my life story (Page 20)

When [name redacted] beat me up in ninth grade, there was almost a reason for it. In that case, I actually did something inconsiderate (asked her boyfriend if it was true she was a slut (I wasn’t one myself, yet, and I was sincerely and naively curious about a rumor I’d heard)).

[Redacted] stalked me for about a week. Stood outside my classes, glaring through the tiny windows on each door. The day finally came. After homeroom, [redacted], [redacted], and another girl started grabbing me, pulling me into the bathroom. All I could say was, “what about my books?” (The big pile of books in my arms, where to put them down.)

Once she had me in the stall (yes, I tried to stop them dragging me there) most of it is a blur. I remember ducking the punches. I remember the loud echos. I remember using all my strength (successfully) to stop her from flushing my head in the toilet. But, I mostly remember the ridiculously civil, even therapeutic (for her), conversation we had.

Me: “Why are you doing this, [redacted]?”

Her: “You called me a slut!”

Me: “I’m really sorry about that. I asked John about what I’d heard. I am really sorry!”

(Thud. Thud. Whack. Some punches grazing off my face, some landing on the stall wall behind me.)

Me: “But we were friends last year! What is so wrong that you’re doing this to me now?”

The little chat (Thud. Whack. Thud!) actually moved into how unhappy she was, how she hated me for being “so perfect,” and how it wasn’t fair that I got my life and she got hers. I felt sorry for her as she tried to beat the shit out of me (successfully).

The other girls, the door-watchers, participated in some parts of the conversation — I was sure the unnamed girl’s sister couldn’t be pregnant if she had her period, the unnamed girl was sure her sister was pregnant.

Surreal? Yes.

The only time this sort of insanity happened in my life? Nope.

The next major time I recall was [redacted] someone spitting… no, [redacted] spitting in my face at a dance. For this exchange I have no recollection what I might have done to spur the sputum. Perhaps I again said something stupid or naive.

Or, perhaps I did nothing.

No one has physically beaten my up in a lot of years. But, I’m still a magnet for people hating me. Really, seethingly hating me. Almost every time it sneaks up on me. Almost every time it hurts my feelings at first. Almost every time I do some crazy dances to try to fix whatever’s wrong.

Then I remember the pattern.

It happens.

Over the years I’ve gotten used to it. Not in any sort of “oh poor me” martyr kind of way, but, just a sort of an “it’s the cost of doing business” kind of way.

When I’m in a group setting, an advisory board, for example, my style bugs a lot of people. I don’t like to dabble with what-ifs. I like to decide and do. I like concrete achievable tasks, not theories and considerations.

The best groups generally have another strong-personality/leader type to balance me out. Someone who recognizes the value of detailed planning and consideration before taking action. Almost always, though, I ruffle feathers. It’s okay. I also get things done, and that’s more important to me than being liked.

The last time I was in one of these messes, hooo-boy, did she hate me. Seriously hated me. I’m talking piercing stare-downs with the strength of lasers. All I could do was giggle with nerves, it was so insane. Emails like, “Did you enjoy your vacation? I sure did.” It was brutal. The worst was, though, how she sucked me into insanity. She accused me of theft, of power-plays, of dishonesty, and all sorts of almost-criminal acts. I prayed like a crazy person, as I had become nuts wondering what I’d done to make her hate me so. Crying over it one night, I asked Coparent why these people latch on to me. “You’re outgoing, you don’t hold back.” That’s really what it is most of the time.

A wise soul explained that particular situation this way. Some people take on leadership. Others see those leaders with bull’s eyes on their chests. Just looking for that best shot. Take ’em down is their call.

My style and personality aside, there are people out there looking for targets. I can’t try to become someone these sick people don’t notice. It doesn’t work that way.

My best spiritual guides have always told me to pray that the people who drive me most crazy, who hurt me most, that I should pray they get everything I want in my life. Simple. I pray they find peace. Remarkable what praying for them does. I usually move directly into forgiveness.

When I’m most healthy, I treat these people with respect. I consider what my role in the relationship is. I find what my part of it is, if there are things I’ve done that need amending. Then, I promptly ignore almost anything they say. I pray for them. I feel sorry for them. And I move on to the next thing.

It’s my natural tendency to isolate. Part of why isolation soothes me so is I don’t have to deal with the Haters. But I do like to make things move, so I don’t stay alone for long.

Last night I was honored to speak to a large group of people about issues near and dear to me. As the words came out of my mouth I knew my positions were strongly held. I knew it was likely I was really, really pissing off some people. I also knew there would be others who would just as passionately value my message.

Dancing around trying to make people happy is one of the most miserable ways to live. I know. I used to do it all the time. Being my authentic self, my considerate and caring authentic self, I can only hold fast to the knowledge that I am well-intentioned and well-meaning. When those crazy Haters come at me, I say, “hey, what’s up? I’ll duck your slugs today, but go ahead and throw them if it makes you feel better.”

I’m no punching bag, but, if I took everyone’s opinion of me more seriously than my own self-assessment, I’d be in quite a bit of misery. Here’s to doing enough good in the world, being courageous and strong enough, that I keep pissing people off.

