Stop telling me, you're "color blind." Just stop.

            “ You talk about race a lot.” Funny, only white people have ever said that to me…

            In a recent blog, (I am the dream and the hope of the slave) I called attention to the racism that still plagues this country. I wrote about how far we have come as a nation, but also how much further we need to go. I feel like I need to delve a little deeper into my own experiences. To speak from my heart, and tell a little bit more about my story. Race is not a new theme in my blogs. If you’ve read anything I’ve written in the past, you know I’ve written about being mixed, and some of the beauty and challenges I deal with because of my interracial background.

            I speak about race a great deal, because I don’t get a day off from it. Just as much as I don’t get a day off from being a woman, and more and more I don’t get a day off from being half of a same sex relationship. I see it everyday in the mirror, and I don’t go a day without a remark about my skin, my hair, or my heritage. There is no magic switch, no time I get to forget where I come from. Don’t tell me I’m exaggerating, or being sensitive. Anyone in my position would empathize. Instead of continuing your ignorance, ask me what it’s like, to walk a day in my shoes.

            A few months ago, my cousin and I were discussing some of the current events in our country, especially Ferguson. She remarked on the divide she noticed in her social media feeds, the horrible things being said on either side of the argument. Then she told me how she was going to take a break from social media, because she wanted to be able to walk away from it. I was silent on the phone. I heard the breath catch in her throat and she said, “Then I thought about what it must be like for you. You never get to turn it off, do you?” We both became teary over that realization. I told her no, I never get to turn it off. Whether I close my eyes, or open them wide, this is a part of my experience.

            Don’t tell me, “I don’t see color.” "I'm color blind". For one, that’s a lie. Yes, you do. Second, I’m not impressed by that. Stop telling it to me. Yes, we are all human. Yes, we all have things in common with one another. But the only people who don’t see color are babies, and maybe toddlers. From there on, the differences are taught. If you are trying to convey you aren’t racist, then that’s a beautiful thing. Say it better.

            “If you stopped bringing it up so often, people would forget.” Eh, no. Again, you are trying to put upon me your own thoughts and feelings on this subject. Am I making you uncomfortable? Did you ever stop to think what it must feel like, to walk into a room and be assessed in a way your white counterparts are not? Have you had people say things to you that are so ridiculous, you can’t even wrap your mind around it? Especially since there is not one time in the history of ever you would ask them the questions they are asking you, or stating things to you so off the wall all you can do is stare back at them. “Is that your real hair?” “Nicole- that isn’t a very black name, is it?” “Your mom is white? That must have been hard for you.” “Do black people tan?” “You only voted for Obama because he’s black.” “ Does it hurt your mothers feelings, because you identify more as black?” “You guys don’t all like fried chicken and watermelon, do you?” These are all things that have really been said to me. They were not in jest. I wish I were joking.

            Let’s go over these one by one. Honestly, they are none of your business, but I’ll answer them anyway. My hair- sometimes its mine, sometimes its not. I’m sorry my parents didn’t name me Latonya, or Kuntakinte- it must make you uncomfortable, me having a “white” name. No, it is not hard for me to have a white mom. Yes, black people tan.  If you think I only voted for Obama because he’s black, f*** you. I won’t apologize for saying that either. How dare you assume I only voted for someone because we share the same skin color? I did my research, and I made the best decision for me. Don’t ever say that to me again. No, identifying as half black does not hurt my mother. She is one of the people I can count on the most, and doesn’t judge me. I know she wishes I was a little less mean when I’m pissed…

            Quick side note- Not all black people like fried chicken, watermelon, collard greens, Kool-Aid, purple drink, Cat fish…. the list goes on. There is history in those foods. Pick up a book and read a bit before you make an ass of yourself by assuming we do. I happen to think all these things are delicious, but it’s not coded in my DNA.  So, just stop asking that.

            “But you’re the first to make jokes about race relations. You tell some funny black jokes!” For me, it’s a protective mechanism. If I say it first, if I let you know how I’m thinking and feeling, then you can’t take that away from me. You don’t have the power to make me uncomfortable in my own skin.

“The ‘brown bag rule’ or the ‘black tax’ can’t be real things.” Again, don’t state, ask. The brown bag rule illustrates the differences amongst black people themselves. It’s an outdated idea about higher and lower class because of skin color within black people. The black tax does still exist. It is speaking to the amount of work black people often have to do to be judged on the same plane as their white counterparts. More often than not, we have to prove ourselves more and if we trip and fall, it unfortunately does not reflect on just ourselves, but all black people. There will always be cultural saying and things that are done you may not understand. That does not mean they aren't real. 

