In My Head Part III

I have become my own social experiment. Welcome to Part III of The In My Head Series.

Yesterday, I met my friend, the nanny, we'll call her Sonia, and her little girl whom we'll call Sophie, at Pelham Public Library. They've been going their for a couple of years. I've just started venturing out beyond my zip code. As you will recall from previous posts, my experiences as a black mother, trying to find diverse, cultural and social activities for my twins to participate in has become a challenge-not only because of the race/class thing but because I'm shy and a tad insecure.

First of all-prior to having a car, the only place I could take the kids was the little library down the block from my house, which sadly pales in comparison when it comes to wealthier libraries in the 'burbs. Don't get me wrong.  I love it. Still do. It provided  an outlet for me and for them when the twins were babies. I will never forget  heaving the boys up and down the hilly streets of my neighborhood in their double stroller, which as I look back on was good for me. It helped me get rid of a lot of baby fat rather quickly. It's also where I met Sonia and Sophie. The only white people at the library. I remember the first time Sophie came to story hour. She cried and cried. She was so shy. Now...she's the most sociable little girl you ever want to meet. I was expecting the same kind of transformation for the boys..and  for myself as well. I wanted to break out of  my shell and open up a bit-meet new people, have experiences. I admired Sonia for taking Sophie to libraries all across the city where she would meet people of all races and ethnic backgrounds, but I think it's easier for white people.

As I travel to places outside my zip code, I have to work to remind myself especially for the boys sake that I'm not inferior.  I have every right to take advantage of free programs and opportunities as much as every other parent, and nanny in the library. who are taking advantage of free opportunities to enhance and improve their kids life and educational experiences-just like I am. We all want the same things.

As I've said, the boys are too young to pick up on the things I notice. The things I try to ignore like the fact that my kids are the only black kids in the library despite the fact that most of the women there, including me- are black.
"Awwww, Cute..."  said the pretty lady with that frozen smile I've grown accustomed to. It didn't even come off as a compliment, she barely looked at the kids. At least she acknowledged  us,  unlike the guy cutting the grass, who ignored my son's jumping up and down excitedly, pointing and smiling at this strange machine he'd never seen before. If I hadn't called my son over, he would have run Noah over. He completely ignored us.  I tried to smile at him, but he refused to make eye-contact.

 Oh well...

So here we are, in  this massive library, which looks like a museum, or an old mansion. I think I read somewhere it used to be a bank. It was an imposing place to be. For me anyway.  The kids were in awe too,  and they started running around and loudly expressing how impressed they were.  I felt this was neither the time nor place for us to be conspicuous, so I ran to the librarian at the front desk, who was shooting the breeze, taking her sweet time to check out a patron while she saw me standing and waiting.

"Excuse me, where is children's story hour held?" She smiled. That is always reassuring.

"In the basement." Of course.  I hate being conspicuous.

How do I get there? I have to go outside and then downstairs.

So we went outside. There they were:  sistergirls, mothers, aunties- the nannies, exercising, cuddling, and cooing over their little ones. I must admit most of them were pretty friendly-even the one I met at the Pelham library yesterday who scolded me about the kids hair, and just about everything else the kids did,  turned out to be pretty sympathetic when, as usual, I started to apologize for my failings as a parent.

"Take dem out. Tek dem to di park. Le' dem meet other chil'ren. Dem will talk, dem will play. You nuh need daycare. All dat is money wasted. I suppose that's true. I wish I had started this process a year earlier, but as you know-we didn't have a vehicle. Without it, I would never have been able to meet these people. Not to mention the fact that it's hard enough to take the kids out alone even with a car. Anyway, I digress...I was pleased that the nannies were so friendly.

So now we're in the basement again, It was intimidating.  It was a theater. At first the boys seemed thrilled to be in such an interesting and different space.  Zach ran towards the carpet in the middle of the floor and started running his car.

I tried to put Noah down, but again, he would have no part of it.. I considered sitting in the auditorium seats, because, well-even I was a bit intimidated by the set up, but I realized that if I'm going to teach the boys fearlessness, I have to lead by example so I walked to the center of the room and sat with them on the carpet. Noah was fine for a while. Until hordes of kids started piling into the auditorium.

I thought the woman in front of the theater, throwing books onto the floor might be the story teller, but I could be sure. I thought the little girl by her side might belong to her too, but  there were so many other nannies and kids just hanging around you can never tell who belongs to whom. Finally, story time was about to start.  Noah started to act up, Zach was roaming around.  At least he wasn't crying.

The story teller began with a good morning and a few requests: \

"Parents or care-givers, when I start to tell the stories, if your kid wanders around, or starts crying can you please remove them..." O.k. I always take my kids out when they act up but her saying it irked me for some reason.

