On Racism in America

You know what I've come to realize? Only white people ever say, "I'm color-blind." Or, "I don't know what race So-and-So is; I only see the person, not their skin color." Or, "I don't care if someone is green with purple polka dots!" I've never heard a person of color ever say those things. Their race is a non-negotiable reality that comes up constantly in their daily lives. It cannot be ignored. I have a black co-worker who started instructing his son to take off his coat whenever he goes into a store at the tender age of four, knowing that his son will inevitably be accused of stealing someday.

At 12, he started talking to his son about what he should do when he gets his drivers license, because he KNOWS his son will be pulled over for "driving while black." He started drilling him FOUR YEARS before he can even get a learner's permit. "Get your license and registration out immediately, before the officer gets to the car. Keep your hands visible at all times. Never reach for anything in the glove compartment. Stick to 'Yes, sir. No, sir.' Never argue." He feels strongly that these lessons about traffic stops could save his teenage son's life, and he's not wrong.

Only white people have the privilege of ignoring the issue of race, because we don't experience racism day in and day out. We can ignore it if we want to. We have the luxury of deciding race doesn't matter. The "green with purple polka dots" comment is a perfect example. People don't come in green with purple polka dots. They come in black and white and brown and pink and beige, and people have DIED over this difference.

I'm the first to admit that I am too Politically Correct. For the most part, I'm proud of it. I want to have my finger on the pulse of what is the most inoffensive way of saying things, but at some point, one must speak. When Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa, a major American news outlet with an international audience was so afraid of using the word "black" that they ended up having to run a correction the next day. They referred to Nelson Mandela as the first "African-American" president of South Africa when he's, you know, African. He was the first black president of South Africa. He's never been an American anything.

I was recently working on a story about two sisters who are shooting a documentary about the first black residents in Lockrand County. One of the sisters is an attorney who fought and won a case against a huge real estate development company who wanted to dig up the only cemetery where African-Americans were permitted burial for decades in that county. The developers built the Gigundo Mall anyway, but the cemetery was preserved. It's tucked in between a parking garage and a giant Target, but it's still there. Nothing says eternal resting place like Pottery Barn and Cinnabon.

Anyway, we were talking about race and disenfranchisement and history, and this documentary they're filming. They interviewed a local historian- an old white guy who bears an unfortunate resemblance to the crypt-keeper in all but one photograph I shot of him. He debunks the authenticity of claims that a house in Nyack was once a stop on the Underground Railroad, which I find completely fascinating.

I heard somewhere, probably on NPR, that the majority of homes that claim to have been stops on the Underground Railroad really weren't. It's an interesting manifestation of white guilt, in a way. There were very, very few safe houses. Taking in runaway slaves was an enormous risk. It seems like such an easy way to gloss over the brutal realities of enslavement, to say, "Well, slavery was really bad, but in our town? Well! We had good people who HELPED the runaway slaves! Our town was DIFFERENT." And 90% of the time, it's just not true.

The very, very liberal town of Nyack (where Joel and I would love to live) has an example of this. There's a historical marker right outside the Dapper Dog Salon on Main Street, proclaiming the home of the Hesdra family to have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. In reality, Edward Hesdra was a biracial person who was passing for white. He was able to get away with this in part because he was married to a wealthy woman. This wealthy woman was also biracial. Her father was white, unmarried, and very powerful. The Hesdras were able to pass for white in part because of his influence.

As I understand it, there is one verifiable instance where Edward Hesdra brought in one fugitive slave, one time, who was walking the streets of Nyack in a daze. He saved that man's life, definitely, but it's very unlikely he would have jeopardized his family's precarious ability to "pass" in white society by running a full-time safehouse.

I was talking about all of this with one of the filmmakers when my PC White Person ColorblindnessTM kicked in. I wanted to ask about Mrs. Hesdra. I figured her mother was probably one of her father's slaves, but I found that I couldn't just ask that. I simply couldn't say it. Instead, I asked, "So I take it her mother wasn't exactly a celebrated member of society?" The filmmaker looked me right in the eye, and she said, "Oh, he probably raped one of his slaves."

I collapsed in relieved laughter and mocked by own hand-wringing hesitance, saying, "Sorry, that's just my bleeding heart liberal women's studies degree holding White Lady Factor kicking in! That's what I was trying to say, but my PC Censor when into hyperdrive." We started talking about why I struggle to ask about the ugly truth. She shrugged and said, "Just say it. It's what a black woman would do."