            We are far from full equality in this country. There are a great deal of factors, including socioeconomics, bias, and ignorance. There are checks and balance to try and help with these factors, and others. Affirmative action is a great example. Here’s the thing, if my speaking about my skin color my experience makes you uncomfortable, you have the right to no longer be my friend. Unfollow me on Facebook, whatever you need to do. Huge hint- don’t read this blog! Because I won’t stop talking about it. My opinions may change as time goes on, but for now this is how I feel.  You are as welcome to your opinions as I am, but this is something I will continue to speak on.

           

            I am a biracial, bisexual, feminist, opinionated, smart and sassy woman. Just a heads up, in case you were in doubt.

Her.

            I’m a sucker for a good romantic movie. I love all the best lines from them, “You had me at hello.” “I’d rather make love with you, than fight with anyone else.” “To me, you are perfect.” I could go on for days. This story needs to start with a particular quote, from one of my favorite movies, When Harry Met Sally- “…when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. “ 

            I thought love at first sight was poppycock, malarkey. Just because I love movies and love songs, doesn’t mean I believe people fall head over heels in a matter of seconds, moments, or days. My experiences were anything but that. It’s because I hadn’t met her.

            I was struck by her the first time I saw her. Seriously- the very first time. I took my time about things, since I was very occupied dating one “special” person after another. I always noticed her though. A few months went by, and I got the distinct impression she was avoiding me as much as I wasn’t going out of my way to meet her. I don’t know how to explain it, but I felt like the minute I talked to her things would be different. P.S. she totally was avoiding me.

           

            My feeling was right. The first day I actually talked to her, I was a complete goner. If this was a movie, there would have been music, maybe some bluebirds, and a couple of singing mice. Yes, all the things they tell you it’s like- lightening striking, fireworks, magnets, the world being knocked off its axis. I ditched out early on a date I had that night, (poor guy, he didn’t have a chance) and I called one of my greatest friends, telling her how this girl affected me. She turned right around and asked me, “Then why are you on the phone with me?” She and I kissed that first night. I truly believe it may have been the sweetest kiss on record.

            She approached us with caution. Myself on the other hand, with reckless abandon. It was the first time, I was not afraid. I can’t tell you why. I’ve got a very strong fight or flight response, and though I sensed this relationship could really hurt, it also had the potential to be something great. So I dove in. I’ve been burned, and I’ve had my heart broken, more than once. I’ve experienced the loss and pain that goes along with it. I can’t explain why it was so different with her. I couldn’t hide- she saw me. She was unlike anyone I had ever encountered. I was ill-equipped to fight how I felt, even if I wanted to.

            Early on we were tested over and over. By the leftovers from past relationships, and by ourselves. We were fire and ice. Our similarities made things easier, and our differences challenged one another on almost a daily basis. I’ve never fought with anyone the way I’ve fought with her. I haven’t shown so much of myself as I have with her. I can’t even explain it to my friends- twitterpatted didn’t cover it. I was drawn to her. I didn’t need her, I wanted her. But damn, it felt like need.

            I knew we would face things other couples wouldn’t have to- we have both a biracial, and a same sex relationship. I was better equipped by age and experience to deal with these things. Well, some days anyway. She was forced to learn on the fly, and be challenged by everything she knew- including society, and her faith.  She noticed the things I didn’t- the looks, the whispers. To compound it all, her internal struggle with it.

            Then she says, “I love you” and all of it melts away, (for the record, she said it first). All of my frustration, all of my fears. My fear that I won’t be able to take care of her, to provide for her. That I can’t give her children, or marry her in the church the way she deserves. That what we have, the fire between us will be put out because we can’t hold onto each other.

            We haven’t done one damn thing on a conventional timeline. I should have known, since not a damn thing about us is conventional. Our friends say we’re nauseating. Our parents think it’s sweet. All I can do at this point, is shrug.  It makes sense to us, that’s all that matters here.

            What she stirs inside me is real. Her beauty, her faith, and the way she moves in this world make me fall in love with her more and more every day. How she feels when I hold her close, when I get to hear the huskiness in her voice when I wake up next to her. She’s my little firecracker, my dreamer, my muse. She also drives me nuts. Anyone who has been in the deep end of love knows exactly what I'm talking about. I know I drive her batty too. She's worth all of it. She was worth the wait. She’s the lyrics to love songs, every love quote, and someone you dream of loving. I have no idea if this is the final love story for me, but damned I hope to the moon and back she is. I’ve never loved the way I love her.

           

Because, “every time you kiss me, its like sunshine and whiskey.”