She continues:
 " I have my own child here, and it's hard enough for me to take care of her and have to deal with all your kids too."  She said some other things, but that's what struck me. She wasn't outright rude, but there was a hit of condescension and holier than thou parenting in her voice. It just made me uneasy and I assumed her comments were directed at me because my kids were among the first kids there and Zach was wandering around and Noah was whimpering.

She then went on to inform us that she "volunteered" at the library-as if to set herself apart in some way, letting us know that she didn't do this because she "had to," but because she wanted to. It just seemed cold to me.

And then to announce that your child is there-among all these other kids-who couldn't care less, was pretentious and unnecessary,  She wasn't unfriendly, but she wasn't warm. She was like a cute little puppy that will let you pet it but it bites. I don't know. That's the image that came to mind.

Anyway...story hour progressed and I kept the kids with me in the auditorium seats because I didn't want to be embarrassed if she stopped story time and asked me to remove the kids-she seemed the type to do it,  I felt bad about keeping them away from the other kids because the purpose of having them there is to socialize. Sonia helped me drag Zach and Noah to the dinosaur march, which Zach enjoyed and I might have, had Noah not been clinging to my neck.  During the march I recognized a nanny from another library I take the boys  to and  we got to talking. She takes care of twins also.  A boy and a girl, two years old-like my boys  I've never seen these two act up. They gleefully participated in the dinosaur march, willfully danced, and didn't create-like my two. They caused quite a racket: squealing, stretching their little arms out for me to pick them up.  I've never seen her twins act up like these guys always do.

I pleaded for her to tell me the secret, and she very sweetly told me that it takes time, I smiled. "Sure."  C'mon, The boys and I've  been at this for two years now. Noah still won't leave my lap.  Granted I only had access to one library for the better part of a year so they've only started to interact with other people  but still...I'm getting ready to put the kids in daycare and I worry nobody will want to take them if they continue to behave this way.

Story time has come to an end. We all get ready to leave and I'm behind my new nanny friend. There's a large crowd waiting to exit. Of course we take our time and exchange pleasantries with all the parents and caregivers while getting our little ones to walk up the stairs and exit the building. Of course, Noah who was fine walking a second ago starts to create. I mean, the kid is screaming, thrashing  himself about, stretching his arms out, begging to be picked up and I, easily embarrassed, give in.

Obvious reason number 1) Crowd too large for me to leave him there and ignore him. I hate to be embarrassed.

Obvious reason number 2) I just want to get the hell outside. Did I mention I'm embarrassed?

Perhaps not so obvious reason number 3) Most of the nannies there are Caribbean. Like my mother, my grandmother, and auntie and other elders who surely expect me to be a better disciplinarian.  I caught a couple of curt glances already- I can hear them admonishing me in my grandmother's gravelly patois,"mi pickney could neva carry on like dat..."

Well, I picked him up. I'm his mother. I can do what I want with my child. Look down on me if you want to. Go ahead and judge me. I think. I'm judging you too...at least my kids are here damn it!

In my head, I taunt them but what good does that do?

As soon as I have Noah in my arms. He let's out a little chuckle;  the boy is smiling.

"It's not funny!" I fume. I'm  exhausted, frustrated and humiliated.

My new nanny friend turns to me, her dark curls bouncing up and down as she helps her twins take wobbly steps up the stairs.

"It's funny for him, He won."

In My Head Part II (At the Library)

Today, I took the boys to the children's library in Mount Vernon. My friend-the nanny I was with in New Rochelle, recommended it. I figured I'd give it a try because I'm trying to expand my and the kids' horizons. I am trying to get out of my comfort zone and network; meet new moms and in the process maybe I'll  make a friend or two.

 I've always been shy. Especially in predominately black settings. I've been that way for as long as I can remember, probably because I'm used to being the minority.  When I was a little girl in Toronto, Canada, I was always the new, and one of few black girl's in whatever group I sought to belong.  My babysitter was a white woman, and the kids in our daycare were all white-save my sister and Roger, who was half Japanese. My sister and I were the only black children she ever cared for. I remember when we would go on group outings, people would always stop and ask (with frozen smiles ) if we, pointing to my sister and I were "hers." She would always say yes and keep it moving. I loved her as much as I loved my own mother.  She loved me as much as she loved her own children. I remember we went to Center Island on a trip once and I got lost. When we reunited, she was in tears, I was in tears but the way she held onto me, the way I held onto her-it was just love. Pure and simple. I never thought of myself as anything less than a loved family member. Neither she, or her own blood family treated my sister or I otherwise.

