I’m Holding On To February

Now that we have a Black President I have heard rumblings that some feel Black History Month is no longer necessary.

Growing up Black History Month simply meant we would hear the “I Have A Dream Speech,” in school and talk about Fredrick Douglas, Pierre Toussaint L’Ouverture, Nat Turner, Eli Whitney, Langston Hughes,  Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth and the guy who invented the stop light and gas mask.( To this day I can’t remember his name.)  Once this obligation was filled we went right back to studying  a very colorless history.

The only other time blacks were mentioned in histrory was when we did our yearly review of slavery.   So I learned Black History was only discussed when it was forced and only when our role as Blacks was passive.

To get a well rounded view of how Blacks contributed to our country and  to the world I would have  had to dig that up on my own.   Quite frankly, as I was growing up I was trying to find ways out of studying, so additional study time was not on my radar.

In college I remember taking an American Literature class and we were reviewing all the great 20^th Century American Poets.  Our final for the course was to write a research paper on an American poet from a provided list of poets.  I surveyed the list and all the poets were White.  The whole Harlem Renaissance and the group of powerful Black poets that came out of that was ignored.  I approached my Professor and requested a poet off the list, Gwendolyn Brooks and  I also pointed out the provided list lacked color.  The Professor was shocked and agreed that this was an oversight and allowed me to do my research paper on Gwendolyn Brooks.

It was frustrating and still is that in order to get equal time in history a special request has to be made.

I was overjoyed when President Obama took the oath to become our President.  My family and I drove the seven hours to D.C. to be a part of the inauguration.  Thinking about this amazing day in history I still tear up.  But I don’t think we have arrived just yet.

Sadly, Black History month is still necessary because it assures color will be added to our history lessons.

I long for the day when we can retire Black History month.  I yearn for the day when I don’t have to hear King’s “I Have a Dream Speech” on February first.  I covet the day when some of his other amazing speeches are studied along side Patrick Henry, Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy.  When Yeats, Keating, Brown, and Milton are mentioned in the same sentence as Brooks, Hughes, Baraka, Dunbar, Collen, McKay, Bontemps , Angelou, and Hofmann(I guy can dream can’t he?)  I crave the day when I can spit out the name of the guy who invented the stop light and gas mask as easily as I can Thomas Edison.

I pray the day will come when Black History is consumed by American History and there is no distinction between the two.  On that day, I will gladly give up the shortest month of the year because it will no longer be necessary.

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Check out my book Website,  We have an update on the book,  http://growingupblackinwhite.com

Next post scheduled for 2-10-10—”Tips and Clips” video blog on my son’s hair cuts and tips on the barber shop experience.

MY MY MY: An Adoptee’s rant

MY birth certificate has been falsified and no one is alarmed.

MY birth certificate has been changed and the original one is locked away so I can’t see it.  The fact that “MY” proceeds “birth certificate” means nothing.  On MY original birth certificate  is the full name of MY birth father and MY birth mother; the two people I have spent the last 21 years looking for.

Last fall, I found MY birth mother and I was six years, five months and 13 days too late.  She died on May 18^th 2003 and the laws that kept her name from me also denied me the chance to meet the woman who gave birth to me.   I never touched her hand, heard her voice or told her it was ok to give me up.  MY mother died never knowing how I turned out and I wanted to be the one to tell her I came out ok.  I wanted to thank her for making such a tough decision. I wanted to ease her guilt and lift it off her chest and heal the crack in her heart that occurred when she gave me away.  I didn’t get to her in time.

MY birth mother died with MY birth father’s name and she shared it with no one.  It is more than likely MY birth father will die or has already died and in either scenario, I will again be denied the chance to meet MY birth parent.

The laws to seal this information were done to protect the birth parents’ privacy but who has the right to prioritize their privacy over my right to know my origin.  I want to scream, I want to grab a politician by the jacket and scream for them to make a change but I can’t.

I want to storm the agency that conducted my adoption and rifle through there records so I can find myself.  I want to demand my information, demand a last name connected to my birth father, Lawrence.  I want to get his last name and then run to the closest computer and see if the internet will open up and reveal him to me.  I want to find him, have one conversation with him,  ask him about the 82 years of life he had.

His clock is ticking loudly, if it still ticks. He is over 80 years old and he is a black man and if genetics and statistics are accurate then the sand that is in his hour glass is flowing quickly from the top to the bottom, if it still flows.

Each day I go without knowing his last name is one day I am denied the right to speak to him.  I live in America and I am denied the right to speak to MY father and there is nothing I can do about.  I want to ask him questions, I want to see what he looks like, I want to see the brothers and sisters I have through him. I want, I want, I want, and IT DOES NOT MATTER.  WHAT I WANT DOES NOT MATTER.  IT JUST DOES NOT MATTER.

…but it does.

God’s Geometry

During Christmas vacation, my wife and I surprised our boys with an over night stay at a local in-door water park.  We had a great time playing with the kids; something I regret I don’t do more of when I am at home.  Somehow the responsibilities of home and adult life swallow me up while I am within the four walls that have a mortgage attached to them.

Time away gives me the chance to forget all that and enjoy these three people I see everyday and I cherish those times.  This Christmas we spent time soaking wet for two straight days and I loved it.

In between chasing the boys through the water tree house and racing them on the many water slides, we found time to relax in the large hot tub.  While sitting in the hot tub letting the warm water wash away the cold, I noticed a large family who ran in and out of the hot tub as the mother and father relaxed across from us.  The family was white and among them was a very energetic little black girl.  Immediately, bells went off in my head, “Hey a transracial family,” I thought.

Then I froze as the warm water swirled around me.  I so wanted to strike up a conversation, share my experiences and ask them about their experiences, but I didn’t know how to start the conversation.