On a related topic, Flea, author of buggydoo.blogspot.com, wrote an amazing post about discovering the script of a Thanksgiving play that her son read aloud in class last week. You need to go read her post. No, really. I'll wait. This next bit might not make sense otherwise. Go and come back. *whistles softly, examines cuticles*

Alright, for the cheaty cheatersons who didn't read it, the author's son was learning the myth of Thanksgiving in school about the pilgrims and Squanto and how they all "made friends with the Indians," yadda yadda first Thanksgiving plant-the-corn-with-fish thing blah-de-blah.*

*QUICK DIGRESSION: How come the “Indians” in the children's storybooks about Thanksgiving are always shirtless and clad in, like, loin cloths? DUDE. It was MASSACHUSETTS. In the middle of WINTER. That place is COLD. The pilgrims are in those heavy cloaks for a REASON. Can we see some nice watercolor and pencil drawings of fully clothed Native Americans for once, puh-lease? It's like Squanto saved the pilgrims from freezing to death during the cold, cold winter by warming them with the heat emanating from his magical, super-metabolic bare chest. Sheesh.

Anyway, the author was talking about trying to find a way to talk to her son about the realities of white peoples' relationships to indigenous people without completely overwhelming and scaring him. She writes:

A few years ago I read an essay by a conservative columnist, whose name I won't mention because I can't remember who it was. I remember the article was about her irritation that her son's school was celebrating either African-American history month, or they were studying about Dr. King, or they'd just given a lecture on diversity, something like that. Up until that point, she wrote, her son had no idea about racial issues, or that there was any difference between black children and white. And now she had to explain it all away, so thanks a lot, school..... I understand her reluctance to get into it with her young son. I don't want to get into it with mine, either. Is there ever an appropriate age to learn that your ancestors kidnapped and enslaved a race of people, beat them, raped them, murdered them en masse? ....I don't want to tell him about any of that stuff, either, and the crazy thing is, I don't have to! Our school books will mostly back me up! It's African-American parents, Mexican parents, gay and lesbian parents, and Native American parents that have to do all the heavy lifting. Again. Still.


She's right. It shouldn’t be up to people of color to do all the heavy lifting. Issues of race and ethnicity shouldn’t come as a surprise to white children during Black History Month. I don't know why a lot of white people seem to think that racism ended with the Civil Rights Movement. I don't know why people are surprised when I talk about the Klan having a visible community presence in the region where I grew up. (Although I'm mostly referring to my experiences covering Klan activity at the Dork Raily Yecord, the KKK marched through Lancaster when I was 12.)

I don't know why I'm surprised that a cross was burned on the front lawn of a black family's house here in Stepford, the night before Thanksgiving. This is not the Deep South. It is not 1963. This is practically the WASP capital of America, one of the wealthiest places in the nation. Cross-burning. Here and now, in a town near you and me. Well, me, anyway.

Skunked: The Trilogy

Bella got nailed, again, in our front yard when Joel took her out for her night walk. Our jackass neighbors never put out their jackass garbage in actual trashcans, so the jackass skunks are always skulking around, eating right out of the jackass plastic bags on Tuesday nights.

Bella got it full on in the face this time. (Did I mention I had taken her to the groomer less than 24 hours before? Bye, money!) It took ELEVEN shampoos, a gallon of tomato juice, two bottles of hydrogen peroxide and a full freakin' box of baking soda to cut The Stink. Our apartment smelled like we tapped a pipe directly into Hell, so we had to open up all the windows in the dead of almost-winter night. Of course, Bella was all wet, and we have no control over the heat in our apartment, so we had to move her crate into the kitchen, which was heated by the oven. Awesome!

The hallway (which we share with the Nice Mexican-American Family and the Contemptous Portuguese Couple from the second floor) quite simply smelled like ASS. There was, like, a visible haze of Highly Evolved Mammalian Emergency Response Instinct (patent pending) over the stairs. We put up an apology note. I would hate us.

You know, I had a chance to kill the skunk a few weeks ago. I could have run him over with the car. It would have involved running a red light and quite possibly swerving into a parked car at 25 mph, but still. THIS SKUNK MUST DIE.

A Viewer's Guide to the Thanksgiving Video

The Wacky Gift Competition started when I was in 7th grade. My mom had back surgery shortly before Christmas. She did all the holiday shopping and wrapping for my sister and me in November, but she put my dad in charge of stocking stuffers and the final little details. My dad did the majority of the final Christmas shopping at the hardware store. He got us, among other utilitarian items, suction cups. They were the little kind with hooks that you might use to hang a suncatcher, but we didn't have any suncatchers? So... what, exactly, were we supposed to do with them? I can't really explain why it was so funny, but we all just cracked up on Christmas Day.