However, reality is one relentless son of a bitch. Racism was a cold, hard reality, no matter how I tried to ignore it.  I learned about racism mostly at the playground with taunts and stuff,but that didn't bother me.  What worried me was that, Mrs. Woodward, might start loving me when she realized I was just what those kids called me on the playground-a darkie, a brownie...something not worthy to be loved or appreciated.

One day my father was driving my sister and I to Mrs. Woodward's and on the way, he pointed to a house, about half a block a way from hers, where a black-faced * lawn jockey stood, proudly bearing his lampshade, in their front yard. I had thought nothing of it, walking past this house daily. I was actually kind of happy to see another black face around. But when my father saw it, he was enraged.   Racists, he said, his knuckles nearly bursting through the skin he'd been gripping the steering wheel so tight. He said nothing more, simply shaking his head slowly back and forth the entire drive towards towards my babysitters. I will never forget that day,  Or that house.

Then, one day  my babysitter announced  she was planning to get one of those things that made my father so angry.  I burst into tears. In fact, I was inconsolable.  I told her what my father told me. She wrapped her plump arms around me and held onto me tight. She promised me she would never get one and  she never did. She also didn't know they were racist, many people don't. They simply think they are cute ornaments.

I grew up in Canada where racism is not as blatant as it is here. Segregation doesn't exist the way it does here in America. We don't have ghettos in Canada the way we have ghettos here in New York City. Our racial culture is different. Not that there isn't racism, I was in school with whites who made politically incorrect comments all the time (mostly out of ignorance) about any body who wasn't white but we all sat in the same classrooms, rode the same buses and for the most part lived in the same neighborhoods and still played together in the same playgrounds.

 In Toronto, I had a lot of white friends and my experiences were different then a black person who has grown up around black people who've been made to feel inferior their entire life-not only by cruel kids in a park, but by an entire system, which blatantly sets out to enforce racial inferiority. It wasn't that I didn't know racial prejudice existed, it's just that I had the luxury of not having to deal-for example, my friends were wearing Tre-torns and listened to Depeche Mode, as did I.   I considered it odd that when I came to New York City one summer, hoping to find cheaper Tre-torn sneakers then were sold in Toronto, in stores that only sold Timberland, Travel Fox and Adidas, and was looked at like I'd committed raciaal treason because I wasn't interested in Reeboks, Adidas, or Travel Fox. None of the sales persons had even heard of Tretorn. (???)

Anyway, the point I'm making is that I've always felt a bit shunned by black people. Of course when I went to college and became "self-aware" Black Power was in vogue (even among white people) and hip hop was emerging as a force to be reckoned with,  I reclaimed my "blackness." It felt good to be recognized. Even though, I still didn't quite get it. "Blackness."

It wasn't only until I began living in New York, and traveling around these great United States that I recognized how "black" I was, and yet,  am not.

So here we are my head while I'm at the library among my own people. Unlike the park, it's all black people here, at least it will be until my friend and her little girl show up. There  aren't any welcoming smiles for me. Not even the frozen ones that I've grown so accustomed to. I'd take one right now over the looks I'm getting.  I feel so out of place.

When I arrive, story time was already in full swing, Damn. I hate showing up late, but my friend told me that it started at 10:15 and it's 10: 05.  Clearly, they stared early. The kids are having a great time. They all seem to know each each other and since they seem to be  a couple of years older than Zach and Noah, I'm a bit worried they might shun my boys if they try to join in. O.k., O.k.  I admit, that's more my hang up then theirs. They couldn't care less if they are ignored. They will just find something else to do.

 I tried  to take a seat inconspicuously,  but since the chairs are set up smack dab  in the middle of the brightly lit room,  it's  awkward trying to squeeze past some ladies ( I assume they are parents or caregivers) with Zach screaming,  clinging to my neck and Noah whimpering for me to pick him up. Finally, I'm  able to plunk Zach down into an  empty chair to my left. I'm  getting ready to seat Noah to my right, but he ain't having  it. He  climbs onto my lap and buries his head into my chest. I wish I could do that. Where is my friend?

Not even two seconds pass before I'm settled when  there is a sharp tap on my shoulder. I turn, expecting to find a friendly face making a friendly request, but instead, all I can see is an uptight scowl, cleavage and fluorescent pink. "Somebody's sitting there,.."

 "Sorry." I say scooping Zach up and  moving (with Noah's face still buried in my bosom) down a couple of seats.

"Mom?"  The music has stopped, the kids are seated, chatting excitedly, anticipating the next book to be read.  The boys and I are watching and waiting for the librarian to being the story too, but this does not happen. (Of course.)

"Are you mom?"