“i can be changed by what happens to me. but i refuse to be reduced by it.” — Baby1 Angelou

“Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.” — Mark Twain

It’s dark and wet. Full of steam and tears and desperation. Sometimes my fingers lose all sensation as I fumble for the keg tap. I’m fourteen, fifteen. I’m sixteen, seventeen. I’m on a field, in someone’s basement, in an old mansion with the parents away, or in the woods of someone’s farm. I’m staring off into another room, knowing he is watching me.
There is a simple science to being beautiful and young. Attracting one only requires convincing him he doesn’t exist to me. Inside, I am a hummingbird of awareness. All he sees is my face, my body, my smile, and my slow strong confidence. I know I’m lovely. I know I’m good at it. I am all powerful.
What strange paths of dark memory. Keeping my feet grounded in the now where authentic confidence and love connect and support all things. I’m out of practice. Visiting those places from before, I haven’t done this more than ten years. The raging pain, loneliness, confusion, and trauma are all mixed in together with normal teen angst and anxiety. Today, I begin clearing out the clutter. Sort through the typical and file it away. Uncover the damage, clean the wounds that still fester, hold tight to the now where all is safe.
Who are these people now? What do they remember?
Only scraps of the most humiliating, flagrant, and rank behaviors of mine are resurfacing. Were there good times? Were there any real connections?
Hovering over the well, staring full force down in to the darkness, knowing it goes to the center of the earth. I’m diving in. I’m falling down. I am immersing myself to reclaim and know. I will scrape away the lingering filth.
What will be left when this is over? I have all I need, now. There are no visions of retribution. There is no blame.
I begin recalling smells, sights, sensations. Pick up a can. Check for carbonation, be sure there are no ashes. Good enough to drink? The haze and tunnel vision, the crowd as a blur, hearing voices, knowing they are talking, but I’m not able to move. Smiling to show I don’t care. Oh, how not caring was the ultimate goal. I see it in young kids these days. I don’t care. You don’t affect me. I am going to show you so clearly that I am unimpressed by you. Perhaps, and likely, I was just as transparent.

The late-night drive-through attendant passed me two cheeseburgers without judgment. Her emotionless (empathetic?) gaze was better than therapy. Finding myself camped out in the middle of the king-sized bed, computer on my lap, remote in one hand, 3 Musketeers in the other–it took two hours of dazed terror before I realized I’d been there before.

This time, I was in a hotel without my husband or daughter. That time, over ten years ago, I was alone heading toward the worst of my drunk and stoned life. This time, life was mostly full of joy, balance, and serenity. That time, chaos and loneliness led me in endless dark mazes.

I had no idea being away from my daughter overnight for the first time would be so brutal. It kicked my ass for those two hours. When I recognized where I had arrived (desperation, lack of clarity, obscured reality) it was an easy shift into pleasure. Ah ha! Look what’s happened! And, immediately: a bubble bath; guilty-pleasure television with the volume up; doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. And, most of all, sleeping harder and deeper than I had in years.

It’s as if life is a continuous set of spirals, lines flowing up and around, higher and higher until the coil is too tight. With each forward movement–it’s always moving forward–the next unspringing is more gentle. Ten years ago every lesson devastated me, as I believed in perfection and an impossible ideal. These days, I usually recognize the signs of an impending challenge or lesson and I just hold on and breathe.

Four and a half years ago our daughter came into our lives through a gash in my abdomen. She wanted to come out feet first. There was no convincing her to turn. On that first night, she lay among my IV tubes of antibiotics for the post-op infection and Pitocin to stop the hemorrhaging. She nursed enthusiastically. She slept with us then and has ever since.

Sleeping in our grand king-sized bed is full of reconnecting, snuggling, giggling, and love. Sure, she’ll sleep in her own room someday but, for now, we all love our arrangement.

So, for all of her sweet little life, any time she’s needed me at night, I’ve been there. I am breathing with her, laying with her, and always within reach.

As we work on less dependence on me and more acceptance of comfort from her Daddy, we realized the best thing for us was me spending a night away. I was desperate for a good night’s sleep (being needed throughout the night had finally caught up to me), and we were both desperate for Coparent’s chance to be “the one” she needed. My physical presence, because of the patterns and habits we’ve set over the years, was problematic. Baby1 didn’t believe she would be okay without me. What a terrible lesson to teach a child: you’ll fall apart if I’m not there. So, it was with some anxiety but mostly excitement and confidence that I packed my bag for this overnight.

A massive burlap sack filled with wet sand smashing me across the room was how I felt when I first left our house. I actually thought I might vomit because I was “leaving Baby1.” My perception of my importance, and ultimately Coparent’s ability as a father, was skewed. Twisted. Distorted. Reality was again obscured.

Thankfully, it just took that bit of time for me to recognize just how fucked up it all was. As if Baby1 would fall apart without me. Intellectually, I was sure I didn’t believe that. But those two desperate hours were close cousins to the last few months of my darkest drugging and boozing. This time, I had solutions at my disposal. Easy tools to use to fix this mess. I simply said, “Oh, hey, god? Shit, I’m totally fucked up again. I think I’m way too important and I think I’m a piece of shit. Would you fix all this?” And POP up I sprang from the bed to run the bubble bath.

Clarity. Clearness.

It’s all so simple if I don’t make it complicated. And, holy crap, did I sleep well that night.

“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.