For the next few holidays, including birthdays and Fathers Day, we started getting each other funny but utilitarian things. A Pickle-Picker-Upper. An egg timer shaped like an egg that changed colors when the egg was hardboiled. Eventually, we had bought out the local Lechters wall of kitchen goods, and my mom and sister took turns deciding whose gift was the funniest and most creative. That's when the fun really began. This was circa 1993.

Every Christmas for the past 15 years or so, my dad and I compete to get each other "The Gift." Our extended family found this hilarious and always wanted to know whose gift my sister and mom chose as the winner. So we started a family-wide vote after Christmas dinner, with Amanda presenting the gifts and distributing the ballots. In recent years, my sister has been on an alternating holiday plan with her husband's family. We hold the contest on Thanksgiving whenever she spends Christmas with his family.

The criteria are as follows:

"The Gift" has to cost less than $20. It should be "wacky." It has to be useful in some way. It has to work during the demonstration. You can't tell anyone else what you've gotten ahead of time. If anyone finds out, they can't vote. I've won in the past with a mooing ice cream scoop shaped like a cow, a smoke alarm that looks like a Christmas ornament, a hot dog shaped condiment keeper with a door that closed on its own to keep flies away from the ketchup at picnics, a talking soap dispenser shaped like a toilet that uses a motion detector to remind you to wash your hands if you walk past the sink without stopping.


Last year's losing contribution (mine): a toothpick holder/voodoo doll.

My dad and I search all year long for "the Gift." You technically have from the day after one year's contest to the day before the next year to find it. We've gotten in the habit of crowning the king or queen, but the crown was a cheap AC Moore tiara, (yes, my dad wears it with pride when he wins) and it's broken at the moment.



A few other traditions in the video for the as-yet-unintiated.

1.) My dad has asked my sister and me if we'd like to contribute to the family prayer since I was about four years old. We always say "no" in unison. On the one year we decided we'd outgrown this cutesy tradition, circa 1997, we got a lot of flack for it, and so... The "no" continues even though we're 28 and 30. Anything for our public. heh.

2.) We go to the beach every year with our friends. My dad, a.k.a "Daddy the Do-er of the Impossible" has always carried towels, sand chairs etc down to the boardwalk using a little yellow cart. My sister and I found this HUMILIATING as pre-teens. My friend Kelly was the only one who was never ashamed of walking with my dad and his cart. Over the years, my parents have started getting us- the young adults in our extended family/friend circle- beach carts of our own once we get married. This is their way, more or less, of gently hinting for grandkids. ;) We probably have Kristen and Adam to thank for reinforcing that association, as they announced they were expecting Aiden immediately after opening their own little blue cart, which is ideal for schlepping baby gear from the house to the beach. You can see my dad with his little yellow cart in this video.



We didn't know there were baby bibs for all of us in the next gift-wrapped box.



Amanda and Tom's turn!

3.) Greg just got a special award for working day and night on a big project at his job. My mom made him a hat to wear. (He works for the company who labels are on the hat.) This is kind of a theme. Spend a holiday with us, it seems normal. Sort of.

4.) My high school friends have always come over for pie on Thanksgiving night. Even the year I was studying abroad in London, they all showed up anyway.

5.) For those of you who love Larry, (a friend of my grandmother's who has a heart of gold and a unique way with words and catchphrases) he has a special cameo. Without further ado, the Thanksgiving video. It lasts about three-and-a-half minutes and takes less time to watch than it took you to read this description. Gawd. Shutting up now!

After Thanksgivadoodle

My sister and brother-in-law recently got a dog. Jackson is a Labradoodle, and let me tell you, adding the suffix "-adoodle" to just about any word is kind of addictive.



He looks like a cross between a muppet and mop, a total lovebug. I tried all weekend to make a picture of this little guy where he looked, I don't know, like a DOG and not a cleaning tool. :) This morning, my eighth or ninth attempt, I finally did it!



We held the annual gift competition at Thanksgiving this year, because Amanda and Tom will be with his parents for Christmas. I was facing an unprecedented third consecutive loss, so I seriously had to bring my A game this time. I'm pleased to say that me and my flying alarm clock swept the competition, thank you very much-adoodle. (See? See? I can't seem to stop!)



The crown is broken, so long story short, I was honored this year with a Campbell's Soup hat. :) There is video, coming soon.

You can see a lot of the photos I shot this weekend here.