"Yes." I say trying to appear cool and nonchalant, but feeling rigid and tense. Why do black people have to be so conspicuous?  I wonder as I feel my body heat up  from the intensity of eyes burning holes into me from every direction. I wish I was oblivious as a two-year old but I'm not. I'm a forty year old woman who can't believe the audacity of this ghetto chick and the librarian out to embarrass me.  This shit wouldn't happen in New Rochelle.

Nobody would have asked me to move in New Rochelle.  They would have politely let me sit where I wanted, even if the seat was "taken." They might glare daggers into my back, but I bet they would have directed their child towards another seat among the many that were there. Then again, maybe they wouldn't have, One thing I do  know is that if this did happen in New Rochelle, it would have been done with a lot more class isn't that why we don't have to pay for parking over there? Why there are no metal detectors?

I'm still furious over the "tapping." I'm thinking, as their "teacher",  the chick that tapped me should be an example of friendliness and welcoming, rather than the picture of alienation and divisiveness. Her actions are the reason why we all "just can't get along."

"You gotta get the kids out of your lap," The librarian's saying to me in a tone I found offensive and condescending. He's part of the problem too.

"It's their first time here," I announce defensively while trying to accommodate the twins in my lap. . If things continued like this it would be their last.

It's their first time too!" He proclaims, waving his arm around the room to indicate the kids seated in front of me, and the teachers behind me, One of whom I'd already had the misfortune of meeting.

"They just need to get warmed up," I assured him. Why didn't  he just get on with the program and leave us alone?  And where the hell was my friend? My white friend. I needed her now. I felt like having a white friend might make them take me more seriously, like the black grandfather with his bi-racial daughter at the park.

He paused a moment, looked at me like I was speaking Chinese but thankfully, he decided it was time for him  to read.

Finally. A reprieve. Pete the Cat's cool shoes were definitely more interesting to the kids and they turned to follow him.

I must admit even though his-in-your-face manner irked me, he was pretty good. He was engaging and interactive. The kids responded to him.  I liked that he got them involved.  He was a great storyteller. I wanted to bring the kids back, but the whole tapping thing left a sour taste in my mouth and the incident didn't make me feel much like interacting with anyone, which  was unfortunate because interacting  and making friends was the reason I brought the kids here in the first place.

As I sit, fidgeting, waiting for my friend, there is more music, there is more dancing.  Zach joins them without prompting. While I'm proud of his inhibition, I find myself worrying that the other kids might not want him there.   Flashbacks of  recess in elementary school flood my brain.  Noah's growing  roots in my lap.  

It's now time for another story, but Zach won't sit still. He begins to walk around the library, back and forth as the librarian is reading the story, and trying to hold the attention of the kids who by now are more interested in Zach's exploits. Most of the kids find him more amusing then The Three Little Pigs and their teacher sternly warns them to turn around and pay attention. I take it as a dig at me.  My kid is the source of the distraction. I am "one of those" mothers. I'm not disciplining him right.

Finally my friend and her little girl arrive. I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life. Curious eyebrows rise. Most curious of them all, the woman that tapped me. I am redeemed.

She's now prancing around the library like a bright pink peacock, her boobs practically jumping out of her shirt. She's taking pictures and flexing her  "educator" muscle;  using poor grammar and broken English the entire time. She makes me furious on so many levels but I'd be here for years explaining all of them.

I sit watching the kids, contemplating  whether or not I should come back. I feel a bit slighted, like my own people had treated me wrong. At least in New Rochelle, white people smiled at us and although it pains me to say it-it was encouraging. Smiles have that affect. Genuine or not.
 Here, it was as if people were trying o discourage us.They didn't make eye contact, they didn't try to connect. Even though we shared the same skin tone, I felt so different from them. I felt like they didn't want to see me.  I felt like an outsider. Even though I should have belonged.

I tell my friend about the teacher asking me to move. I wanted her opinion on the "vibe" here.  She laughs.  She knows what I'm getting at.  "Those daycare people, they think they own the place." I have to laugh too. This is my problem. I take things too personally.  
"I'm the only white girl here," She tells me.  I've been coming here for two years, People are who they are.  The important thing here is the kids and what they learn. They learn from watching you. How you treat people. How you react to situations. They will become what you show them."  I know she's right. The world isn't going to change to accommodate my wishful thinking. I can't keep running away whenever  reality might reveal its sometimes ugly side.  This is the lesson I want to teach my kids.

 So, we'll come back...