My mind shifted through my mental Rolla deck to find, “good opening lines  to use with transracial families.”   My mind stopped on the card labeled TRANSRACIAL FAMILY ICE BREAKERS, but the card was empty.  I had been in this situation so many times before and choked every time.  I had never found a good way to open the conversation.   In the past I rationalized that the transracial family didn’t want me butting in to their business.  Then I would just keep looking over at them hoping to give them the “I understand” look, which after a while I concluded looked more like me staring at them because I didn’t approve so now I couldn’t say anything.  The ever-closing window of opportunity would slam and I would spend the rest of the day regretting I didn’t say anything.

In the hot tub, that same tape began to play.

“They don’t want you butting in.”

“That little girl might just be a friend they brought on vacation with them and you will look stupid.”

“Leave them alone!”

I started to listen, and then I decided to shut the tape off and approach the family.  Now my issue was approaching this young mother whose husband had run off with the some of the other children.  How do you approach a young woman in a hot tub without looking like some kind of hot tub troller?  I weighed my options and decided the regret that I would feel the rest of the day just wasn’t worth the easy silence.

I floated over to the mother and pointed to the dark skinned girl climbing back in the hot tub and asked, “Is that your daughter?” The mother smiled brightly and busting with pride said kindly, “yes.”

I introduced myself and explained my story and sat there with the mother and shared stories for the next fifteen minutes.  When the husband returned she introduced  me to him and for some reason he looked familiar.  Later during our continued conversation she would tell me her husband used to play for my favorite professional football team.

Inside, I was laughing uncontrollably.  That was God rapping me on the head and saying,  “Next time don’t be such a wimp, look what you almost missed out on because you were afraid to ask one simple question.”

God works hard to align our paths with others he wants us to meet.  The path of this family was an interesting one prior to our meeting.  This lived in Detroit where I grew up, moved to Pittsburgh, then  moved to Utah and back to Pittsburgh.  They were vacationing in Sandusky Ohio at the same time we were and it was no coinsidence.  This was God’s way of saying,  “I put you here for a reason, quit ignoring what I’m doing.”

I don’t like disagreeing with God but, I wasn’t ignoring what he was doing.  I just wasn’t looking for it.  Now I push back the blinders I once wore to see what other paths will intersect mine.

This week several transracial parents asked me how they could incorporate African American culture into their homes and I struggled with answering this difficult question.  I am not sure buying a certain book, or hanging a certain picture or buying a doll will gain the results they are looking for.  It is my belief the best way to exposure children to their culture or heritage is through people like them.  I know some live in areas that are not as diverse as they would like and it is very hard to find people of color in these areas.  But difficult doesn’t mean impossible and God doesn’t listen to difficult or impossible.

God didn’t bring this child to you and then forget about you.  He didn’t give you this amazing gift and then leave you to struggle on your own.  He is still working on intersecting paths at angles you will never expect.

I am sure my path has crossed over the path of someone who could have help me over and over again but I wasn’t looking for it.   I stepped right over the lines like a crack in the sidewalk and kept walking. Now I go out everyday looking for transracial families anticipating that powerful intersection of our lives.  I  know it means I will have to be brave enough to speak to a total stranger to experience the benefits of this God-designed meeting.

I encourage you to be ready because your paths could cross anywhere; at the grocery store, the gas station, at work, at school, when you’re lost and looking for directions, or when your half naked in a hot tub.

Enter this week with your blinders off straining your eyes to see that supernatural connection and let me know who and what you find.

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FOOT NOTE:  I wrote the above post early Sunday morning.  On Monday morning, I had to go my son’s school to put money on his lunch account because we forgot to send it with him when he boarded his bus.  I parked in the school parking lot that is usually always full at that time of the day. I thought this was unusual but I wasn’t complaining I had work I needed to get done at home so I wanted this to be a quick trip.  I turned off the car and looked straight ahead.  Walking across the parking lot directly in front of me was a white man in a camouflage jacket holding the small hand of a black girl in pigtails.

At this point, God was laughing hysterically and my heart began to beat fast.  The above post kept ringing in my head and I debated back and forth whether I should approach him or not.  As I was having this private debate   between my ears, the man walked his daughter into the elementary school and I once again rationalized that it wouldn’t be proper to follow him in the the elementary school sinceI was going to the middle school.  Technically, our paths ran parallel and never intersected.

I continued to the middle school and went to the office to write a check.  As I was writing a check, I heard the office door open and a male voice behind me greeted a light skinned black child who I notice when I came in.  I turned to see who it was but I already knew.  My eyes confirmed what my heart knew.  The man in camouflage was behind me picking up his son from middle school to take him to the doctors office.  God is now on his back with tears streaming down his face convulsing with laughter.  I knew what I had to do.

As the father and son finished at the counter, I fumbled in my coat pretending to look for something but really just waiting so I could walk out with the two.  I following them out and before the debate began again I asked the man if he also had a daughter in the elementary school.  He says yes and I introduce myself.  For the next ten minutes we exchanged transracial stories and we laughed about the responses of others around us regarding our colorful families.  I give him my card with my blog site on it and we shake hands and separate.

This time the protest in my head didn’t last as long and I was fortunate God extended his path to intersect with mine.  It does get easier.

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SUGGESTED READING:  If you haven’t read the blogs on my search for my birth family yet check it out.  It was a crazy ride.

GROWING UP BLACK IN WHITE- Memoirs of a transracial adoptee—Click on the title to go to the book site to sign up.  Once the book is released you will get an email telling you how to get your copy.

