I'm A Believer

Nickelodeon made me a HUGE Monkees fan. RIP Davy Jones, who died today.

Big Guy

For 13.5 years, my kid has had a variety of nicknames. His dad and I call him Mooch; my mama calls him Toot-a-loo (he gone kill me for that one), my brother calls him LuLu, and his PawPaw (Mr. S) called him "Big Guy." Once upon a time, when he was a little bitty thing, he rejected all the nicknames, and instructed people to call him only by his first name. He hurt his PawPaw's feelings. Now, I am a big believer in calling people what they choose, but I knew Mr. S was coming from a place of love and affection. I asked my little one if he had a particular objection to "Big Guy." He said no. I told him that PawPaw called him that because he was growing up so fast and was such a big boy that the name fit. He liked that idea so much that he went to tell Mr. S that he could resume calling him "Big Guy" ASAP. :-))

Yesterday, the voice that so lovingly called my little man "Big Guy" was silenced. My child has no more grandfathers walking this earth, but I am so glad for my son that he had grandfathers that loved him so. Rest In Peace, Mr. S. Thank you for your kindness and for loving my child so completely. My sympathies to the family and a special hug and kiss to my son's little brother, who shared a special kind of companionship with his PawPaw.

My Soul Looks Back...

Everything has me weepy today on the observation of MLK, Jr.'s birthday, feeling sentimental as an African American historian and a product of the rural South.

Everything. Like, in the midst of re-reading Michelle Alexander's The New Jim Crow (I'm teaching it (again) this Spring), I have (previously) run across Cara's review of the book and, just today, this interview with the author and other scholars bearing the grim subtitle "How a Racist Criminal Justice System Rolled Back the Gains of the Civil Rights Era." This article also centers the book and the school-to-prison-pipeline that acts in some of the same systematic ways as the old system of Jim Crow. As I read them, I am disheartened, overwhelmed, teary-eyed. And I thought, "My God, so far to go!"

Everything. Like the fact that I have never watched The Great Debaters but today caught the last ten minutes of it with my boys. I was struck by the young man at the end who spoke of our duty to resist unjust laws, of the fear and shame with which African Americans lived, of a world in which you could stumble upon a lynch mob and do nothing but hide, hoping to save your own life. As I watched, I felt awe-struck, angry, teary-eyed. And I thought, "My God, how far we've come."

Far enough that I, the granddaughter of domestics and sharecroppers, will get up tomorrow and go to my job as an assistant professor at a public university after making sure my kids are safely off to school, once upon a time little more than a dream for most teenaged black boys whose lives were dictated by agricultural needs.

You know, I've never known for sure if the words to that old song are "My Soul Looks Back in Wonder" or "My Soul Looks Back and Wonders." I don't worry about it much, because either is fitting when I look back over the course of the history of people of African descent in this country. So far we've come. Every once in a while, I do take a moment, reflect, feel gratitude, feel strengthened, realize the resilience that comes from past victories and defeats. This is one of those days.

And then I remember, So far we have to go. And I get back to business.

Anchored

Once, during a particularly un-Louisiana like winter in my youth, we had a severe ice-and-little-bit-of-snow storm. The world outside our flimsy screen doors was cold and white. The ubiquitous pine trees bent beneath the weight of icicles. The roads lay covered by inches of ice and the little stream in front of our house looked as if it had been interrupted mid-flow, frozen into a wavy sheet that we assumed must be just right for ice-skating (we were kids from the Deep South; what did we know? :-). Because my blue-collar parents didn’t have the luxury of having jobs to which they could just call in and miss, they went to work. My mom always hated the fact that if one person made it out of the bad weather to the plant, all of them would be expected to come.

My sister and I spent the day at the babysitter’s who lived down the street from us. At some point after 3 p.m., my dad, who was working days that week, came to collect us. We were so excited. Because mama did most of the day-to-day care and was so overprotective that we were always with her, Daddy was the “fun” parent. (As a mother, I think that’s horribly unfair, but it’s how we perceived it.)