And we did, the following week.  It was a different crowd, but the same vibe among the elders.  I got dirty looks from some teachers. Sigh...I assume they didn't like the fact that I allowed Zachary to wander during story hour, and even though I begged him to come and join his brother and I, he was happier running his toy like a train across his makeshift railroad of brightly colored stools(that you sit on--NOT bowel movements). Noah refused to leave my side but I dealt with it. Despite all the eyes on me,  I took my friend's advice; I stopped focusing on them and focused on my kids. When it came time to dance. I did. Noah didn't want to but Zachary eventually joined, albeit briefly until some other kids started running around the back of the room and he chased after them. He made some friends.
The kids will be alright.

So will I.

Today, when it came time to leave, my friend's little girl lost her princess. My friend asked the librarians to help us find it, and the librarians asked the kids and their caregivers to stay put until we helped her find the toy. The caregivers returned our smiles of gratitude with looks of scorn. They didn't help us look. They seemed to take offense to us even asking. Well, it was my brave white friend who asked. I would never have been so bold. These people intimidate me. The expressions on their faces said "she shouldn't have brought the toy in the first place." I wondered if they were pissed because she was white, and assumed that one of the "black" kids stole her toy.

All of  these issues and  experiences run through my head as I grapple with this new role I've assumed; as I try to figure out the best way to socialize and educate my kids. My own thoughts about race and class,  my personal experiences as a black woman and now mother/role  model play a large role in my thinking and my behavior.  What I know is that as a black woman raising two black boys in a racialized setting, I'm more defensive/cautious about their interactions. I wear my heart on my sleeve and when it comes to my kids  I'm protective-overprotective. I sense that they are well-intentioned and like me, they just want to impart love and all the good feelings to their friends-the way I did when I was growing up. I had an ideal childhood in Canada. Though, racism was there it wasn't prevalent the way  it is here, and if they can have the kind of childhood I had, until they are confronted with the ugly truth, I'll be happy. All of us has a rude awakening at some time in our lives.

All  I want right now is for them to be in environments that are nurturing, encouraging, stimulating and loving. I want them to be nurturing, encouraging and loving towards other people-regardless of race, class, creed or religion. The concern grows greater as I prepare to go back to work and I must entrust their care and socialization to others.

I don't want them in a monolithic environment, like what I've witnessed at the library. I didn't grow up that way and I'd like to think I'm enlightened because of it-on the other hand, I worry about them being the only black boys among a majority of frozen smiles...when they become men, the world will become a different place for them. They must learn how to live in it.

So, that being said, when I'm feeling intimidated about someplace I haven't been, or worried about how I might be received, I think bout my friend and the other three white people who were the minority at the library today. I'm grateful for them because they showed me that everyone experiences a frozen smile at some point in their life. I learned  that I should never be intimidated or debilitated by them, What is most important is that I am  NEVER going to be the one to give one.

*If you're curious about lawn jockeys...

In My Head at the Park

Today I took the boys to New Rochelle. First we went to the park, then we went to the children's library. What a magnificent space. It was homey, comfortable and cozy with a little hearth, sofas and lounge chairs-all that was missing was a stove, pot and kettle. It was the perfect nurturing environment.

It was hot today. My kids and I (apart from one nanny, a grandfather pushing his beautiful bi-racial daughter on the swing) were the only black people in the park. It's not that I'm not used to it; it's just that for some reason, here and today-I felt...black.  But that could be me. I'm overly sensitive about these things, especially when the huge disparity between race and class practically screams for one's attention in such a glorious, lush, green, and white park such  as this.

Nobody was overtly obnoxious; there were subtle nuances...of course the boys didn't notice a thing. It's what's so remarkable about children.  They are wonderfully oblivious and shameless. Innocent and pure in their intentions. They just do what their hearts tell them to do without fear or inhibition.  They will insert themselves into any body's game if they want to play, and if they aren't feeling particularly cooperative, they have no qualms about letting you know. Not like adults who have to pretend to be tolerant, read: politically correct), letting their children play nicely with your little black boys even though the icy frozen smiles they greet you with when these little black boys (who are a bit tall for their age )  get a bit too close to their golden-haired, flaxen skin, blue eyed beauty, express certain sentiments that need not be spoken.

And, as a mother who wants to spare her child any and every heartbreak, you want to tell your boys to back off, but since golden beauties people don't say or  do anything-except stand there, like statues, the frozen smiles plastered upon their rock hard faces, neither do you. You let them  run after one another, push each other on the slide, laughing and playing while you can feel your heart, your poor, mother's heart begin to crumble at the thought of how you'll have to explain the cruelty they will undoubtedly face as black men in America. And it will be worse then because their hearts will be broken too.