A Divine Appointment

Below are excerpts from a presentation I gave to HOPEFUL(Helping Other Parents, Expanding Families, & Uniting in Love), an adoption group out of Lima Ohio, last Saturday. It is a message specially given to me for them but I thought others could share in the message too.
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My mom and Dad picked me up from my foster home that day and never returned me. Later that cool November day I was carried across the threshold into my new house, to meet my two brothers and one sister who weren’t expecting my arrival. I landed in a house that was constructed for me to live in long before my parents ever moved in.

The Adoption was the legal part of my divine appointment. God arranged it and the private agency took care of the paper work. It is my belief that each child is specially placed in a family they were designed for. I am sure I could go around the room and hear story after to story of how someone adopted a child they never thought they would get, or they got the child they didn’t think they were looking for, but no matter how that child came to you, once you held that child for the first time, the divine appointment was finalized and the paperwork would just have to catch up. Each child was directed by God to show up at their appointed time and date.
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In each divine appointment, both sides benefit. There was something in me that could only be filled by a minister, his wife and their 3 kids and there was something in them that could only be filled by me.

There is a scene in the movie, The Blindside, that beautifully illustrates this and it brings me to tears when I see it. The movie is about a rich white family that adopts a black teenager. The scene occurs when the mother is at lunch with a group of friends who really don’t understand what she is doing or why she did it. It is evident the mother it out growing her relationship with these ladies.

While at lunch one of the ladies in a very patronizing way commends the mother for being so charitable by taking in this poor black boy and she says to the mother about her black son,

“You are changing his life.”

The mother graciously pauses and says,

“No……. he’s changing mine.”

That catches right in the throat each time because I never considered that I actually changed my family. As an adoptee, it was easy to see what my parents have done for me, so to hear an adoptive mother admit that her child was changing her was overwhelming and yet so true.

It dawned on me that we are the family we are because of me and I am the person I am because of them and God knew that long before he brought us together.

From the union of “biracial and tiny” and “white and many” came an amazing life for us all and through the struggles and conflicts I got to witness some amazing changes in our family, in our neighborhood and in our community and I wouldn’t change my life for Denzel Washington looks, President Obama charisma or Oprah’s bank account. From this unusual life that became so usual I found my purpose. I lived the life I lived to stand before you at this very moment to share what I went through to help you as you navigate down a similar path.

This transracial way of life can be a rollercoaster ride, from the unsolicited comments from someone at a grocery store about your family to the comments from friends and family you just never expected. If you have managed to dodge those heat seeking missiles your challenge may be the fear you have that you won’t be able to give this child everything they need because you aren’t the same race and that fear sends you up and down on the same rollercoaster. I encourage you to stay buckled in because God didn’t make a mistake. That child has found their way to you for a reason and that reason could not be filled by anyone else on this planet. So I congratulate you. Congratulations! Welcome to your divine appointment and this exclusive club, and thanks for showing up….as if you had a choice.

Gettin’ My Hair Did

Tonight I am on my way to a mini-high school reunion and tomorrow I have a speaking engagement so I wanted to look nice for both occasions.  My plan was  to do my usual hair cutting process and then I got the idea to video tape it.  Since there is such a buzz in the transracial community about hair and skin care, I thought I would show just what all is involved with  me “gettin my hair did.”  Please click on the link below to watch me go from a frog to a newt during my beautification process.

Once you click on the link and the video comes up you can click on the “full screen” option below the video in the right corner which will give you a more magnified look at me doing my do.

Gettin’ my hair did

How Do You Raise A Child Who Is Of Another Race?

How do you raise a child who is of another race?

Does race even matter in raising a child?

If I give that child a good loving home why should I worry about race?

What my parents did was pretty extreme according to society.  They adopted a biracial baby and brought me in to their white family.  They not only thought outside the box, they blew it up.

Now that they had me in their home they would have to decide how they would raise me.  It really came down to two decisions.  Should they raise me as their child who happens to be biracial and raise me as if I was no different?  Or do they recognize I am different and raise me accordingly?

If they choose the former there is no need to remain outside the box.  They can move back in to the box and pretend they never blew it up in the first place.

If they choose the latter, they say bon voyage to the box and create a different way of living for a different kind of family.

Thankfully, my parents chose to remain outside the box.  The realization that they were not like any other family was life changing.  Because we were not like any other family meant we could not live life like every other family.  They choose an extreme life and with that life came an extreme lifestyle.  To ignore our differences and live inside the box would have been too confining.

Bringing a child of another race in to your family means you now have to do some extreme things.  If you live in a community where there are few or no children like your child you have to search for extreme ways to find children like you child.

Does that mean going to a side of town you are not comfortable in to find children like your child?

It might.

Does it mean becoming members at a black church?

It could.

To ignore that your child is different in a world that constantly tells them they are different only sets your child up to struggle with who they are and how they fit in.

My parents were extreme.  They moved to a black neighborhood to give me that connection with my culture and it worked.  I gained an appreciation for the black culture, something my parents couldn’t teach me.   I found role models in kids I played with everyday.  I developed a sense of pride in being black and it laid the ground work for the racial identify that I would later develop.   Like I said it was extreme.

Should you move to a black neighborhood?

Maybe.

Extreme actions follow extreme choices.  Transracial adoption is an extreme choice.

What extreme actions are you willing to do?

Recycled

I wasn’t thrown away.

It has taken me awhile to digest the results of my searching for my birth family.  So much has happened so fast that it feels like I am living in a revolving room.  The meeting with my sister was great and to connect with someone who shares my DNA has given me a peace and a joy I can’t explain.  There are moments through out each day that I think about connecting with this tiny woman with the great laugh and I can actually feel my heart smile.