He’d ridden with someone else who dropped him at our babysitter’s house. We were all going to walk home together. My sister and I initially took itty-bitty steps, scared of slipping and falling. We clung to Daddy’s arms and I honestly have no idea how he stayed upright and managed to keep us standing. Over the course of the few hundred yards to our house, we grew bolder, sliding on the ice, nodding at Daddy’s warnings, but skipping and squealing as we’d slip. Each time, Daddy would sigh, catch us, set us on our feet. It was a little scary, the knowledge that we might slip down the steep sides of the “branch” and land on the frozen stream. It was also exhilarating because we were made virtually fearless by the presence of Daddy, secure in the knowledge that he would never let us fall.

Today is my dad’s birthday and I couldn’t think of a better metaphor for our relationship than the one expressed in that story. I have done some questionable, dangerous, make-no-sense-at-all things in my life and my dad was always there to catch me, to make me feel safe, to keep me upright. Even when I ignored his warnings, he’d sigh a lot, scold for a minute, then pick me up and set me on my feet again. His presence made me feel safe in venturing out, messing up, and trying again. One of the reasons that I’ve been able to do so much, good and bad, is because I knew I had a secure foundation in my parents. “You can always come home,” they told us, and they didn’t mean it in just a literal sense. My parents were/are home, and in the last four and a half months, I’ve felt the missing part of that structure keenly.

This is the first November 8th I’ve ever faced without my dad. I’m not even home to visit his grave. And in two weeks, I’ll have my own first birthday without my Daddy. I don’t like thinking about that, either.

But I do have moments of peace. A few weeks ago, we went rock climbing. As I hemmed and hawed and climbed, I kept thinking, “Your ass knew better than this! Lord, I’m not gone make it.” I kept going, though, a little bit at a time, stopping to catch my breath or balance. And then, a good way up the rock, we suddenly felt a strong wind at our backs. It was so forceful that we could feel it pushing us. I made it to the top and just sat there for the longest, thinking, breathing, silent as the wind blew all around me. That night, when I talked to Mama about it, I told her, only half-jokingly, “I know that was Daddy helping me up that hill.”

“It probably was,” she said, “You know he’s still holding you up.”

I love you, Daddy. Happy birthday.

And thank you.

RIP, Soror

"I think of my life as a unity of circles. Some are concentric, some overlap, but they all connect in some way. Sometimes the connections don't happen for years. But when they do, I marvel." -Dr. Dorothy I. Height

More here

Denay

People always give me virtually sole credit for the parties I do. One thing I try to point out is that, for all my visions of what I want, it takes many, many people to implement and create the finished product. I am overwhelmingly grateful to my family and friends who love me enough to help me do something I dream about. Just think about that for a second--most of them could not care less about party food or decorations, but because I sign myself up, they sign on too.

One of those friends was Ms. Alondra Shenay Coleman. Shenay, with her creativity, neatness, and her recipes, saved my butt at the last minute quite often. I knew her all my life, but came to know her better in the 90s when she dated my brother. We loved "Nay"; she was so funny and talkative and ready to go-go-go. I remember going to Shreveport in her little red car, three of us crammed in the back, and shaking our heads at Shenay in the front because she couldn't make up her mind on so many things.

My brother's children loved her, too. In the years since they broke up, she has always checked on them, remembered birthdays, scolded them when needed. She came into their lives when they were relatively young. My nephew, a toddler, couldn't say her name properly. He called her "Denay." My sister and I have done the same since then.

In the last year alone, Shenay had helped me several times--for a week, we stayed up virtually all night, every night getting ready for Dee's wedding. She'd tell me, "I'm tired. I'm getting old, I can't do this with you." And she was still right there. Half the times I called her for a recipe, she'd say, "Girl, just bring the stuff, I'll do it for you."

But the one thing she asked of us, was not to take any day for granted. She'd had heart problems, including two heart attacks, and she threatened to kick my butt if I didn't get my chest pains "seen about." My chest hurt so bad the week before Dee's weeding, but I thought, "Lord, I'ma have to fall out at the reception, because I can't stop." Shenay asked me everyday had I been to the doctor and fussed when I ruefully shook my head no. Turned out my problem was horrible anxiety and GERD, but I've never forgot her cautioning or her concern.

Earlier this month, I had to get ready for Dee's anniversary party. But Dee and I had miscommunicated--I thought it was the 20th; she set it for the 13th. As I wouldn't be arriving at home until late the night of the 12th, I panicked. I e-mailed Shenay the first week in March with a plaintive, "Help!"