"I am the dream and the hope of the slave"

“ I am the dream and the hope of the slave,”

            That line from the Maya Angelou poem, Still I Rise- has haunted me since the first time I heard it. It stirred within me so many emotions, and allowed me to picture a time when if I were alive, I would have been a slave myself. Very possibly a house slave, because of my lighter complexion. Subject to the whims of an owner, never having anything that was mine, and suffering all of the indignities and horrors people of that time suffered. Thinking on it makes my throat constrict, tears well up in my eyes, and a burning feeling in my chest.

            Have I earned this? Have I earned this life? 165 years since the end of the Civil War, The Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964, so many milestones along the way, and here I am 30 years old myself, plagued I’m not doing enough. I’m not smart enough, outgoing or out spoken enough. Maybe I could be stronger, more thoughtful, and even nicer. As if I am the representation of an entire people.

            I am not a representation of an entire people, I am an example. Living my life as best I can honors those who came before me. I think they would be proud of all that has come to pass since they moved onto a better place. As a people, we have become woven into the fabric of this great nation. Our influence is seen everywhere, in sports, music, fashion, film. So many have contributed to education, civil rights, world politics, and more. In just my lifetime alone, I have seen so much growth.

            Yet, we are still plagued by racism. Not in the way those before us suffered from it. There are no longer blatant lynch mobs who have free reign to string up anyone they see fit. We no longer have to suffer the indignity of sitting at the back of the bus, using the “Blacks Only” entrance, having no representation, because blacks weren’t elected to any office. Or suffer what those before them suffered- rape, murder, torture, separation from all they knew, to be sold to whomever wanted to buy them.

            Some who would read this will try to tell me I know nothing of suffering, in comparison. How dare I hark back to a past most would like to forget? I do it to remind myself, and others, there is still work to be done. To turn a blind eye to all that can and needs to be said and done contributes to the problem itself.

            You think racism is dead? Have you ever had someone call you a Nigger to your face? Have you had someone refuse to serve you, lock the car door when you pass, cross the street to be away from you? Have you had someone shake your hand, then wipe it, oh so casually- and pull a face of disgust? I live in this day and age, and all of these things have happened to me. For those who would say, “Oh you’re just being sensitive”, “No such thing has happened to you,” “You’re probably imagining all of that”- your ignorance does you no service. There are plenty who can tell similar stories to mine, and suffered far worse than I have.

            You might want to attack me again- you’re mixed, where the hell do you get off, “claiming” black? I do this because no one looks at me and says, “Damn, that white girl has a great tan”. I honor my white roots just as much as my black ones. I claim both, because I can. My face, my skin tells of progress made, a world where my mother and father could fall in love and have children like my brother and me. There was a time when a courtship like theirs was illegal.

            Racism is real. Time and time again it is brought to my attention we have so much more to do to be truly equal, to be free of the shackles of ignorance and misunderstanding, of fear and injustice. It is our duty as people to eradicate this world of such hateful thoughts, gestures, and crimes. I know I owe it to my ancestors, to my relatives who came before me to continue the work they did. To dream of a world where no one sees my color, they just see me.

            I remember when I was much younger my father taught me the laws of the land, to know my rights, and to speak up when I felt I was being picked on or singled out. When I asked him why he did this, he told me it was because we would be subjected to injustices others hopefully would never have to endure. Because of our skin, we would face racial profiling, and false accusation. We would need to be able to stand tall, face our accusers and speak eloquently of the laws we knew we were not breaking. My father is an educated man, who knew what I would face would differ from what he had experienced, yet knew I would still feel as he felt- wronged for no real reason at all.

            When my father asked my grandfather for my mother’s hand in marriage, my grandfather asked if his future grandchildren- my brother and I, would be okay. He himself was a Peace Officer and knew what we would face, what my father and mother would have to face together. My father said we would be, and he was right. My grandfather also knew to blindly believe those who are sworn to protect and serve are not always good people. We can hope that most are, but there will always be those who abuse the power given to them.

            These examples I give, do they not paint a vivid picture of human experience? Can you put yourself in my place, and understand when I watch the news, and see story after story of a black person dying, the circumstances around it murky at best, when I see the exoneration of black men falsely accused and imprisoned for the majority of their lives finally freed, how many young black men are in prison for offenses others would not be serving time for, when I see the way these stories are covered, the vitriol spouted by people who could care less for those who do not look or act like them- I become so angry.  Another part of me becomes afraid.  Who will speak for the dead? Who will speak for the falsely accused? Will you?