This was only the beginning.  Two weeks ago, I sat down at a restaurant in Plymouth Michigan with my biological brother, my birth mother’s best friend, and my niece and her family.  Meeting my brother was again an anxious moment but it was less stressful than meeting my sister.  I prepared myself differently this time.  My expectations were low.  My thought was that my brother was showing up because his sister made him.  I expected to meet someone who was more interested with what was on the TV screens in the restaurant than me.    If I got more, great; but if I got ignored than I got what I expected.

When I shook his hand, my expectations were exceeded.  I could tell by his hand shake that he was there because he wanted to be and not because he had to be.  He came because he was interested in meeting the brother he didn’t know about until a week before our meeting.  He showed interest in me and I sat in the restaurant next to him and my heart laughed and sang inside my chest.

My brother sat to my left and my birth mother’s best friend, Joanne, sat to my right.  She told me stories about my birth mother and showed me pictures of her and my birth mother fishing.  I found out my birth mother did beautiful needle point and she loved the Detroit Red Wings.

Joanne, who was more like a sister, filled my ear with priceless nuggets of who my mother was.   Then Joanne told me about the time her and I first met.   Forty two years ago, I rode in her arms from the hospital to my foster home.  Joanne sat in the back seat of my mother’s car holding me while my mother sat in the front seat sobbing uncontrollably.  Joanne tilted me forward so my mother could look in the rear view mirror and see my tiny face.  When we arrived at the foster home, Joanne kissed me and I was handed over to my foster mother who stood outside the car waiting.  Joanne kissed me once for her and once for my mother.  My mother sat in the front seat unable to do much.  She was too overcome by the emotions of the moment.

A week later, my mother and Joanne returned to the foster home to drop off some undershirts and diapers.  Joanne stayed in the car while my mother went in to make the delivery.

Joanne would never again bring up the events of those few weeks.  She saw how crushed my mother was and didn’t want to bring up such a painful subject again.  Over the years, Joanne explained she could tell that giving me up for adoption changed my mother.  Joanne could tell it also weighed on her mind.  When you know someone for so long it is easy to tell what they are thinking without them saying a word.  Joanne knew my mother for over 50 years.  My mother didn’t need to express her sadness to Joanne, Joanne could feel it.

By now my heart just sat and listened to Joanne.  My heart curled up in front of the warm glow coming from Joanne and sat still, quiet and peaceful.

Later on, I got to hear stories from my brother and sister about growing up with my mother.   While I sat listening to their stories a small bit of me was jealous.  I listened to them tell stories feeling a little cheated because they spoke about what I will never know.  I will never know what it was like to have a conversation with my mother or learn her likes and dislikes.  The momentary flare of jealousy took me off guard and took me away from the conversation for a few moments.  It quickly passed and I rejoined the conversation.

After our meeting, I was put in touch with an aunt and uncle; My mother’s sister and brother in law.  This sister held me at the hospital right after I was born.  In our phone conversation she told me her and her husband tried to adopt me a few months after I was taken away.  By that time I was adopted by my family.  My aunt and uncle both told me they tried to look for me since then many times but just didn’t have enough information to go on.  We are now trying to arrange a time so I can meet them.

The influx of new family members continues.  I have been sending e-mails back and forth to my brother’s daughter, my niece.  She is a great young lady and the fact that she has interest in knowing me stuns me.

This has all been overwhelming and so healing at the same time.  There are times when I just have to take a break.  I get so emotionally drained I can’t do much but just sit.  Then there are moments when my heart does cartwheels because I wasn’t just thrown away.  There have people, about 50 miles away, who thought about me and searched for me.  There have been people who didn’t want me to leave and are so happy I am back.

I wasn’t just thrown away and forgotten about like I thought for so many years.  The peace that rushes in with that realization is calming.

Now I have to rest.  There is a man that may still be alive that is my birth father.  This week one of my new nieces found my mothers old address book.  In it we think we found my birth father’s last name.  Soon there may another family I will get to meet.  I will need to rest up for that.

Ms. Matz

Below is a chapter that I just cut from the book.  Simply put it just didn’t fit.  The feelings, although stated in an earlier blog I wrote, are real to me.  This is how I read this situation and many like it.  I do think it is an important point which I will include in the book in a more precise and focused way.  Although cut from the book, I liked the picture painted of youth and the games we played.  It seemed like a waste to just hit the delete button and do away with it.

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It’s third down and one yard to go.  The yard we have to gain is Mr. Wright’s front yard.  He lives to the right of the Tenbuschs and his driveway is the end zone.  James, my oldest brother hikes the ball and lofts a perfect spiral to Peter who catches it at Mr. Wright’s walk way and breezes in to the end zone.    Peter raises the football above his head and then spikes it hard on the cement driveway.  Just as the ball leaves Peter’s hand a look of fear consumes his face.  As the ball hits the cement it bounces to the right and lands on Mrs. Matz’s lawn.  We all freeze.  Ms. Matz’s lawn is off limits.  As soon as it comes to rest in her yard, a loud banging comes from her front window.  The banging clearly shouts, “Stay off my lawn.”

We know we only have 23 seconds to retrieve the ball or she will storm out and take it.  We all figure she has to have a room in her house full of our Frisbees, baseballs, tennis balls, and kick balls.  Those types of balls were relatively inexpensive so to lose them is not a big loss.  The leather football is not in the same category.

We all look at each other and telepathically we were asking who is going to go get it.  The time is running out and we need to move or the football will be lost forever.  Wayne Scott, the crazy, loud kid with the unusual hazel eyes moves first.  He sprints wildly across Mr. Wright’s yard and on to the forbidden turf.  As he steps one foot on the grass, the loud banging on the window sounds again.  Wayne jumps as his nervous body reacts to the sound.  Now the race is really on.  Ms. Matz is headed to the front door.  As Wayne bends down to grab the football, she throws open her front door and yells, “STAY OFF MY LAWN.”  Wayne jumps again and shifts into an all out sprint.  Wayne grits his teeth, showing the shiny braces that cover his front teeth.   Wayne lands safely on Mr. Wright’s driveway with the football securely tucked under his right arm.