It took her a week to respond, which I thought was unusual, but I pushed that to the back of my mind when I finally got her response which was along the lines of "What you need?" Just that quickly and simply, she was ready to help. I told her about the rush and she said, "I've been sick, but I'll help all I can."

I felt horrible--she'd been sick and I hadn't even thought to ask after her. Conversation with friends revealed she'd actually been in hospital. Ashamed, I vowed not to bother her with yet another hectic event.

She came to the party, though, and I apologized for being inconsiderate. She smiled at me and waved that off.

On Friday, March 19, she posted a Facebook status that read, in part:

Good Morning facebook, I'm on my way to New Orleans, please pray for my safe journey.

She was going to see her dad's family.

But her journey took an unexpected turn. As I was making it home Sunday night, my sister called.

"Girl," she said, then paused for a minute. "Girl, Shenay died."

I really couldn't make sense of that for a minute. I repeated it to Coti, needing to hear the words out loud, to believe them, I guess.

When I signed into Facebook that night, I saw this amazing outpouring of disbelief and love. She was really gone.

I didn't want to cry.

And yet, the tears slipped out slowly, all night. They came again, the next morning when I read that my pre-school aged cousin had consoled her mama, another of Shenay's friends with the words, "Don't be a little sad Mommy, Heaven is a good place!"

Shenay loved so much and so hard. Kids absolutely adored her and she had a gift with them. When I told my son, he said, "Shenay that helped us with the wedding? She always talked to me!" She was typically smiling or laughing, sharing a good story, or telling a dry joke in her high-pitched-but-deadpan voice.

Today, I read the quote she'd put on her Facebook page some time ago:

I am blessed and always happy, life is too short.

Way too short, it feels like, at times like this.

We love you, Denay, and we miss you. We always will.

Howard Zinn dies at 87

I hope to be able to write something coherent tomorrow :-(

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I Didn't Know "Rest In Peace" Came with a Citizenship Requirement!

ETA: A new note at the bottom

Do you ever just sit back and wonder who and what we are becoming?

When the DC metrorail crash occurred earlier this week, nine people lost their lives. When the list of the names of the dead was released, it contained the name of Ana Fernandez, a mother of six.

While the family has been "grateful for the genuine expressions of sympathy," they did not expect another effect.

Ana Fernandez's image and name have prompted hateful, harrassing calls from people demanding to know her immigration status.

My personal response was, "Does it matter?"

Have we really sunk so low that we comb through the details of tragedies, looking for things that make us feel "suspicious?"

Have brown skin and a Spanish surname become enough to arouse that suspicion and make us act in heartless, disturbingly inhuman ways? (That question is rhetorical, of course).

Ana Fernandez's family is having to balance their grief with this sudden demand to explain:

Ana's sister said the accusations aren't true.

"Right now, the whole family is in pain. She was here legally, and all her children are legal. They were born here."

They're also having to defend themselves against the stereotypes of lazy immigrants who come here to "live off" others. Fernandez's sister said:

"We all work, OK? And we're going to get through this."

And from one of her children:

"She was always working -- working two jobs. She did whatever she had to to take care of us," said Evelyn Fernandez, her oldest daughter, who is enrolled in a GED program. "She was a strong woman. She never needed anyone to help her."

For the record, I'd like to repeat that Fernandez's family reports that she did have legal status and all her children were born here.*

For the record, large numbers of people with Spanish surnames and brown skin have been in the United States for 160 years now** and in places that would become part of the United States for generations before--at some point, New Spain extended from one coast to another across the southern portion of what is now the United States.

Given that, inferring anything "suspicious" from the appearance and name of Ana Fernandez is not only desperate, it doesn't necessarily make sense.

Except, I guess, in a place fully ensconced and invested in its latest wave of nativism.

H/T Maegan
________________________________
*I've gone back and forth about writing that, because what I'm trying to say is that the accusations are unfounded, but what I worry it sounds like is, "Because they've met this arbitrary citizenship standard, they have a right to grieve and be treated with respect." Her family should be allowed to grieve in peace and she should be treated with dignity in her death whatever her/their immigration status is.

**I dated that from the Mexican Cession, forgetting to reference the Adams-Onis Treaty of 1819, that had the effect of bringing significant parts of New Spain (including Florida) into the U.S., as well.

