harris showed me that our tendency in looking at racism is to see how it negatively affects non-caucasians, when, in fact, caucasians are suffering great emotional pain because of racism, too. The workshop wasn’t a touchy-feely, “oh you white people have it so bad” kind of thing, but rather it was an experience that revealed painful truths: no matter our intentions, we white people are racist.

Defining “racist” must go beyond a dictionary definition. The way we use the term “racism” in this country is not simply “making decisions based on race.” The term “racism” as it is used today is about oppression and power. I define racism as “people with power oppressing people with less power, based on their apparent race.” Of course there are exceptions to “all whites are racist” but it is for the most part a true statement and the exceptions are fewer than most people like to think.

We white people grow up with advantages born unto us. For example, we are less likely to get stopped by the police and more likely to be hired for a job. Whether we like it or not, we have more power than people with darker skin. Because we have advantages based on our skin color, we are participating in a racist system and are therefore racist ourselves.

Through our families, through the media, through implicit and over messages we are taught stereotypes about people who aren’t white. Because we believe these stereotypes on some level, we’re afraid. Because we are afraid, we avoid people who don’t look like us so we can avoid feeling uncomfortable. Because we avoid people who don’t look like us, we have no opportunity to disprove the stereotypes we are taught.

Additionally, because so many of us are good, well-intentioned people, we feel guilty for our position, for our advantage, and for our country’s history of oppression. Because we feel guilty is one more reason we avoid anyone who isn’t white, so we don’t have to feel uncomfortable — so we can pretend it isn’t so.

Given this premise: all us white folks are racist, what can we do about it?

I have some ideas how on an individual level we can work towards breaking the bonds that have been holding us all down in this racist society.

I think of where I have lived. When I lived in a white suburban area of town I had rare occasion to interact with a non-white person. I had no idea the impact this had on me until I moved to an area of town where most people have dark skin — at first, I was literally afraid! All logic was out the window, and I just felt nervous and guilty and I felt I stuck out like a sore thumb being so white.

Well, it’s been some time (this happens each time I move in and out of neighborhoods where there are more dark skinned people than light skinned) and I love where I live. I no longer feel nervous and I no longer feel guilty most of the time. I haven’t escaped my racist background, but simple proximity to people who don’t look like me helps me recognize my biases and move beyond them.

Another thing I suggest is for you (if you’re white) is to be the minority for a while. Go to a bar filled with mostly Asian people, go to a Hispanic neighborhood association meeting, or go to a black church where you are one of the only white people around. The experience is terrifying and shocking when you realize this is what it must be like for so many dark skinned people in “your world” when they “visit.” It also helps to bring yourself into the reality that there is no “one” black person, Asian person, Latino person — among the darker skinned people there are tremendous varieties. There are fat and skinny, there are poor and wealthy, there are sloppy and neat.

It seems sad to suggest such things as “get next to a darker skinned person to get over your fear and your guilt” — it would be nice to believe that dialogue would be a first step. I think living in the same worlds is the first step, and I think it’s up to those of us who have the most power (the white people) to recognize our advantages and use our power to help make changes. We can choose to live in “black/Asian/Latino neighborhoods,” we can choose to attend churches and temples where not only white people worship, we can simply shop in supermarkets where not only white people shop. We can live our lives with conscious thought and with intent.

Since I don’t believe we can ever be entirely free of our racism as white people I believe educating our children is the most vital step we can take to changing our world. It’s our responsibility to guarantee our children grow up next door to people who don’t look like themselves, that they sit at school desks and work on homework assignments with children who don’t look just the same, and it is our responsibility that they are exposed to the richness and variety of the world’s cultures rather than just the white culture around them.

All whites may be racist, but it’s true that the children are our future and it’s up to us to teach them.

——————
Here’s a link to some information about Tony Harris, he’s connected on this website to a “show” called “American Pictures” which looks quite interesting, the site itself is well done:
http://www.american-pictures.com/english/show/tony.htm

Note: This essay was first published on my website in 1999. 

Harriett was running down the hall, late for the luncheon with Senator Simpson. As she ran, she called over her shoulder, “someone canceled, do you want to come along?”

Did I?