The cheers erupt and we all give him pats on the back or a slap him five.   Someone shouts, “Ok, who’s kicking off?”  Our game resumes and Ms. Matz returns to her seat at the front window.

Ms. Matz is a single woman, an elementary school teacher.  It is easy to see why there is no Mr. Matz.   She is about 55-60 years old and mean. She wears a scowl whenever we see her.  After years and years of being mean the facial muscles freeze in a bitter expression 24 hours a day I am convinced.  She lives with her elderly mother and drives a little red sport car.  The fact that she teaches kids and drives such a cool car makes my head spin.  These bits of personal information don’t fit the monster mold.

At age ten, Mrs. Matz is as close to a monster as Big Foot.  We run from her like she has the power to kill with her cold stares.  There is not a day that goes by in the summer that she is not pounding on her window or yelling at us.  When that doesn’t deter us, she calls the neighborhood security company to handle us.

The poor guy making minimum wage pulls up in his marked security car.  He parks in her driveway and goes to speak with Ms. Matz.  After a brief conversation where she appears to do all the talking, the plastic cop walks over to us dressed in his dark blue security shirt, jeans and no name gym shoes.  He usually says something like, “Ok guys, give the old woman a break, and stay off her lawn.”  We promise to have better control of our toys and he drives away.   I am sure he knows it is nonsense, but it is his job to keep the community safe from toxic baseballs and Frisbees.

As we get older, she is less of a threat and more of a game.  We purposely stroll across her lawn and like clockwork she raps on the glass.  The anticipation of the sound still sends us three feet in the air.   The fear is replaced by laughing and dancing across her lawn.

Wayne Scott, who is her neighbor to her right, takes great joy in harassing her.and he organizes a committee to burn a cross or a swastika in her yard.  No one is sure what  either symbol means but we know it would be a terrorizing and intimidating thing to do.  We decide to burn a cross in her front yard because the swastika is too hard to re-create.  The cross is two lines.  It takes less artistic ability.  We will use gas to outline a six to eight foot cross in the front yard and light it.

The fear of getting caught and being punished negotiates it down to a one foot cross in the back corner of her backyard made with lighter fluid.  Wayne volunteers for the mission.

One quiet summer night, Wayne jumps the fence, clothed in all black.  He quickly squirts the lighter fluid on to the lawn in the shape of a cross, lights it, and leaps back in to his yard.  We muffle our cheers so we don’t draw attention to our terrorizing act.  The little cross glows for about 30 seconds.     The lighter fluid is eaten up the flames and the flames die quietly.

Burned in her yard, is an outline of a cross and it takes about three weeks for the grass to grow in and cover it.  I always wonder what her reaction was when she came across it while mowing her lawn. I’m not sure because she never mentioned it.

The Detroit Free Press paper route that I share with James, my oldest brother, forces me to interact with Mrs. Matz regularly. The route is divided in to two.  James delivers the papers on Outer Drive, one street over.  I deliver to Shaftsbury.  James pays me $5.00 a week and I feel like I am a descendant of Rothschild.

Mrs. Matz is one of my customers.  Each morning before the sun wakes up I walk up her lime stone walk way to drop off a paper.  As I approach her front door, I begin speaking in tongues and praying that she is not up yet.  I walk as light as I can, concentrating on making delicate, soft, weightless steps.  Once I make it to the door, I softly and slowly turn the squeaky handle.   I would sacrifice one of my siblings for some WD-40 at this moment.   I pull open the screen door and place the paper down absent any sound.  Then I return the door to its prior position and I creep away.

There are days when my luck cheats me and she meets me at the door.  She says nothing as I hand her the paper.   No, “Thank you,” no “Good morning” just THE LOOK.

The way her lips turn up and her nose wrinkles gives off the appearance that a very foul smelling object has entered her presence.  My hormones have not started producing those odors yet so it is not that I smell.

Her disgusted look  shows what she  thinks of me without saying anything.  She looks at me and she makes me feel small, inferior, subhuman, repulsive.

My internal compass labels her a racist just as simply as north is north.

Occasionally, Dad will hear how she treats us all and I can tell by his questions that he is probing for her true intentions toward me.  It is comforting in a deep way to know Dad looks for what is not obvious.

At this point in my life, my self esteem is still maturing.    The wounds inflicted by Mrs. Matz penetrate my armor and cause me to walk less upright and confident.

Growing up as a minority teaches me to always question the intentions behind the actions.  This cerebral dialog is a private conversation I often have with myself and one that I don’t share.  The fear of being labeled as “too sensitive,” keeps me quiet.  I often question why I would be labeled “too sensitive” and why the violator isn’t labeled “too insensitive.”

Privilege or Paranoia

The red and blue lights turned on and began to circle as Mom looks in her rear view mirror.  The police car that sees her before she sees it  is pulling up closer to her car from the rear.  I am in the front passenger seat facing forward unaware of the cruiser quickly approaching us.

Mom, with a disappointed tone in her voice says,  “ahh shoot, I am being pulled over for speeding.”

Mom brings the car to a stop on the shoulder of the rural road.  The police officer approaches the car as Mom searches for her insurance card and asks me to get the registration out of the glove compartment.

The officer now standing at Mom’s window asks for the two pieces of information we are trying to locate.  Nervous fingers and hands often pass over the obvious.  The officer is understanding and tells us to continue to look as he returns to his cruiser.  Unfortunately, he promises to be right back.

