perspective

The day after I wrote my last post—after the stirred pot, the late night, the hot tears—I had to shift gears and simmer. To compartmentalize and turn my focus to a writing deadline.

This was a sunny afternoon. I sat under an umbrella on my back porch, drinking a tall glass of water with lime. I watched the grass. The walnut tree. The trampoline. In between thoughts, I watched the bounty in my baby garden dance in the breeze. So much green. A neighbor walked past and smiled. Then another. Across the street an eagle touched down in the nature preserve, then took off and soared. I soaked in the hot sun beating down on my legs, took a sip of cool water, opened up my laptop, and began to write.  

“The days are getting longer. The sun is shining brighter, and we’re beginning to see more smiling faces…”

The following day, I received feedback on my piece from someone I respect immensely. “If I got this—with everything going on in the world right now—I’d think the client was out of touch… It’s too happy.” She went on. 

In my long and detailed follow-up response, I defended my position and called her out for letting her personal biases color her professional judgment. But then again, don’t we all? I backpedaled, hit delete, and instead sent a simpler response, “OK, I’ll rework it.”

After I let go of my bruised ego, reread her perspective, and returned to the page, a different and better narrative unfolded: a pivot from happy to hopeful. Our collective final product was stronger than my initial draft. “And yet, the sun still shines,” I concluded.

But I left the project wondering how two people could see the same day so differently. And then there was that comment.

If I choose to bask in the sun—to mine for the good and the possible, even amid the terrible—does this make me out of touch? If I prefer to discriminate in decisions about what I consume and with whom I spend my time, is this such a bad thing? Am I really missing out if I’ve opted out of a system engineered to pickpocket my attention; manufactured to curate my experience; architected to tell me who I am and what to think; and rigged to keep too many so small? I’m not so sure.

I think our positions and consumption inform the world we see and experience, not necessarily the one that is. You see, the sun always shines. This is not an issue of ignorance. It’s a fact.

But from where we sit, day appears to become night before the dawn returns. And oftentimes clouds come. The lowest, darkest, and most persistent can easily consume. Even when they relent, they promise to return. They obscure perspectives and cloud judgment until there’s nothing else to see but gray and gloom. And then the wind comes. Then rain. Then lightning. Then thunder.

And then?

• We fume. We fight. We fear. 
• We deny and go to sleep. 
• We watch and wait to see.
• We take control and march. 

We can mindlessly check out, numb ourselves, refuse to engage, and give up. Or not.

Alternatively, to see clearly—to affect change and do something, as so many keep preaching about these days—we may first need to modify our consumption. To have the courage to explore how we got here. To either change our position or leverage it to come alongside those who can’t.

Then perhaps we can use the fiercest storms to reconsider, to revise, to remember, to become better...

Either way, the sun still shines.  

token black mom speaks

It’s interesting to be the only black woman many of the people in my community know. Or perhaps the only one a handful feel comfortable enough to text.

But tokenism isn’t new to me. I’ve often been the only one. Or I’ve been one of few for most of my life. But this week, this old-familiar role has taken a turn and churned. I’ve been on the receiving end of many ill-timed texts from well-meaning white mothers reaching out.

I haven’t yet responded because in each circumstance, these messages have caught me off guard. And further, what can I say? Perhaps I’ve left most of these messages unread because I’m not sure the senders will like my response.

You see, I have little sympathy for your fear. I have no words to soothe your concerns. And forgive me, but right now I have minimal interest in wiping away the tears you’ve shed because you just got the memo that racism is real.

Real racism.

Just because it’s on your radar at the moment, this violence and overt racism isn’t new. George Floyd isn’t the first, and sadly, he won’t be the last. But before you cast stones, post, or hit send once more, please first consider the insidious and very real daily assaults the media and social outlets will never spotlight.

• Consider your own side comments and averted glances.
• Consider the way you patronize with your assumptions. 
• Consider the way you hire, promote, and compensate your employees. 
• Consider the way you judge those who look or think differently than you. 
• Consider the thousands of thoughts you think before you’ve had time to filter them. 
• Consider the ways you have ignored and excluded. 
• Consider the company you keep.
• Consider the way your child’s flippant use of the n-word might affect their “friend.”
• Consider how your guest’s drunken remarks might impact the one black girl in the room. 
• Consider your biases against my son. 
• Consider why neither my husband nor daughter have received your sympathy.
• Consider why such egregious behavior is required for you to consider my feelings. 

I could go on.

A text—really?

In my opinion, mudslinging via social media is too easy. So is texting. And it’s an inappropriate medium for an actual conversation.

Although you may feel better because you’ve expressed your solidarity via text with your one black acquaintance, your courageous and carefully crafted message pokes at deep wounds and stirs fury. This may not have been your intention, but I thought you should know. You’ve also sidestepped a fucking impossible conversation with the bridge you’ve erected. This conversation you’ve averted bears the weight, pain, blood, and tears of generations.

Your text message may absolve you of your emotions in the moment, but tonight it leaves me to shoulder a lifetime of burdens. Honestly, I find this behavior both thoughtful and careless.

Black like me.

I would never assume the model on a magazine cover encompasses the depth, diversity, and complexity of white people. Yet so many have conflated a collective trauma with the assumption that all black people are having a universal experience.

You’ve based your perception of me and what I might be thinking on the sensational stories and stereotypes perpetuated in the media. You’ve incorrectly assumed—because of my skin color—that I’m following, fretting, and fuming as you are. You assume you know my politics. And you have the audacity to suggest that one dimension of my person predicates my attention, actions, feelings, beliefs, and my vote.

But black isn’t monochromatic. And contrary to what you may have assumed, I don’t represent all black people. I can hardly speak for the individual experiences of an entire race. So please, do us both a favor: unpack this box and let me out.

Yes, my skin is dark. Yes, people constantly make snap judgments about me because of it. And yes, more than once, I’ve been approached or stopped by suspicious but kind police officers on account of it.

It’s true that I must work twice as hard for less. It's true that my children must tread lightly in ways some of their lighter or darker friends may never experience. And it's true that we've each been on the receiving end of insufferable ignorance and heart-rending comments in our communities, churches, schools, workplaces, with friends, and in our own family.

But I don’t need your pity. And I certainly don’t need you to march on my behalf. 

A different narrative.

I could be angry. I could be fearful. And maybe I should be. But there’s too much to feel angry about. And there’s too much to fear. Sometimes I feel sad, but I can’t stay there long. Because the anger, violence, sadness, fear, and resentment I’m apparently entitled to don’t serve me. And if I let them, they would paralyze me. So thank you for your messages and concern, but respectfully, I will not perpetuate this bullshit. And I won’t be joining you as you march down this road.

The many lives that have been stolen deserve better. Damn straight, black lives matter. Every life does. So I choose love.

Yes, there are a handful of terrible people in the world who do shitty things. But in my experience, these are exceptions, not the rule. Most of the people I’ve encountered in this lifetime are loving and kind, and they’re doing their best. Yes, racism sucks and it’s real. But so is love. I choose love.

Since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. 

I’ll tell you that I am a black woman and so much more. I love my life. I love my family. And I encounter awe-inspiring beauty daily. I’m grateful to the mothers who loved before me. I’m grateful for the mothers who stand beside me. I’m grateful for the path that brought me here and for the compassion, empathy, ethic, and perspective it has gifted me. And I’m honored to be a black mother in America.

Finally, to you who have suggested that it must be so hard to be the mother of a black son, I say hell no. It is one of the greatest joys of my life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.