Of course New Rochelle is an affluent suburb, and affluent suburbs tend to have snooty residents.Well...I can be a bit snooty too, without the zip code to back it up-but, since it is the norm in this society to lord whatever you have to set you apart from your fellow man, woman  or even animal to do so, (forgive me-I just watched Dawn of Planet of the Apes) that's what you do. Well, it's what I do. I'm not proud of it but I do it. I have an advanced degree. I am an intellectual. My cultured upbringing in indicative of the kind of person I am-I represents diversity and tolerance. I am the antidote to prejudice. When I open my mouth to talk, I don't sound the way " they" might expect someone like me to sound.  I find myself perhaps trying a bit too hard to speak so they can see that I'm not at all what they think I am, or what I think they think I am--a "mammy"  nanny fresh off the boat.

http://www.thestar.com/news/gta/2015/05/25/midtowners-battle-the-rise-of-the-midrise.html

 I find when it's too hot I think too much.  I know better than to be paranoid or over sensitive about these things. Things are what they are. I am who I am. I can't be responsible for every ignorant idiot on the planet-I can't do anything about the way they think.  It should provide me with some comfort  that my good  friend, who happens to be a nanny and a white woman, and the beautiful little girl (also white)  she cares for, is a great playmate for them right now.. Everything else is irrelevant.  Seriously, All of the other stuff  shouldn't matter right now, Why should I be upset that the black grandfather pushing his gorgeous bi-racial granddaughter on the swings, refused to acknowledge me or my kids? Why should him ignoring us, yet giving my white friend and her little girl  a warm and hearty hello have any effect on me?  I don't know. But it does. It just tells me that maybe he's a bit like me in the sense that he elevated himself above the "black help" in the park by having a bi-racial granddaughter. Like he was now a part of some exclusive club. He had arrived and he  belonged.
\
My tall, dark-skinned black boys and their black mother were an affront to him in some way--like our presence may bring down the property value of the park or something and probably, more important some of his self-pride as a black man who had arrived.

I don't share these thoughts with everyone. Only you guys. Maybe it is all in my head, Maybe I am overly "sensitive." A young trainer, who also happened to be playing with her kids in the park gave me and my white nanny friend a couple of passes to Equinox Gym in Scarsdale. She said they have great programs there for the kids. Me? At a gym where the discount monthly fee is $225 a month?  Scarsdale is much whiter than New Rochelle-and richer too. Hey! Maybe she recognizes I belong there! Then again, I was with my white friend after all...I wonder if the other black nanny got a pass. Whatever. I'm flattered. I hate myself for that.

Thanks for checking out these links.Each of them, in their own way-get at the heart of the issues I'm trying to resolve, Thanks for listening.


http://www.buzzfeed.com/christophermassie/watch-this-rare-recently-surfaced-speech-old-obama-speech-fr?utm_term=.bqL0AvEb8&sub=3788034_5812380

Beautiful Sky

God. It's been a crazy few days. Back and forth between Brooklyn and the Bronx, PMS,...the twins. I've had no time to write. I feel bad about that because I made a promise to myself to at least write something every day but it's been difficult.  I was also doing better about exercising every morning until recently, I've just been too tired to devote to the routine I started.  I was able to do at least 15 minutes a day of strength training so that's not nothing.

Also, the house is filthy. I can't work when I feel like there are all of these other things that need to be done. By the time the kids get up, groomed, dressed and fed, the day is practically over. I don't want to write.  But I know I must. So, today, I committed to it-but the thing that pisses me off is that it's almost 10:30 and I wanted to have been done this portion of writing already but the bathroom wouldn't let me wait. It had to be taken care of, which actually is not so bad considering that I was able to take care of the bathroom while the kids were eating. But I wanted to read them a book while they were eating because they pay better attention when they are preoccupied with food-but of course, I missed that boat too. So, they were cranky and wanted out of their high chairs;  ( I can't blame them for that-and I was anticipating them watching a little Cat in the Hat while I worked) but they didn't want to watch t.v. they wanted to run a muck in the living room,which I'll be honest, sometimes I allow them to do because I'm just too physically exhausted to fight but today I knew I would get nothing done, beat myself up about all the time I wasted so I had to throw them back in the bedroom behind the gate whether they liked it or not. Of course, they did not. As we speak, it's like the two of them are competing for ear-bleed scream of the day award. It's brutal. But, here I am doing my best to ignore them.

I realize that I am being a bit too hard on myself. I have to do things as I have time to do them, it's just that well with the little time I have, I don't want to do anything. Hence my perpetual conundrum.
Anyway, I've also not been writing because I've been taking the kids out to the park so they can run around which is all they want to do anyway, and that's fine because by the time I get them home they are crashed out. But after the effort that it takes to get them out there...by the time I come home and get them fed and they are in bed...well...you know how it goes.  So, I try to take some pictures and get my creative juices flowing while I'm out there and I took this picture that I'm sharing today. I'm going to go because I have some other business I must attend to before I take them upstairs to wreak unholy havoc on grandma's house.