As soon as he leaves and we are able to calm down the registration and insurance card are found.  Mom notices the insurance card shows it expired the day before.  Mom recalls the new insurance card is on the kitchen table, 25 miles away.

The officer is now back at the door with a pink ticket.  He explains Mom was doing 48 miles an hour in a 35 mile per hour zone.  He checks her insurance card and notices it has expired.  Mom explains she has the new one at home and he is very understanding.

He hands Mom a warning and asks that she pay more attention to the speed limit in this area.  She thanks him and he  tells her to have a nice day.  He returns to his cruiser.

Mom turns to me and says,  “Well, that was lucky.”

We continue down the road and I reflect on the many times I have been pulled over by the police.  Luck has never been so favorable in my encounters.  If I had a Leprechaun with a pot of gold in the front seat my luck would not have been as favorable as Mom’s luck today.

I am conflicted with my thoughts.  My initial thought is that if I had been driving I would have gotten a speeding ticket and a ticket for no insurance.  Did Mom get a pass because she has less melanin in her skin?  How would this have played out if I was the driver?

The only time I ever got a warning and not a ticket  was when I was pulled over with two white college friends in the car.

Is this an example of  white privilege or me being paranoid.  Since there is no way to verify either way I wrestle with the thought that because of my skin I am treated differently or I am being too sensitive.

When I go to the store and I am ignored is it because I am black?  When I go to the store and I am given too much attention is it because I am black?

Experience has taught me my skin color may be a factor.  I have been conditioned to question its involvement whenever I am treated rudely or unfairly.  It is the first thought that rushes to the front of my head.

“Did they do that because I am black?”  I spend then next 30 seconds debating the question.  It is automatic and a conditioned response.

This past summer I sat in a room with mostly white adults and we openly talked about white privilege.  To be in a room of whites who admit there is such a thing as white privilege was an experience in itself.

They were transracial adoptive parents and they were fearful of how white privilege would affect their children.

Since that conversation I think a lot about how it affects me and this is a great example.   I am not saying all incidents like the ones above are racially motivated.

The gray area of doubt that accompanies how I am treated and why gives way to a 30 second debate several times a day.  To be free of this debate would truly be a privilege.



Black Moms Advisory Council

A few weeks ago I sent an email to 40 black moms I know.  In the e-mail I told them I would be doing a blog on black hair and skin care for white mothers raising black children.  I asked them to share some advice on hair and skin care and below are their responses unedited.

The thing I found most interesting was that even black mothers struggle with what to do with their black child’s hair and skin.

Thanks to the BMAC and I hope this helps shed light on a difficult subject.  Please let me know what comments most helped you and other topics you would like the BMAC to address.

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The very first thing I would tell white mothers of AA children is that is no hard and fast rule to abide by.  There is no one perfect method.  You can ask 10 different AA moms opinions and get 10 different answers.  Then that everything depends on the texture of your child hair.  This will vary from child to child.  Our children have textures that are completely different and require completely different approaches.  With boys I also recommend keeping it cut short.  This will require a trip to the barbershop every couple of weeks.  A brush is mandatory.  A soft brush may not do the job Diane brand makes a selection of brushes for different hair textures.  For girls the hair must be combed out before it dries after a washing with a quality detangling shampoo.  A monthly hot oil treatment might also be helpful for very dry hair.  I agree with Nicole about using a silky headscarf and pillowcase, this is key to lessening the breakage that will happen at night.

Skin care can bring on another challenge. Plan soap is very drying to the skin and if the child has eczema you must be very picky about what you use.  I recommend Eucerin, Cetaphil or Aquaphor gentle body cleansers and moisturizers which all work very well.  Each of these product lines have complete skin care systems.  Cetaphil and Eucerin works best with moderately dry skin and Aquaphor works great with very dry skin.  At the very least I would recommend a moisturizing bar with limited perfumes like Lever 2000 for sensitive skin.

SHILEASE

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“Great question Kevin! I met my stepdaughter at the age of 3, and we had to do some REAL work to ‘train’ her hair to grow and be healthy. If the children have coarse African American hair I recommend the following. Washing not more than once per week with a gentle/moisturizing shampoo – nothing with a lot of perfumes; followed by a deep conditioner covered with a plastic cap for at least 15 mins. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT….after rinsing the conditioner, wrap hair in towel and blot dry. use a light oil (olive, jojoba) even what we call ‘grease’ (Ultra Sheen, etc.) and massage a small amount in the palm of your hand to soften, be fore massaging onto hair. Separate the hair into sections with your fingers (while hair is still damp) and comb through with a WIDE TOOTH comb. You can buy one of these at Sally’s Beauty Supply. The ‘grease’ and the comb are the key! Hold the hair at the roots and begin combing at the ends – then work toward the roots. That way there is less pulling on the scalp. To maintain ‘control’ you can quickly braid each section after you’ve de-tangled, and keep moving all over the head. Once you’ve removed the tangles you can apply oil to the scalp. Just apply to your fingertips and spread directly on to the scalp – not thick, just enough to make it shine. So, now it’s not STRAIGHT, but tangle free and moisturized. GOOD. From here you can blow dry by section and style in pig tails, french braids, curl it – whatever. OR….and this works best on younger girls, more active girls, and for busy moms. Don’t blow it dry….while it is damp and oiled, braid it in the cornrow or french braid style. Whatever style you choose, consider using a satin pillow case, or scarf on her head for sleeping. Cotton pillow cases deplete natural oils from the hair. Don’t give up, practice makes perfect.”