I’d been working for Harriett Woods, former Lieutenant Governor of Missouri, at the National Women’s Political Caucus for just under a year. My most recent project was organizing luncheons with leaders of women’s organizations and each individual member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. This was just immediately following the confirmation of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.

Of course I wanted to “come along!”

After passing through the metal detectors of the Senate building, I had to run to keep up with Harriett’s long leg strides. When we entered the private dining room, the architecture and decor seemed ancient and powerful. Two or three of the women’s group leaders had already arrived and were seated at the heavy wooden table that filled the small, bright, high-ceilinged room.

We took our seats and I sat, not speaking, just listening to Harriett make lovely appropriate small talk with the other women. No one spoke about what they were all there for: the topic was “discussing women’s perspectives on the Hill/Thomas hearings.” I was in shock. Here I was, 21 years old, sitting in a private dining room of the Senate with leaders of some of the most influential womens’ organizations in Washington, DC — we were all there together waiting for Senator Alan Simpson.
Senator Simpson, the vocal Judiciary Committee member from Wyoming.

After about ten minutes, the door behind us opened. The tallest man I’ve ever seen in my life limbered in followed by an elegant (and also tall) woman.

The Senator took a seat at the tremendous table. He took a seat directly across the table from me.

The woman who was with him, his wife Ann, sat at the head of the table on the other side of the room.

The Senate dining staff began serving our lunch as the polite and amiable chit-chat continued.

Again, there was no mention of what the participants were all there to discuss and I found the omission made the conversation shallow and stilted — though I see now how it was all about manners, protocol and style.

Finally, as I evaluated the fruit cup (yet another food item I couldn’t possibly eat with my stomach so full of butterflies), Harriett said something like, “Shall we get started?” Something like that. She crafted such an eloquent but simple statement, I wish I could recall the exact words.

She made her point: it was time to move beyond the small talk.

Then the Senator then took the lead.

He began speaking of Anita Hill and how she had perjured herself. I don’t know how long the Senator spoke, as I was still in shock, but I do remember distinctly that he mentioned the “corrupting effect of this rock and roll” — my jaw almost dropped onto the floor when he actually said that.

As the Senator spoke, I ground my fingernails into my palms to keep myself from speaking. The thoughts were a hurricane in my brain and I was afraid I would burst out in some verbal explosion of frustration.

He was missing the point, and no one was saying anything to him about it!

Were we going to sit there and listen to him slamming Anita Hill and just sit mute? Would all these nice manners continue and block any real communication about the frustrations of the issues of real sexual harassment in the workplace and the lack of women in the Senate?

At one point a sort of squawking noise escaped from my mouth.

My fingernails were almost through the skin on my palms.
I looked, pleadingly at Harriett after I made the sound and I said to her, “could… could I say something?”

And Harriett, the strong, impressive and grand woman announced to the shocked looking table members with her arms waving about, “Yes! Yes! My assistant, Heather, would like to say something!”

My hands relaxed in my lap.

I started to speak with a quivering and timid voice.

I said, “Senator, I understand that you think Anita Hill perjured herself. But, I don’t think that’s the point. I think the point is, there were no women up there on the Judiciary Committee, so no one could possibly know what she had gone through if she had been telling the truth.”

The Senator was just staring at me.

After I finished speaking I’m not sure if I even took a breath of air.

The Senator took a bite of his fruit cup and his head began to nod.
He chewed and said, “Hmmm…well, I never thought about it that way.”

I recognized even then that he was being kind and diplomatic — though I will always hope my words might’ve reached him.

I continued shaking and shivering throughout the rest of the luncheon. I have no recollection of any other words that were exchanged in the meeting. I just remember when it seemed it was time to go.

The Senator raised himself slowly from his chair, and the rest of us followed.

When all of the thank-you’s and good-bye’s were being exchanged came one of the most remarkable interactions of the whole experience.

Mrs. Simpson came over to me with her hand extended.

She introduced herself to me, and I introduced myself to her. She continued shaking my hand and looked deep into my eyes and said, “You keep on going,” and gave my hand an extra tight squeeze.

In the cab on the ride home, Harriett said to me, “I hope you’re writing about all of this.” That was eight years ago, and at the time I wasn’t. The experience, however, isn’t one I will ever forget. Each time I revisit the memory I’m energized by Mrs. Simpson’s words and I do “keep on going.”