Here ends today's morning pages...

All Lives Matter

 A Thug Is A Thug Is A Thug. How anybody could have the audacity to politicize a perfectly good word because of its “racial” implications is ridiculous. One man speaking to reporters claimed that when he fought for his country he was considered a patriot, but now that he fights for "his people," he is considered a “thug.”

Merriam-Webster's Dictionary's definition of the word thug is as follows: " a violent criminal, or a brutal ruffian or assassin, Deliberately cutting fire hoses, burning down a drugstore,  pelting police and causing them bodily harm, looting and acting without regard for the lives and safety of others-lashing out-is the behavior of brutal ruffians. A thug is as a thug does, irrespective of race, creed or socio-economic background.

Freddy Gray's unnecessary and as we have now come to learn, illegal arrest which caused his fatal injuries are inexcusable. Yet I experience conflicting emotions while listening to pundits intellectualize, politicize and proselytize the cause of the Baltimore riots.

Rebellion, political protests and clashes between the haves and have not's is not a new phenomenon. Thomas Jefferson said that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing....The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”   Of course he was writing from the safe distance of Paris, much like I am writing this from the comfort of my living room far away from the chaos that engulfs West Baltimore.

Gentrification is slow to reach West Baltimore. Residents of West Baltimore have had to endure the burned out, vacant row-houses that have discouraged investment in the neighborhood for decades.  In marginalized communities across the United States predatory lending is rampant; credit is king and debt is a way of life creating a culture of poverty, which ensures that the cycle of poverty continues for generations. In 1968 after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Baltimore rioted in protest of the same conditions that plague Baltimore today:  subpar housing, distrust of law-enforcement, unemployment, inadequate schooling, social and economic injustice.

We have learned that Baltimore spends the third highest per capita on its public schools. According to the Baltimore Sun, Baltimore ranked second among the nation’s 100 largest school districts in per pupil spending.

Of course it’s easier to get angry, burn buildings down and lay blame everywhere but where it belongs than it is to be pro-active about  doing the work that will create positive and long term change such as finding after-school or community based programs that offer support to low-income families so that their children are given an opportunity to escape the conditions that keep them trapped. Naturally, in a capitalist economy there will always be barriers that can impede progress such as race, class and gender but these are facts of life. I doubt you will find any successful person who came from humble beginnings that can say their journey was a simple one. There is no quick fix to achieving success; one has to want it and earn it. 

 

Today, unlike 1968 Baltimore's top brass is black. The mayor and State's Attorney are black. Three of the six indicted officers are black. Stephanie Rawlings Blake has already come under fire for the language she used to describe the lawlessness that erupted in Baltimore. She has since back tracked and said she shouldn’t have used such language.  Of course, I disagree: a thug by any other name is still a thug.  Criminal behavior should never be condoned or justified. But, she is a politician and she can’t alienate her constituents or the police department she must rely on. A house divided against itself cannot stand.   In the meantime, while we await the outcome of the Freddy Gray investigation with baited breath, I can’t help but wonder if the protestors chanting black lives matter in response to the recent deaths of black men at the hands of law enforcement might take to the streets to voice their outrage over the death of an innocent NYPD officer. Officer Brian Moore was doing his job; attempting to protect the community he served from thugs like Demetrius Blackwell, who shot him in the face and killed him. The irony is heartbreaking. Enough is enough.  All lives matter.

White Honda Civic-Morning Pages Draft

Her white Honda Civic taunted me. It was parked right in front of my driveway, blocking me in. If I wanted to go out, which I did, I would have to run upstairs and ask her to move it, playing right into her bony, manipulative hands. She always did this shit and I had no fucking way out.

I sat in my apartment fuming. I didn’t want to see her, especially not today. The boys had given me hell today and just as the doorbell rang, heralding another unexpected visit, I was rushing them downstairs to eat and nap so I could take a break. As long as that white Honda civic stayed parked in front of my apartment, a break was the last thing I was going to get. 

Good Afternoon. Today, I'm really not in the mood. But here I am. Writing these pages with the expectation that it will translate into my becoming a better writer and perhaps having my blog recognized by more than four people.

No offense you guys, but this invisibility is wreaking havoc on  my confidence-to the point that I posted that hideous picture of myself in the early stages of pregnancy hoping that somebody might see it and want to comment on it and that it might  go viral and jump start my career.

Pathetic. I know, but there is a method to my madness. I keep telling myself that. '

I'm wondering why people who say things I've said, not any better or worse than I've said it, have their stuff recognized by millions of people, their blogs get tweeted on Huffington Post, they get interviewed about their tiny little blogs that they never thought would get noticed but theyeventually captured the attention of the world and now, here  they are famous authors! People read them. People see them.