            One more example before I end what I have to say here is a clip from the film, A Time to Kill. The film is about a black man on trial in the South for killing two white men who raped and tried to murder his daughter. The closing argument to this very day gives me chills. The defending attorney tells the story in detail of what happened to this little girl, from the rape, to the torture, the failed hanging, and then her body being dumped in a river. Then he says, “Now imagine she’s white”. His saying that matters because what happened to this little girl, and then the treatment of her father in the south would have been very different if this was a case of a little white girl, and a white father seeking justice. You may not agree, but in truth there are far too many examples that speak otherwise. You can see the clip here-

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktGSct-_HH4

            We must stand up for those who can no longer speak. We must strive to be a better stronger people, and nation. We must choose to take the more difficult path, because there is a difference between what is right and what is easy. I say we because this is not a black problem, or a white problem. It is so much more than that. I have to believe that if I ever have children, it will be better for them. That they will not have the same fears as I do.

Especially because, “I am the dream and the hope of the slave,”

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies, you may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns, with the certainty of tides, just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.  Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise that I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise. Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise. I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.  Leaving behind nights of terror and fear, I rise. Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear, I rise. Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

            

100 little things...

            We all have so many things pulling us every which way in life. Some of us are making hundreds of decisions a day and because of the hustle and bustle, we forget about the little things. I wanted to make a list of the wee bits that make me happy, so on those rough days I feel like I’ve completely lost it, I can be reminded of the tidbits. They’re in no particular order, just free flowing over here.

1.     The smell of creosote in the rain

2.     Choosing a new hair color

3.     Getting snail mail

4.     Starfishing a bed

5.     The smell of library books

6.     Hearing someone say “I love you”

7.     Finding new song lyrics to fall in love with

8.     Re-reading a good book

9.     Spending entire days in skivvies and thigh high socks

10. Waking up with fantastic bed-head

11. When the lights dim in the movie theater, right before the film starts

12. Solo road trips

13. Sitting alone on the beach, listening to the ocean

14. Buying a box of milk duds

15. Movie marathons

16. Singing while doing household chores

17. Eating cracker jacks at a baseball game

18. The first drop in my stomach on a roller coaster

19. Getting a full eight hours of sleep

20. Cuddling with my dogs

21. Hearing my nieces and nephews tell me they miss me

22. Finding new stamps for my mail

23. Getting an unexpected text from someone

24. Making my parents smile

25. That moment after I realize I was afraid of _________ for nothing

26. Butterflies in my stomach

27. Finding a new pair of leggings

28. Sunbathing

29. Feather touches on my back

30. Catching up with one of my girlies

31. Solo dance parties

32. Meeting someone new

33. Pictures

34. Feeling the sun on my face

35. Walking barefoot on spongy grass

36. The first sip of a good soda

37. Duets in the car with mi padre

38. Feeling the thread counts of sheets

39. Catching someone looking at me

40. Snorting with laughter

41. Popping the cork on a bottle of champagne

42. Having someone play with my hair

43. Sitting on my parents couch

44. Ordering a Neapolitan shake from In-N-Out

45. Listening to foreign accents

46. Making a Darth Vader voice by talking into a fan

47. Quoting my favorite movies

48. Finding a new author to read

49. Savoring the first bite

50. Realizing someone missed me

51. The first kiss

52. Seeing wildflowers after the rain season back home

53. Eating cookie dough with a spoon

54. Getting “the look” from my person

55. Those few minutes in the morning, when I still remember my dreams

56. Finishing one of my art projects

57. Making a good playlist

58. When I realize someone is actually flirting with me (I’m a bit dense)

59. Burrowing under the covers

60. Walking through the archways into Disneyland

61. Running my fingers across piano keys

62. Seeing men in tailored suits

63. Finding “the dress” for an occasion

64. Discovering girly things I never knew I’d like

65. Listening to an Orchestra tune up

66. Realizing someone is as dorky as I am

67. The smell of coffee

68. Chalking up during a lifting session

69. Drive-In movie theaters

70. Hole in the wall bars

71. Listening to thunder

72. Looking for constellations

73. Playing twenty questions with someone new

74. Rare occasions, when I get to dress up

75. Learning about a sport that’s new to me

76. Lazing about with family

77. Fresh cut flowers

78. Soft throw blankets

79. Wearing my knit cap

80.  Writing

81. Finding funky pieces of furniture

82. Using my kitchen aid mixer

83. The window seat on a plane

84. The sounds a typewriter makes when you strike the keys

85. Wearing men’s jumpers

86. Reading the Sunday comics

87. Yelling off rooftops

88. Bendy straws

89. Being transported by a soundtrack

90. Birthdays

91. Taking baths

92. Printed fabric

93. Good conversation

94. Vanilla flavored cigars

95. Rainbow sherbet

96. Onsies

97. Love notes

98. Board games

99. Doing “The wave” at football games

100.                Making someone laugh