Against White Fragility and Entitlement (Especially My Own)

I’m ashamed to admit that it took me more than four decades to learn the above sentiment, and probably I’m still in the long hard process of learning it. In my twenties, I remember refusing to join the Gay Straight Alliance at Syracuse because I thought they were too hard on straight people. When my feed erupted with grief about Ferguson and Charleston and all the other white atrocities of the past few years and my friends all called out for white people to wake up, I’m ashamed to admit that it hurt my feelings. I’d been doing my best to fight racism and I wanted credit for that, like some kind of get-out-of-racism-free card.

That’s white fragility—we’re so used to not having to think about our racial identity that it feels upsetting when someone asks us to examine our role in things. My entitlement was in thinking that for acknowledging the existence of racism, I should somehow get a pass, should get some kind of gratitude. The poets asking white people to wake up weren’t necessarily even talking about me, but I felt indignant anyway, entitled to credit and rewards for caring about justice, which is really the bare minimum of what every human being should do.

Those at the top of the privilege pile (Here I’m talking about white people, but this also applies to male, straight, cis, Christian, and all of the other American entitlements) we feel hurt when we’re questioned because we (unconsciously, I hope) think that our status entitles us to be the ones doing the questioning, the shaping, the defining of even the most deeply personal parts of other people’s lives.

The thing that makes me the angriest about entitlement is the way that we colonize other people’s identities. We superimpose our idea of what people should be and refuse to let them define themselves. That is an evil coercion that threatens and warps the basic, unique, loving perfection that each individual is born with. I would love to see what we’d all be like without the personal colonizations of the power structure.

One of the most sickening examples of white entitlement is the idea I keep hearing from white people that if people of color “showed more respect” to the police, they would not be hurt. This is an abuser’s mindset, and there is absolutely no way for abused people to win it. As someone who grew up with abusive parents, I can understand a tiny fragment of what this might feel like. You bend and twist and hide and equivocate to try and please your oppressor and create some kind of safety for yourself. You learn the moods and whims and warning signs and you shrink yourself down as far as you can go, but you always, always still get hit, hurt, punished. Or in the case of so many people of color, murdered by police.

            The insidious idea beneath all of this is the same one that fuels rape culture: the assumption that if something bad happens to you, you must deserve it. My mother        broke my heart when she suggested that Trayvon Martin must’ve done something we didn’t know about.

            People embrace this false reasoning to protect themselves from the sadness all around them, and I can feel compassionate about that, but it isn’t okay the way it allows us to turn a blind, callous eye toward the people who need us most. Blaming the victim is what allows all cycles of abuse to continue, what makes the fight for fairness feel so impossible.

            But I’m mostly writing this to expose my own very regrettable blind spots. Last spring, in a fight about something only vaguely related, a former friend said that I’d failed as a teacher because of my entitlement and cowardice. Mean, but not entirely wrong. There were a million things that made me a bad fit for the classroom, but there was also this:

            In retrospect, I think I felt entitled to a level of respect from the children that was not directly proportional to my basic person-ness. As a white person with primarily black students, I think that on some level I expected the kids to treat me better because some creepy, awful part of me thought I was better. In times of stress, ugly things came out of my mouth that I will never forgive myself for. At my last school, I got livid when parents would rather talk to my African American grade partner, despite the fact that she had four decades of experience on me, vastly more insight into the children’s lives, and was generally all-around awesome. (She tried so hard to convince me that I was a good teacher, to prop me up as I collapsed under anxiety, and I should probably write her a letter of thanks.) I went into education to fight the achievement gap and be a resource for African American children, and I am deeply ashamed of how much gratitude I thought I deserved for that.

            White entitlement is only a tiny piece of the sociopolitical tangle of life in those classrooms, but it was a thread. I’m not telling you all this to ask for absolution, but to share some important missteps on my road to imperfect but steadfast allyship. I’m so ashamed, I’m so sorry, and thank you for sticking with me in spite of my failures.