On the Death of Michael Jackson

The first video I showed my son then. The title seems appropos to how I'm feeling.

(A cleaned-up version of a comment I made here)

As a feminist, as a rape survivor, as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, as someone who once adored the "King of Pop," how do I process Michael Jackson's death?

I grew up in a little southern, rural town where racism was alive and well. Seeing a black person as glamorous and famous as Michael Jackson meant the world to me. Seeing that his popularity crossed color lines--I mean, I remember distinctly thinking, "White girls scream and pass out over him?" They'd have been ostracized in my town.

It's not that I idolized him as some sort of post-racial icon--I don't believe in that shit, not for this country, in our lifetimes--but that here was a symbol that, my God, it wasn't so bad for us everywhere.

Then there were the other, simpler things. I loved his music. I had a crush on him. I thought he was cool without being "hard."

When the allegations came, I was angry at him, because I believed them. I knew what it was like not to be believed as a survivor, and I didn't want to do that to those children.

And I was angry at me, because I believed them.

Thanks to exposes and the nonstop media fascination, I had given Michael my own, hardly professional diagnosis. I thought he was profoundly hurt and always searching for his childhood, trying to live it vicariously through children. I thought he didn't know how to set appropriate boundaries--he really thought of himself as children's "friend." I thought somewhere along the way, he may have crossed the line in a hurtful, heinous way.

So, yes, I was mad at him.

And felt sorry for him.

And cared about him.

And identified with those children and worried about them.

In short, I was confused, felt guilty for caring for him.

I still am confused. But I know news of his death shook me, saddened me unbelievably. I don't know how to deal with it. I can't pretend that I didn't care, that part of me didn't still care a whole lot about an imperfect, sad man who may have done some unforgivable things.

Sometimes, I realize that I'm human, that how I feel won't always be logical or rational or even, to some, defensible.

But I'm not getting on the defense on this one.

I sincerely hope Michael is happy and at peace now.

Things I've Missed the Last Few Weeks...

Jimmy Kimmel makes a "ho" joke when he's supposed to be talking about First Lady Michelle Obama's starting a new garden. And since he said, "the first time a ho has been used" since Clinton was in the White House, no, I don't think he was talking about Bill Clinton. (When it comes to sex, we know who gets "used" and labeled a "ho.")





Gwyneth Paltrow advising Joaquin Phoenix to "go live in the projects for a few years" to lend his rapping career some authenticy. But, 'sokay if she dispenses such advice cuz she has a black rapper friend, according to the article!

The passing of Dr. John Hope Franklin. I just showed my survey class his clip from "The War," called "Everything but Color" in which he talks about how he was ready to serve the country during WWII but was informed that he had all the right credentials, except color. According to Dr. Franklin, he determined that his country, "would not get me," that the U.S. did not deserve his service if that was how he was to be regarded. Every time I watch that clip, leaf through my old copy of From Slavery to Freedom, or read his words and thoughts, I love him a little more. Goodbye to a beautiful, brilliant, brave man.

A sweet tribute to him is here.

Please Help Duanna Johnson's Family

Duanna Johnson's family needs assistance in paying for her funeral expenses. Background from Memphis Flyer via Lisa

Memphis police identified the body of transgender woman Duanna Johnson lying in the street near Hollywood and Staten Avenue early this morning.
Police believe Johnson was shot some time before midnight on Sunday. No suspects are in custody at this time.

Johnson was the victim of a Memphis police brutality case this summer when a video of former officer Bridges McRae beating her in a jail holding area was released to the media.
The video led to the eventual firing of McRae and Officer James Swain. It also led to the formation of a Stop Police Brutality Memphis, a coalition of human rights activists who lobbied the city council for more sensitivity training for Memphis Police officers.

A statement from the Mid-South Peace and Justice Center: "Duanna bravely confronted the Memphis Police Department officers who brutalized her while she was in police custody. At great personal cost, Duanna was the public face of our community's campaign against racism, homophobia, and transphobia. There was no justice for Duanna Johnson in life. The Mid-South Peace & Justice Center calls for justice in the investigation and prosecution of Duanna's murder."
For more on Johnson's beating, read the Flyer story. --Bianca Phillips

Jack has details on how to donate through the Tennessee Transgender Political Coalition. I've been seeing that the amount needed is around $1200. If we all could just donate a little bit, that shouldn't be too hard to raise. Please help!