That's all I want. Is it too much to ask?

Is it because I'm not a journalism, communications or English major? Or does my writing really suck that bad?  We'll soon find out because I'm going to devote this blog (apart from the morning pages) to trying out my stuff. I will finish my novel  (thirteen years in the making) in the meantime and that's my goal. I just want to finish the novel.

The story is in me. It has to come out. I'm freaking constipated by the bloody thing. Thirteen agonizing years of constipation. So I will do what I must. Writing is the only thing I want to do with my life and I want to get paid for it.  That's against most odds, I know but I am a woman of faith. Also, I've been trying to get work that pays me more than what I'm making where I currently work. Yet,  even with a master's degree I can't  seem to get an interview. Not even for an assistant's position. I've been trying for an editorial assistant or any assistant's position in publishing.  Problem is the salary is way below what I should be earning especially at this stage and age of the game. I've never made what I'm supposed to be making with an advanced degree.  It was the reason I went to school in the first place, yet I haven't been able to use my degree at all. I don't know why I'm constantly low-balled, humiliated, debased, degraded.  It's the fucking story of my life.  What, I'm begging any of you-well, I guess the four of you-to tell me, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Maybe I'm not meant to do more. If this is the only "published" writing I do than I will be happy with it. I will be grateful.

No. I won't. I'm tire of falling into shit. Taking jobs just because I hated the one I was currently in, without really thinking it through. I don't want to be hasty. I don't want to be impatient. It's my life and I want to have some peace knowing that I made the right choice because it was the right choice, because it was my choice. Not because I was rushed into it or pressured into it.

 Now is my time. I know I've been saying that for years, but this time is different. I've got kids now. I've got their  futures to think about. I don't want them to be anything like me. Also, I want them to know that if they truly want something, even if they are good at it, they still have to work for it, which I can admit has been a problem all my life. Things were natural for me. My sister always said I never really had to work hard for anything. Piano exams, I always got higher grades without studying or practicing as hard as I should have. I imagine how great I would be if I stuck to it. Like my sister for example. She works. She's an actor. I remember when she first started she was told she'd have better luck becoming a neurosurgeon. I was the one who took that statement literally and felt like if she was told that, what would they say to me? She didn't let it stop her. She literally pounded the pavement and knocked on doors until one opened.

She's a teacher now, another of her passions BUT, she has a role in a sitcom opposite Thandie Newton and Cole Hauser. Not bad. She waited a long time and put up with a lot of bullshit and rejection to get to that point but she is living her dream. She can die without regrets. I suppose that scares me too. I don't want to be on my deathbed, knowing that all I had to do was devote some time and energy to what I claim is my passion without expecting the world to accept what I have to say just because I say here I am.  Perhaps that's been my problem all my life. I expect things to fall into my lap, if I'm good at them. Like I shouldn't have to work just because I have a natural talent for something.  I'm not afraid of hard work but I don't want to work at things I enjoy. I'm also scared to death of rejection too. I hate to sound like an elitist, especially when I haven't published anything of substance but there's a lot of bad writing out there. I don't want to be a bad writer. Does that make sense?   Also, I 'm tired. I'm not ever in the mood nor do I have time to write the way I did when I didn't give a shit about it you know?  Raising the twins is work. I'm potty training two of them at once so forget it. When I get a minute to myself, I just want to binge watch t.v. and zone out until they wake up from a nap. I make too many excuses. Yes. I know.

My husband always says, "I don't get why you don't just send your stuff out.." Or my mom will say, "I was watching such and such show the other day and this young girl was talking about her book and she reminded me of you," or I read these articles all the time from people who don't write as well as you and they get their stuff published in so and so magazine, Then I get angry. I tell her I'm working on it.  She sighs and says,   "So I've been hearing for thirteen years."

 I know. I'm making excuses, but that's what these pages are for. Anyway, I'm going to answer my mom's question by posting a link to a woman's blog who, like my mom said-writes exactly about what I've been writing about for two years: how motherhood has changed her life.

It's changed mine too-and although I've said what she's said. I like the way she said it. Maybe there's something to that. Her blog has changed my life.  Motherhood will make me a better writer and so far, I have kept my writing promise despite the fact it's becoming more difficult to do since my eldest twin, Zachary has figured out how to escape the confines of his crib,where I desperately need him to be when it's writing time.

Oh well. This is where the work comes in I suppose. Hey. Look at me! Mommy's still writing!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashli-mazer/this-is-what-motherhood-did-to-me_b_7073842.html?ncid=tweetlnkushpmg00000067