DEANA

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“Okay this is funny because all mothers have a hard time figuring out what to do with their child’s hair. My daughter’s hair is thick and coily takes forever to comb and only looks good first couple of hours—- if you want the kid to keep natural texture find an African-american beauty shop if you want to make the hair a little more manageable a soft kiddie perm no-lye perming once a year depending on texture. Boys just keep the hair short but do not cut boys hair until they reach 18 months.”

“Oh yeah for girls a good leave in conditioner especially if the hair is perms. Kevin I bet you didn’t know it’s a lot to hair.

KIMBERLY-JO

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“check out the website http://www.facebook.com/l/511b3;naturallycurly.com.When it comes to black hair there are so many different types. It does a good job at explaining hair care”

NANCI

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Kevin, this is such a great project and topic that needs to be discussed. I think we can all learn from one another.

I am currently dealing w the same issue w my daughter.
I orignally took the easy way out and started relaxing her hair at a very early age, 5yrs old.

It was so easy and it simply worked for me.

The nighmare didn’t begin until I couldn’t get her in w her aunt (who I must state was ALWAYS oppossed to relaxing her hair).
We were about to travel and her aunt was out of town so I took her to an unamed popular salon and they jacked her hair up. She is now 13yrs old. While it didn’t fall out she had tons of
breakage.

When i took her to her aunt 6 weeks later she said enough is enough. We’re currently letting her relaxer grow out and I am catching HELL! SOMETIMES I wanna shoot myself. Lol

Its been about 3 months and its such a learning process. The biggest thing I’ve learned is to use  oil, oil, oil. Something I would never bombard my hair with but for her, it keeps the hair healthy. While I hate that she doesn’t have body and movement, it helps repair her hair especially since I’m still using minimal heat. I also learned that the hair weakend w a relaxer and she’s also at risk for more breakage as the new hair which is stronger grows in. Hair can break at the perm point.

When we were in Orlando, I took her to the Aveda spa and we worked w an African American stylist who specializes in natural hair. Her grade of hair was exactly like my daughter’s but it was so healthy that she’s able to wear natural curls like a Wanda Sykes but a little funkier. While my daughter plays sports and big bushy hair is not an option right now, she taught me the less heat the better. I was blowing her hair, pressing and flat ironing it everyday. I was trying to get it straight like when we had a relaxer which obviously was not helping matters.

What we do now, is wash her hair every 7 days and then blow dry. She told me that if she didn’t play sports I could wash her hair every 10 days or so. I’m allowed to use the flat iron one additional day throughout the week.
A miracle saver that I have seen but didn’t realize realy worked is that damn hair scarf. Let me tell you sleeping in a head scarf is a complete gift from God.  I wrap her hair and take it down in the morning and its like silk. I understand silk scarfs are even better but unfortunately it slides right off of my daughters hair because she’s such a wild sleeper.

Once the relaxer completely grows out, I will be able to add the hot comb to her hair again but because her hair is so fragile we can’t use it right now.

The hair oil we’re using right now is called Morracan hair oil. It’s a complete hair care line and is sold at usually high end salons. I don’t use the shampoo and conditioner because its so expensive but if I could I would.
When I take her to the salon once a month, they cut her ends and give her a deep morrcan hair oil treatment.

If I had to do it all over again, I probably would have never looked for the quick fix in getting the relaxer. The other option would have to only let her sit in someone’s chair that I had full confidence in.

If the moms chose chemical relaxers make sure they research their stylist and get referrals. The salon I used is a popular salon but I went w a new stylist because I couldn’t get her in w their head stylist. The new stylist pulled the relaxer over the already permed hair and thus my nightmare began.

Whew! Nice to vent but I also hope my experience can help your moms cuz I completely get it!!

LISA

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“I agree with LaWanda and KIm B, mama did a trial and error. They didnt have perms and things like now, she used a straighting comb. Now some of my friends use the kiddy perms on their girls, some do braids and sum stick to the all natural puffs. I used a perm as soon as I was old enuff to do it myself. I have used marykay products on my skin since high skool (why I became a rep lol) and they now have products for teenagers (velocity line). I have 3 boys, who have skin and food allergies so Im careful with them. The teenager uses a combo of marykay & avons skin care products and I use hot six oil on the hair of the youngest 2. keep their hair cut every 2 weeks and brush it at least once a day. also remind them that dark skin gets ashy and I use avon moisture therapy in the blue bottle or the shea butter but works the best is disney baby”s gental naturals (in the baby isle) baby eczema cream. good luck”

CARMEN

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For boys I would suggest they keep the boys hair cut low.  I notice that some people allow the boys hair to grow too long and it gets curly (you know what I mean).  They should really attempt to keep a neat low cut, get a good brush and apply a lite oil to the boys hair (i.e. Hot Six oil)

MICHELLE

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“This is such a good list already — and I’m going to use some of this advice for my own family.  A copule things to add re: girls’ hair: Don’t wash the hair more than once a week.  I think it’s common for white women to wash their hair pretty much every day.  Our hair is much too dry for that.  Also, purchase a silky head scarf and/or silky pillowcase for girls.  A lot of breakage happens at night…and an unprotected head doesn’t help.  And depending on the type of hair, you should probably also put it in large braids or plaits at night…particulary if they’re younger and still wearing their hair natural.”

NICOLE

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Sometimes the soap used can help with skin problems. Aris has exzema and I could never use a deodorant soap as it would cause severe dry patches. He can only use Dove or Oil of Olay. I would also use Eucerin for severe dry skin. I like to use St. Ives  collagen elastin lotin daily. It works really well especially in the winter months when dry skin can be pervasive.

I agree with Michelle about keeping the boys hair cut low and Aris would say “tapered” and yes a good brush is the key. Girls hair can be very challenging. It is very important to comb the hair out while it is wet when you wash it. Also, the hair should be blow dryed with an attachable comb or detangling wire brush. If you don’t want to use a blow dryer then the hair should be braided in medium size braids to dry. Never, ever just let the hair air dry  without out braiding or blow drying. It will be a big, bushy unmanageable nightmare. Also don’t use rubber bands on wet hair. When washing the hair a good detangling, conditioning shampoo is vital. I recommend Motions or Creme of Nature. Also, use a good conditioner of the same brand. A light oil (isoplus or motions) should be applied to the hair once it is dry. Refrain from using hair lotions as they are highly water based and tend to dry the hair out.  A flat iron is safe tool that can be used to straighten coarse hair at home.

TOSHA

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My advice for boys would be to keep their hair cut low and trimmed up. And make sure they keep their hair mositurized and condition. I know their boys but they require condition in the hair. I wouldnt recommend cutting the boys hair with clippers until they are at least 15 months, but they can even their hair out with scissors as I had to do on a reagular basis until their little heads could handle the clippers. It’s hard to recommend hair care products because everyone hair is different. Our family uses the olive oil products. When my boys were younger we used dove products to wash/condition. I would say also get a wave brush for their heads and to make sure that they wash/condition their hair at least once a week and moisturize it at least weekly dont be afraid to do it more if their hair is dry.
As for the girls that can be challenging simply because again their are so many variations of black hair from curly to kinky, wavy to straight and then theirs the combination heads. I use Carols daughter products which have proven to be successful you can order from off line and they also sell in various stores. The website is http://www.facebook.com/l/efcdc;www.carolsdaughters.com they have a variety of natural hair and skin care products that they can select from we utlize these for both my sons, my daughter, myself and my husband because we all have different types of hair. I would also find someone who knows how to french braid (cornroll) that can be a life saver for dealing with hair but they need to make sure the person doesnt braid to tight and that their hair stays moisturized by oiling their scalp. Invest in a wide tooth comb to comb out hair when it tangles so that you dont break hair out, and a open air brush (conair) they are about 5-10.00 and can be picked up anywhere. Also wash the hair weekly and find a good conditioner and detangler and a leave in conditioner (check carols daughters for specifics)  when blowdrying hair it would be was wise to part the hair in 4 plats and blowdry them in sections it’s just easiert to manage and I would recommend buying a blowdryer that has a comb attachment and use that. Also a good flat iron(chi) to straighten the hair after it’s dried. Most people know how to use a flat iron so I would recommend that over a pressing comb. If at all possible I wouldnt perm/relax the young girls hair unless they had someone who could properly care for it because if not properly cared for it could lead to hair loss and breakage. So please dont buy over the counter kiddie perms if  they are not familiar with how to apply it could make a bad situation worse.

LENORA

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Achieving a manageable texture is key for hair care. Wash and Condition every week.  Blow drying with a comb and moisturizing olive oil lotion, hair food, light bees wax or good old fashion grease are good.  A soft, hard brush, wide tooth comb (tangles) and a rat tail comb (parts and smoothing) are essentials.  Stock up a bow box with hair ties, twists and barretts. Practice parting hair in manageable sections and make pony tails.  Outside of that recruit some help to learn cornrows and chemicals.  Just don’t do the wild curly mane.  It is not cute.  Do not have these girls looking crazy by the head.  For boys, please line them up.  Invest in some good clippers and trimmers.  For skin…good lotion Jergens, Vaseline (cocoa butter) and Eurcerin.  Mild soaps.

LYNN

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You know I have two girls and both have different hair textures.  Kendall’s hair is thick and has medium curl.  Kristen’s is EXTREMELY thick with tight curls and she’s tender headed, which makes combing her head an all day event.  I normally wash their hair once a week with a moisturizing shampoo and condition.  I oil their scalp with a light grease and maintain it through the week with Pink Oil Moisturizer or Liv.  I love french braids, but after a week, they start looking a mess if you don’t maintain them.  I make K & K tie their heads up every night with a scarf or wrap to keep the braids looking fresh.

ALISIA

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My children have AA hair and no mixture at all- My suggestion is since every child is different and every family- male and female have different grade of hair- is to see a stylist who knows how to do hair.
The thing I hate most if children are racially mixed or not is parents who don’t comb their girls hair regularly because they are lazy- They need their heads combed everyday – The braid your hair for 2-3 week is such a mess!! Boys are easy- cut it- keep it cut every two weeks- Don’t try to grow it out and have the curly nappy look- that does not work!!!
My advice is to locate someone who has been there and done that and get help- The mistake some White Moms make is letting the black women do the kids hair and it looks a mess because we don’t know how to do it either- There is a lot of literature out there and lots of help
Skin- If they are darker – use Vaseline- I hate ashy kids black or white- LOL!!!
I hope this helps- just my opinion!!!

AVIS

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The first things that came to my mind have already been said. I would add that leaving your child’s hair natural doesn’t mean that you don’t have to comb it regularly. I’ve seen too many black children looking a mess about the head! Even if you have your child’s head braided, you do need to take the braids down and comb the hair. More than likely, they would need to use a wide tooth comb and a stiff bristle brush. Oh and oil the scalp regularly with a moisturizer that is appropriate for your child’s texture of hair – your child might do fine with a Pink Oil moisturizer or you might need to use a heavier pomade. As Kim already said, they need to experiment and see how quickly their child’s hair soaks up the oil. If it feels brittle, it’s time to put some oil in it – if your palm comes out their head feeling like cooking oil, you probably have too much oil in it and you need to wash their hair! Skin care – I think black people’s skin tends to dry out and get ashy more quickly than white skin and need a skin moisturizer that is thicker like shea butter, especially in the winter. Please tell them to put lotion on their child’s skin (face, legs, arms, everywhere!) EVERYDAY!

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