A Sad Note

I have been trying so hard, the last few days, not to dwell on this election. I'm so nervous that a permanent fist seems to have clenched in my stomach.

Then I heard Sen. Obama's grandmother had died today, one day before the election, and that just broke my heart into a million pieces.

I hope she rests in peace and my heart is with the Obama family.

U.S. Representative Stephanie Tubbs Jones

I know there has been some confusion, but I just saw this:

A Cleveland Clinic official says Democratic U.S. Rep. Stephanie Tubbs Jones of Ohio has died.

Clinic spokeswoman Eileen Sheil says Tubbs Jones died at 6:12 p.m. Wednesday after suffering a brain hemorrhage caused by an aneurysm that burst and left her with limited brain function.

Rest In Peace, Soror.

happy birthday

Trying to type from the cell mid-new faculty orientation. hope it works.

happy birthday to my sister and brother, born on the same day, 12 years apart.

which only heighhtened my middle child, "where do i belong?!?!" angst.

We're Here...

Well, the big move is just about complete. My family and friends have me pretty much settled in--furniture in the right places, pictures on the wall. It's settled enough that I just finished cooking a late dinner.

mrs. o and I were longing for the internet and we finally got it all straightened and hooked up. I didn't bring a chair for my computer desk, so we're kneeling in front of it. She's on the desktop and I'm on the laptop. As we shift from knee to knee, I'm realizing we're not young anymore. Really, I'm waiting for her to get up and pull me with her.

Regular blogging will resume at some point--probably as soon as I get a chair.

I Feel Like Fred Sanford

M's seventh song of the moment was Stormy Weather, sung by Ms. Lena Horne. Of course, because I am a master of following links to pass time, I started to read about Ms. Horne.

I believe that I would fall out flat on my face if I ever met her. Just be in total, embarrassing awe. Every time I used to see her, I always thought she was so beautiful and so classy. And when she talks--I love that as much as her singing.

Anyway, I realized that yesterday was her 91st birthday. So this post is just a happy belated birthday wish to my talented, elegant, lovely Soror.

I Love My Babies

My goddaughter Belle graduated from kindergarten last night. Her silly godmother left the memory card for the digital camera at home, so I have to wait on pictures from others.

Anywhoo, as she is officially out of school, being a graduate and all, she spent the night with me last night. I just told her again how proud I was of her. She said, "You thought I was gon' cry when I had to say my part?" And I told her no, I knew she could do it.

I was a bit worried though--she usually does refuse to say whatever she's supposed to at these events. But she was all bold and happy last night. And so damned cute that I wanted to just kiss her to death (not that I'm biased).

So I got a bit maudlin as I was talking to her, "Belle, I can't believe you're almost six. I remember when you were a baby. After a while, you won't even be thinking about your godmama cuz you'll be grown."

She looked at me all askance. "I'm just goin to first grade," she reassured me.

"No," I said, on a tangent, "After a while you'll be grown and I'll be calling you trying to check on you and you'll be telling your friends, 'Ugh, my godmama gets on my nerves!' "

She laughed at the dramatic faces I was making then came and put her chin on my shoulder.

"I'm gon' still spend the night with you even when I'm twenty-one or twenty-three or something," she said.

Awwww!!!

Transitions...

I always post so much here, and then forget to update. My niece just called. And just as I was getting ready to fuss about her being up after midnight on a school night, she interrupted me.

Her aunt died.

Her name was Tina.

She would've been 27 next month.

Some things, I just don't get.

Happy Birthday!

To my baby girl. She's five today. Y'all, she's going to kindergarten in the fall!!!

I am overwhelmed.

A Long Day

Today, I began teaching. Thoroughly cognizant of the fact that this is my first post-PhD class, I was uncharacteristically nervous.

Today is the third day of my first ever more-than-one-day toothache. Whoever said toothaches were worst than labor and delivery was not far off the mark.

Today, I went with Best Friend Louisiana to pick out the dress her mother will wear when she is laid to rest next Wednesday. I still do not know what to say. I still have to stop myself from asking, "How are you doing?" Isn't that a stupid question to ask?

Today, the only thing that is making me feel better is time spent with her: