Recently, I read about Tarana Burke when Time released their Person of the Year. The magazine praised women called the Silence Breakers, women who publicly shared their experiences with sexual assault. Those women have been, and still are, overwhelmingly white. Even the #metoo movement, specifically started by Tarana Burke ten years ago to include the stories of women of color, was co-opted into twitter movement that focuses on the experiences of white women.
The Women’s March, the Pussyhat, and the current #metoo movement continue to magnify the chasm that exists between the experiences of white women and black women in America. Nowhere is that more noticeable than in the 94 percent of black women who voted for Clinton and the 53 percent of white women who voted for Trump. Obviously, our views of the world and our experiences in it are a difference of 41 percent. When has it ever been otherwise?
As I watch more women step forward with their claims of rape and sexual assault, I certainly don’t want to see more black women claim their victimhood because that means they, we, are victims. I don’t want their voices to join the hundreds of white women speaking out not because I desire their silence, but because I hate the knowledge that sexual violence has been a foundational part of our experience in America since slavery. But I also know that there is a broader issue here. Namely, in this, the year of the woman—where is the black female voice?
The exclusion of black women from narratives of gender and race is not new, however. The Civil Rights Movement was a movement of, by and for black men. Even though women were the powerhouses—Daisy Bates in Little Rock. Joann Robinson in Montgomery, Septima Clark in South Carolina—the men garnered the national attention. The Women’s Movement was no different. Though we praise the work of women like Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, we cannot dismiss the racism that pulsed through the suffrage movement. While black women have always been at the center, their stories have always been marginalized.
The most recent criticism has been levied against the Los Angeles Times for their melanin-blind cover photo featuring all white actresses. The actresses supposedly call for Holloywood stories to be redefined, but one can guess that the redefinition includes gender inclusion but not racial diversity. And why should any of us be surprised? Black women have often held up the floor, provided protection from the ceiling, supported on the walls and all while waiting in the wings. Even when black women demand to be included, there is a long line because the door can only let one black woman walk through at a time.
I think of this as I write these stories of two beautiful, strong black women—one an Immortal eighteen-year old and the other a seventy-year-old boss. I wrote Neema because I needed Neema. I wrote Raina because I needed Raina. Black Woman Strong whether young or ageless. I have always loved stories of powerful, supernaturally strong women. I absolutely loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was a die-hard fan of Xenia, Warrior Princess. I read urban fantasy with abundant white heroines kicking butt in worlds of witches and vampires and shapeshifters. I watched Blade and Spawn, and I absolutely cannot wait to see Black Panther. But I cannot deny the need to see a story where a black woman is not a victim, not a sidekick, not waiting in the freaking wings. Why couldn’t a black woman, though born in slavery, evolve into a bad-ass immortal being? I wrote Neema into existence because she represented everything I wasn’t seeing, but all that I knew a black woman could be.
The deeper I become immersed in Neema’s world, the more I realize that womanhood in Hollywood and in novels is still too often defined by whiteness. But the only way to see that change is to create a space for the women we want to see and the stories we want to be told. Toni Morrison once said, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” The stories of black women should exist across the genre spectrum. They shouldn’t just be told and shelved in Literature and Fiction. They should exist in romance, in paranormal fiction, in mystery, in thriller, in horror, in fantasy and in science fiction. Our stories should be told in every form imaginable because every genre should be enriched with the experiences of the many racial and ethnic groups that make up our world.
I’ve determined that even if my novels only reach a few, at least I have told a story from a perspective that matters, a perspective that is real, a perspective that is mine. No one will ever have to change Neema’s race to fit the audience of an ever-changing, ever-widening world. Neema’s experience as a black woman is integral to who she is because her story, like the stories of white women and black men, also deserves to be told.
One of the Pep Talks for NaNoWriMo came from Dean Koontz, and boy was it timely. The other day, I heard some negative feedback about Black Borne that spoke directly to my insecurities. I think that even if I was blessed with a bestseller someday, there will still be a kernel of doubt about my writing. So I had to reread Koontz's Pep Talk so that I could get myself back on spiritual and mental track.
Koontz draws a clear line between worthwhile criticism and naysayers. Worthwhile criticism, he says, is specific and helpful. It comes from people with a deep experience with fiction. His Pep Talk, the second one of NaNoWriMo, was powerful in its simplicity. How many times have I told my students the same thing in slightly different words?
I knew that the moment I took a chance on my writing, not everyone would love my words or my style. But I also know how sensitive I am and how thin my skin can be. Putting your creative self out there isn't easy. I feel like a little kid waiting for that moment of approval from the adult who holds my dreams in the palm of her/his hands. But I also know that everybody is going to have something to say. That's how life goes, right?
Once we expose our dreams to the world, every person who hears them will then have the "'right" to pass judgment. It's up to us, the dreamers, to determine how that judgment will impact us. We have to decide what words to keep and which to discard. We have to decide whether to press on or to give up. We have to decide whether we have received worthwhile criticism or just empty words from naysayers.
I must admit that the first truly negative piece of criticism that I received about Black Borne made me falter. I even wondered if I should continue writing Book Two. Then I had to remember that I'm not defined by my critics. I'm not writing for them; I'm writing for me. There are stories that have lived inside me from the time I was a small child. There has always been a voice that wanted and needed to be heard. I write for the dreamer in me, for the child who unequivocally believed she was a writer. No adult doubts allowed.
I write because I have to. And even if more negativity comes my way, I will continue writing. I have no other choice.
On the way to Orlando for Thanksgiving, my daughter and I stopped in St. Augustine for a little sight-seeing through history. I needed a fresh look at the city for my Warrior Slave series. Specifically, I wanted to see Ft. Mose.
I grew up in Orlando and one of the fundamentals that we learned about Florida was the history of St. Augustine. What Floridian child does not know of Ponce de Leon and the Fountain of Youth? I even remember taking a field trip to St. Augustine and visiting the colonial quarter. We stepped into a past that revealed the richness of Florida history. Wow! To be standing in the oldest (continuously inhabited) city in America!
Of course, our lessons did not include the Timucuan Indians who inhabited the land prior to the arrival of the Europeans, And we certainly did not learn of Ft. Mose. It wasn't until I visited the African Burial Grounds in New York City that I learned of America's first free black settlement in Florida. And that settlement happened because the Spaniards granted refuge to black slaves fleeing the British colonies of Georgia and the Carolinas. Of course, the British couldn't let Ft. Mose or Spanish Florida last for long so they systematically attacked the fort and the surrounding areas until the British eventually brokered a deal for Florida.
Learning of Ft. Mose just reminded me of how much of black history has been buried in America's past. Generations of America's children have been told the whitest stories about this country's founding. When the idea of Neema came to me years ago, I wanted to help bring stories of the black experience out of history's graveyards. One of our greatest tragedies as a nation is the loss of narratives that point to the rich diversity of America. Native Americans and Africans may not have chosen to be part of Europe's Age of Exploration but they were. And so here we are.
The Timucuans became extinct by the 1700's so I chose to make Dagon Timucuan. The fact that entire peoples no longer exist because of imperialism and colonialism is mind-boggling. I hope that in exploring Neema's 1700 beginnings, I will be able to pay tribute to a few of those native tribes.
More than anything, though, I want to pay homage to my ancestors. As I stood in the Ft. Mose museum, I was awed. Africans shed the bonds of slavery and built their own towns throughout the South. And those towns didn't just spring up after the Civil War. Africans were forging paths and creating legacies even before the War of independence. Makes me wonder what might have happened if Britain had not gained Florida and spread slavery throughout all its territories.
Ft. Mose eventually fell and became overshadowed by the incredible story of St. Augustine, but there is power in knowing that Africans were so much greater than slavery. From the beginning, African peoples fought for their freedom; they searched for their place in American society despite the difficulties they faced. These are the stories that I am able to explore and tell through Neema. What more could the writer in me ask for?
Lately, I have been reflecting on my long, exhausting teaching career.
I started teaching because I needed a job. I had left University of Florida after a particularly tough lesson in graduate school politics, and I needed an adult job so that I could pay my very real adult bills. So I took on a job that I felt I could do relatively well and for which I didn't need a lot of experience. I stumbled upon teaching by accident, truthfully. I received a phone call from a principal who conducted a phone interview for a job that I hadn't applied for. That interview got me thinking about teaching as a possible job choice, and a year later, I got my first teaching job at Meadowbrook Middle School. And that's what it was: a job. I had no intentions of staying in teaching because I did not want to teach teenagers.
That was twenty years ago.
I wish I could say that I continued teaching because I loved to teach, but I don't think I ever quite fell in love with my career choice. I developed a passion for teaching, yes. And there were students that I taught who made me a better person. But love teaching. I don't think that affair ever reached such a deep emotional level. My teaching career has involved incidents that required a strength and determination that I never knew I had. I've withstood principals who were ruthless in ways that were downright scary. This is why, I think, I've come to the end of the line. No one person can take so many blows and still be left standing.
When I first started teaching at Meadowbrook, I worked for a man who lacked interest in the job. He administered with a casual neglect that would have been unacceptable in a school with less black and brown children. A week before school began, he assigned another teacher and I to the old wood shop classrooms. The rooms were big enough to house two full classes, and the principal said a partition would divide the room in half. The partition never came.
So my introduction to teaching included a wood shop classroom that I shared with another teacher. There was no wall between our classes, and no chalkboard, no books, no bulletin board, no desks on my side of the room. And the floor was just paint on concrete. I might as well have been teaching in a garage. The television for morning announcements was on the other teacher's side of the room. So here I was, this young teacher who had to figure out how to turn my space into a classroom. I looked at one wall filled with cabinets and a counter, another wall that held six closet doors, and a third wall with another door and a huge closet, and I was at a loss. I had less than a week to prepare for my students and their classroom was definitely not a classroom.
Perhaps I should have quit then. If I had known what trouble lay ahead, then I might have. I quickly learned that while children can make teaching both tough and rewarding, the bureaucracy that governs teaching can be destructive. Don't get me wrong, though. By bureaucracy, I don't refer just to the policies that allow us to point to a vague, machine-like system. I am talking about those women and men that sit behind desks far removed from classrooms, but make day to day decisions about our public school aged children that more often than not--do harm first.
Recently I assigned my students a reading and writing assignment centered around the movement that has evolved from Colin Kaepernick's decision to kneel in protest during the National Anthem. I've repeatedly reminded them that Kaepernick is not protesting the flag nor the Anthem. He is protesting the oppression and mistreatment of blacks and people of color that has been long-standing in this country. He is simply protesting during the singing of the National Anthem. Many of them will probably continue to insist that his protest is about our nation's flag or anthem. They, like many of their fellow Americans, will miss the point.
As I read articles regarding this issue, I find myself paying attention to the NFL in a way that I never have before. My disinterest in professional sports is not to disparage what players do in the leagues. Sports have, simply, never been my interest. Colin Kaepernick's protest, however, has slowly penetrated my world. Not surprisingly, that interest increased when I heard of Trump's remarks toward players who kneel.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I've come full circle to why the concept of professional sports troubles me. Trump's response to Kaepernick, or any other player speaking out, just smacks of the age-old ideas of ownership of the black body. Numerous white males own these NFL and NBA leagues which means, in essence, they own the players of those leagues. I truly feel that Trump's advocacy of firing these players who protest has everything to do with this idea of ownership. He was reminding his white male "friends" of the power they hold over these black men.
I think that this is exemplified in the way that Kaepernick was blackballed. Before Trump made his remarks, the NFL had found a way to punish Kaepernick. Their mode of punishment was a public reminder that the role of black players is to entertain their predominately white audiences, not to protest the mistreatment of fellow black citizens. By protesting during games, players asked viewers to acknowledge race in an arena where most people deny that race exists. Yet, racial disparities dominate the NFL. Only in football, basketball and prison is the black body such a clear object of ownership.
One of my students, like many other critics, felt that Kaepernick's paycheck precludes his right to speak out and obviously men like Trump believe the same thing. But isn't that why Kaepernick spoke out? He had the platform and the money to do so. That actually reminds me of W.E.B Dubois' theory of the Talented Tenth. Though Dubois' theory referred to the college educated reaching back to help lift up the masses, I think that Dubois would consider Kaepernick's stance as part of giving back to our communities. When we find our moments of success, be they through education or by other means, it is our duty to help all voices be heard. That, I think, is the crux of what Kaepernick was trying to achieve. He didn't want his fortune and fame to only benefit him. He used his fame to bring notice to an issue that has always kept America from fulfilling the promise inherent in her flag and her Anthem.
Blackballing Kaepernick only highlights the troubled relationship that America's white citizens have often had with her black ones. Slavery, segregation, and mass incarceration has always been about owning the black body and silencing the black voice. The NBA's recent ban on players kneeling during the National Anthem reflects that same need to control: ownership and silencing. The history of forcing black Americans to accept the institutional racism that has plagued America since its founding cannot and will not change unless more people of color use their platforms to expose the inequities in American society.
Movements often begin with one person and one voice. It may have taken the ignorance of a president to make other players take a knee like Kaepernick, but let's never lose sight of why he protested. Young black men being gunned down in the streets should never be an acceptable policing policy. Allowing their killers to go free because they hide behind a badge is not the definition of serving and protecting. These young black males are citizens too, and they deserve to be served and protected as well.
And if Kaepernick was willing to use his body and voice to highlight oppressive practices, then he should be praised not punished. He did what many white citizens don't want any black person, particularly black men to do, own their bodies and own their voices. I don't know about you, but I am definitely supporting Kaepernick's "kneeling to stand." Not only is slavery outdated, but slavery has been rejected. And when we own our bodies and our voices, we better make that self-ownership work--not only for ourselves but for the good of ALL American citizens.
I naively believed that American society had progressed far enough from the 1950's that George Wallace could never become president today. Obviously, I was wrong.
Whenever I think about those people who voted for Donald Trump, I keep wondering how they justified his racist beliefs and behaviors. I've read articles that state all of Trump's voters can't be painted with the same brush, but I disagree. An acceptance of racism and sexism must have existed on some level in order for his voters to see Trump as their savior. When white America voted for Trump, the greatest change that they wanted was for a whiter America. We certainly see that now with the rise in overt white supremacy and Trump's reaction to it.
I don't see how anyone can be surprised by Trump's racism. He has lived a life of white privilege and a perceived sense of white superiority. When the Central Park 5 were accused of a rape that they did not commit, he took out a full page ad calling for their deaths. They were only teenagers at the time. And even though they were later exonerated, Trump continued to hold onto his belief in their guilt. His business practices also reflected a deep-rooted racism, but it's his reaction to the Central Park 5 that disturbs me most.
I wish the media had vetted him more instead of used him to bolster their ratings. I wish that Hillary Clinton had treated him to her lawyer expertise instead of referring folks to her website whenever he told one of his whopping lives. I wish the dangers of a Trump presidency had been addressed with due diligence before the actuality of a Trump presidency.
Although we have had racist presidents in our past, none posed the danger of Trump. He stands at odds with the direction of the modern world. He is living in an American past that his voters also live in. A past that can never and will never return. But by the time they come to this realization, America will have lost its standing in world politics.
When I think of how Trump equated white supremacist with their protestors standing against hate, his racism seems even more apparent. It seems that America has elected a demagogue hell-bent on destroying our nation. We (America) are becoming a disgrace on the world stage, but I guess that's worth the cost. At least white people were able to install another white man in the presidency--unqualified and ignorant but white nonetheless. But, alas, all great nations perish. I guess it is our turn now.
Lately, I've been thinking about my days at the University of Florida. From the time I was in 8th grade, I knew that I wanted to go to UF. I had a cousin who had gone there on a football scholarship, and when he came back home with his college friends, I decided right then that I was going to the University of Florida. Perhaps, if I had known then what I know now, I would have chosen an entirely different college. For me, UF ended up being a continuation of the nightmare that I called high school.
My experiences there, as an undergrad, were ones that I don't like to dwell on. You would think that I might have graduated and moved on but no. I decided to attend UF as a graduate student. While I had a much, much better experience with my social life, I learned that the politics of graduate school was a maze that I did NOT navigate well. This is when, I believe, I lost my writing nerve.
My last year as a UF undergrad, I took the final creative writing ficton course with Padgett Powell, a white male professor who exuded white male superiority. He believed that no writer had truly arrived unless she or he was published in The New Yorker, a belief that he repeated ad nauseum. I was excited to be in the 4th level fiction writing course, however, having made my final decision between poetry and fiction. I'd like to say that I should have chosen poetry, but the senior course in that creative writing path was also taught by a writing snob. I had met him before classes began since we had to interview for a spot, so I already knew his class wasn't right for me. Professor Powell's class, though, was one that I entered with optimism and enthusiasm. Until he proceeded to destroy my faith in my writing self.
At first, I didn't understand that he hated my work. I would
complete my writing assignments and never receive positive feedback. He assigned a 50-word story, a 750- word story, and he simply ignored my writing. But he would praise the other students effusively. I remember one stident whose story received everything short of a cheer, but the boy had gone well over the 750 word limit. Never once, in an entire semester of work, did Powell ever give me positive feedback.
I didn't want to consider that there were other issues at play, but eventually, I had to acknowledge the undercurrents that had shaped my overall experience at UF. I was the only black in my Fiction Writing class, and I was female. Having been filled with a lifetime of these only black and only black female moments, I knew in my deep-down that I was dealing with a white male who questioned my very presence in his classroom. Unfortunately, I didn't have the tools to handle this.
But this was why he asked me who my previous writing instructor had been. When I told him Harry Crews, he wanted to know how Crews felt about my work. His question, "innocently" phrased, ensured that I understood that he questioned Crews' opinion because he, quite naturally, felt that my work was no good. As a teacher, I now understand how devastating it is to withhold praise from students, and he was determined to never give me praise.
Finally, he gave us an assignment where we had to choose a quote from a favorite author. At that time, I had just recently completed Beloved. Toni Morrison had won the Nobel Prize only a few months earlier, and I decided to share a quote from Morrison's Beloved. His only response was to criticize Morrison; he said the quote was long-winded. In that moment, I realized that no matter what I wrote in that class, I would never receive praise for my work. How could I ever expect him to praise me when he dismissed Toni Morrison, a black woman who won a prize that he had never and has never received? Of course, he couldn't praise my work because his problem was with me.
From that moment on, I gave up on that class. For the first time, I hated an English class. I didn't want to attend, but couldn't stop myself from showing up everyday. But I was devastated. He had poisoned the deep, abiding love that I had always felt for English from the moment I learned to read. I would like to say that I spoke truth to power, but I didn't. I attended class each day and promptly went to sleep. And he never said a word to me about my naps because he just didn't care.
Everything about his interactions with me--from his dismissive attitude to his steadfast refusal to give me positive feedback--made me question my abilities in a way that I never had before. And I still, even after twenty-three years, resent him for how he made me feel.
I did speak to him after the class ended and after I received my C. I told him that I felt his treatment of me was in response to my race and gender. His response was typical: he couldn't be racist because the one other black student that he had taught previously had received an A in the course. So what do you say to the racist who insists that he isn't racist because he treated one black person with decency? My hope, though, was that he would never treat another black student like he had treated me.
I don't know if Padgett Powell ever changed, but I do know that he was just one example of the white male sense of superiority that shaped the English Department at University of Florida during my tenure there. Once I entered graduate school, I soon learned that Powell was just one of several. There was a culture of racism and misogynistic behavior that was so deeply ingrained in the very fabric of UF politics that it was difficult to see or question. But it was what happened to me in graduate school that finished what Powell had started. I didn't stop writing because of those white men who tried to strip my voice, but I did stop believing in myself. And then I took much, much too long to reclaim my narrative.
The other day I was looking at a photo of my 8 year old daughter and I noticed how much lighter her skin was in the photo, so I turned to her and said that she was getting browner from playing tennis. Her response: she didn't mind because she liked getting browner. I was struck so deeply by her words because it marked a significant difference from my experiences with brownness and blackness as a child.
When I put box braids in her hair for the first time this summer (to give me and her hair a break from styling) I told her not to get used to wearing weave. Her response: she wouldn't because she loves her hair. I keep thinking about that statement too. I'm raising a child who thinks consciously about race and embraces both her skin and her natural hair. She loves to draw and her characters are quite often a deep walnut brown that represents her place in the world. She creates a space for people of color in her favorite shows because she believes that the characters would be beautiful as black people.
I keep hoping that this child, who is growing up confident in the skin that she will wear for life, is growing up that way because of the choices that I'm making.
When I was growing up, too many of us still fetishized light skin. That dichotomy of light vs. dark-skinned was one that helped to shape my childhood and deeply affected how I saw myself. I craved longer and straighter hair because even Barbie dolls indicated that there was something wrong with the way that I looked. My parents would buy me Black Barbie dolls and I both loved and hated those things. I wanted so badly to comb the dolls' hair but the matted, twisted mess perched on top of the doll's head was not meant for combing. The white dolls were better suited for hairstyling.
But I think I loved and hated those dolls too. I would comb their hair for hours and then I'd chop their hair off, or I would add grease to their blonde locks. I'm not sure why I knowingly ruined these dolls but I did. I wanted to be like them at the same time that I would never be like them. Then, when I was in junior high school, my mother put a Jheri curl in my hair. I thought I was really something then. I suddenly had this curly hair that proved that my hair wasn't as short as I had previously thought nor as "nappy."
I happily applied my Jheri curl juice and strutted around like I was too cute. Then it happened. At my nearly all-white private school, I was the only black cheerleader on the squad and what was known as a base. I was always assigned to hold and lift the slimmer, blonder white girls into the air. But then my cheerleading coach pulled me to the side on day and said that my hair was staining the girls' clothes. I was...humiliated. I already felt different attending this white Baptist private school in the late 70's and early 80's, but little moments like this reminded me of just how different I was.
My mother sent us to this school so that we could receive an excellent educational foundation, but there were these little reminders that showed how we would never truly belong. I was counseled about my hair so I stopped using the Jheri curl juice, which caused my hair to break. I often found out about parties after the fact. In eighth grade, a white male student offered me the brown M&M because it looked like me (his words). When my sister and I came back to school after Vanessa Williams was crowned Miss America, we had to hear about how blacks should stick with their own pageant. My 9th grade year my best friend (white, of course since everyone was white except me) called me a nigger in the midst of an argument.
The wrongness of being black was evident in these small but significant events that marked my time in a school that didn't get me or my siblings. The experience was uncomfortable and devastating to my construction of identity. I had attended that school since I was two years old and by the age of thirteen, I realized that I would never fit in.
But worse than that, I didn't have a clear understanding of what it meant to be black.
My private school excluded the black presence from our curriculum in a way that was truly negligent. I remember learning about Crispus Attucks and that black people were slaves. I remember my 8th grade teacher pulling me out of gym to view a video that she was showing to her 10th grade English class. Every time the black teacher in the video would coach the five-year-old black students to say that they were better than whites, the white students in class would sneak a look at me. That was the only lesson I had ever known her to teach that included black people.
When my mother decided to send us to public school my 10th grade year, I was more than ready to leave the private school setting behind. I was tired of being the minority. But changing to a public school was awkward for me. I had never gone to school with so many students of color before, and I found it difficult to navigate the public school system. I was awkward in every way. I attended school with students who had gone to junior high together and already formed cliques. I was drawn toward the black students, having felt rejected by the white students that I attended private school with, but I didn't quite fit with them either. I tried to find my way, but I don't think I ever did. I just wasn't savvy enough. I didn't have the social capital to do public high school.
My sense of who I was was fractured in so many ways, and I had to build by racial identity one book at a time. When I enrolled in University of Florida, I found Frederick Douglass the week before classes began. That was when I began to construct a stronger racial identity. I had a moment like Sarny does in Nightjohn when reading finally clicks and she realizes that the white preacher had been lying to the slaves. I had that moment in UF's library almost thirty years ago. I realized that my white Baptist school and my public high school had robbed me of the opportunity to see myself in my educational experience.
Even University of Florida would add to this absence of blackness with the overwhelmingly Euro-American syllabi that dominated the English department. My immersion in African American history was one that I had to forge with very little outside help. And when I sank my feet into the history of African peoples, oh how my soul woke up and sang. I learned that I existed: I was there when Africans resisted slavery, when black artists started a Renaissance, when black people poured out of the South, when a human rights movement spread from Alabama. I was there, in history. More than Crispus Attucks and more than slavery. And that was when I realized that I had spent my childhood and teenage years trying to stand tall and sprout branches when I had no roots. I had to find and water my roots.
In my daughter, I've tried to instill the beauty and greatness that fills her legacy. I steered her toward Doc McStuffins, bought her black and brown dolls, encouraged her to read biographies of various black leaders. I've tried to put her in diverse schools, which aren't always easy to find. If a school system lacks diversity then I find a successful predominantly black school. I've made all of these conscious decisions so that when my daughter enters into a world that will ask her to doubt her abilities, the pride in her blackness will be at her core.
When I watch her draw pictures and unconsciously color her characters a deep brown. Or when she tells me that she actually likes getting darker skin, I am so grateful that she has already learned to love herself. And while blackness for me was an epiphany, a movement, a consciousness (ode to Biko)--she can live in a world where blackness is just an everyday, natural, part of her life.
So this week, I watched in stunned horror as Karen Handel garnered more votes than Joe Ossoff in Georgia's special election. I am absolutely sure that this is the same horror that was on my face when the downfall of America began on November 9th. I feel as if I have been plunged into a nightmare that keeps playing over and over again every time I watch the news or read the latest "covfefe" by our non-presidential President. How did we let this happen?
Even though I was born and raised in Florida and understand the South in ways that only true Southerners can, I still wanted to believe that Georgia was about to wake up. Georgia which enthusiastically embraced slavery and segregation, which has been deep white supremacy since its founding. I foolishly thought that that Georgia was prepared to rebuke the insanity that has taken over American politics. Needless to say, I was absolutely wrong.
I've never been one to follow politics, but I sure have been following since Donald Trump became president. I feel like I'm rubbernecking an absolute trainwreck. The problem is that the trainwrecks happen so often that I have the worse case of whiplash. How does one person screw up so many aspects of American society in just six months?! And meanwhile, he's still being cheered on by people who think that any destruction of America won't affect them.
It's hard for me to believe that there are so many people wanting to return to the 1950's. But I guess those are people who definitely don't look like me. It's scary when you think about it. I keep walking into Georgia Walmarts and grocery stores wondering if the person walking toward me was a Trump voter. Articles keep telling me not to see all Trump voters as the same but didn't you have to, on some level. excuse his racism and sexism in order to vote for him? And doesn't that make you a little (or a lot) racist and sexist too. If I say, voted for and supported Adolf Hitler, wouldn't that mean I support his belief system and his politics. How could I possibly be pro-Hitler and pro-Jews? Bottom line is that a vote for Trump was a vote against a diverse America. Continuing to support Trump is like those seniors who want to keep seeing good in the conman who takes their retirement fund.
I'm trying so hard to shut my eyes in the hope that this embarrassment, this nightmare will come to an end. I just don't have faith that enough Americans have learned their lessons and will come out to vote in the next elections. We know now that a healthy percentage of white Americans have determined that America belongs to them and them alone. I just hope that young people and America's minority will come to realize that America will never belong to us too unless we take our seat at the table.
If we don't learn that the people make the democracy, then I am afraid that we will suffer the same fate as every great kingdom from Songhay to Rome, from Mongols to Greece. And when our nation, our democracy falls, all of us--whether white or black, Hispanic or Asian, Muslim or Christian--will be buried in the debris.
And that is me, politicking.
I guess you can see that it took me a year to figure out what to write next? (Note the question mark). I've been a little confused because I didn't want this to become one of those parent blogs that details every aspect of their child's life ad nauseam. I mean, can you imagine being the teenage kid whose childhood unfolded before a bunch of strangers? So while I will blog about my child (I can't resist). I can't make this all about her.
So then I started thinking that my next post would be in response to the election from hell, but it seems that just as I get ready to write about one train wreck, another one happens. How can any writer keep up with all the things that the new president seeks to destroy? Do we chat about the environment, education, foreign policy, LGBTQ rights, justice department memorandums, healthcare, taxpayer-funded golfing trips, immigration, abortion rights, the Russia scandal, obstruction of justice? The sheer incompetence of the 45th president would take years to unpack. In just six months, he has created constitutional, domestic, and international crises while his Cult continues to support him. I wouldn't even know where to begin.
This is probably why I have started to consider life outside of America. What would it be like to live in another country for the next four, possibly eight, years? Now, I believe, is the time to go. Before other countries shut their borders to those crazy Americans. But the question would be, where should I relocate? Where do I want to live? At first I started thinking about teaching overseas in the Middle East. Talk about an excellent benefit package. What?! They will pay for me and my family to get there, put us up, and give me money to teach. Okay. I am there!! Wait! What do you mean everybody is mad at Qatar. Syria is at war with, well, Syrians. The US is dropping bombs on civilians and sending more troops into Afghanistan to restart a war. And Trump is still fighting to get his Muslim, non-Muslim, Muslim ban passed. Well, that should certainly gain us greater allies in the Middle East. It should come as no surprise that, for safety reasons, I decided to shelve the whole teaching overseas for ADEC plan.
So then I started thinking about the possibility of moving to the U.K. but some folks over there seem pretty pissed off, bombing stuff and running over folks. Plus, they have that whole Brexit (immigrant-free Britain) thing going on there. Isn't it absolutely amazing that the U.K. and the US, leaders in immigrating cultural treasures from other nations, are hell-bent on keeping immigrating people out? Perhaps, if we were being imported as slaves, our outlook would fare better. All I know is that I just don't think it is safe for non-white people to venture outside of their neighborhoods. But I guess the world has never really been safe for us, has it?
I could always move to France or Germany, I guess. I still don't trust Germany though after the whole Hitler and concentration camps massacre. What seeds must have been present in that nation for so many people to sanction a rise in hatred and silently condone genocide? When I think of Germany, I think of Hitler. I can't help it. In fact, lest I forget, European nations are to blame for African slavery. Did they not import African slaves? And they didn't stop there. No, they decided to divvy up Africa, destroy tribal boundaries, and rape her for her wealth. Why in the hell would I want to trade one destructive, conquering nation for another? Besides that whole Russia-Ukraine-Crimea thing proves that white-on-white wars are not exactly a thing of the past.
So then that brings me to the Caribbean (not quite sure why I haven't considered South and Central America but I am flirting with Costa Rica). I guess because you rarely hear about wars coming out of the Islands. When was the last time Bahamas or Turks & Caicos talked about a terrorist attack? And last time I checked, Europe and the US started losing their hold on the Caribbean back when Haiti embarrassed France. People like to talk about the violence in the i\Islands but the United States has more mass shootings than any other nation. Besides that, the police are murdering black men in the streets and homegrown white American terrorists are attacking Muslims. I'm just saying, don't be surprised if you read a post from me one day and I start blogging about my new island life.