            To change things, we all have to be able to check our assumptions and examine our underlying motivations, our ugly inherited selfishness about our place in the world. Today, I try to be always ready to say I’m sorry, always ready to listen. I feel so grateful to everyone who has been a bridge for me, who has let me cross over into other circles and cultures and make stupid mistakes so I can get better. It’s a very lucky life, and I’m going to keep trying hard to honor it.

The Day I Met John Lewis!!!

Over the summer, I felt like Congressman John Lewis was one of the people taking care of me. Reading parts one and two of March gave me a deeper perspective on the Civil Rights Movement and a wider lens on what’s at stake in the current election. During the time of pain, fear, and frustration that followed Orlando, the sit-in on the congress floor gave me reassurance that someone cared, that someone was fighting for both LGBT safety and gun control improvements. John Lewis was at the center, giving me a sense of purpose and forward motion in what could easily feel like a brutal and broken world.

So when I heard that he would be stopping by our local Philly for Hillary office, I very nearly swooned. I was grateful that I happened to be in the office for a canvass when they found out, or I might have missed it—one of the synchronicities that always keep me just a little bit mystical about things. I couldn’t believe I would have a chance to thank him, and thank him, and thank him again for how much he’d done for all of us all of his work and pain and sacrifice to try and help our nation live up to the democratic, egalitarian place it is supposed to be.

Amy found me a copy of March Book Three to get signed. I wore my favorite blue-flowered Democrat dress and left the bookstore early so I could get in a little phonebanking before the big event. We were out on the back patio calling because it was too loud and crowded inside. It was a hazy, warm morning and everything was a little damp. Lots of the people I was calling were getting their second call of the day because of multiple event invitations, I guess, and they didn’t even mind, that’s how hardcore our local Democrats are. One woman told me that she was setting up a voter registration table outside of her house. Another asked me how she could work the polls on Election Day. Even though I was being a pain and calling people while they were a work, they often very kindly gave me a time to call back later. I love Democrats, that’s one thing I know for sure.

I got through a LOT of call sheets while we were waiting for the congressman to arrive. The phonebankers were antsy that we might miss out, but our organizers assured us they’d bring him to us first. I was on a call when he came through the back door, and I had to hastily say “I have to let you go now, John Lewis just got here!” to the nice voter on the phone.

I was shaking as I took March out of my purse for him to sign. I was afraid to monopolize him and didn’t know how to approach him even though he was right there, on the back patio of the what used to be the coffee shop where I hosted poetry reading way back when. Luckily for my hero-struck self, my new favorite organizer said “Let me introduce you to your biggest fan!” and brought him right to me.

So far this year, I’ve shaken the hand of a former president, our god-help-us-if-she’s-not-the-next president, and the president of Planned Parenthood, but shaking John Lewis’s hand was by far the warmest, deepest, and most meaningful. People snapped pictures as he signed my book, and I blithered on and on, saying many, many, thank yous and trying not to fall down. I got to tell him that his books inspire me every day. The local paper took a picture of us with the book and I would really, really like to have that photo.

One of the most humbling and awe-filled moments of this fraught year came when he thanked me for my work—the man who fought and suffered and worked harder for good than almost anyone was thanking me for a few cozy calls, a few sunny days of knocking on doors. I felt tiny and universal all at once.

After he was done thanking phone-bankers, he went inside the packed headquarters and gave a rousing speech about how he cried when Barack Obama won Pennsylvania, and then again when he was inaugurated, and how he plans to cry when we inaugurate our first woman president. He led the headquarters in a chant of “Yes we can!” before he was quickly spirited out the back door and on his way.

I turned to the woman next to me, who was looking as awed and joyed as I was, and said “That was a big moment.” and she said “Yes it was.” And we were together in it then, in the strength of unity and progress. I could feel the project of justice moving forward, even though it is almost always maddeningly slow.

Sometimes it feels crazy to believe in progress. The systems and blindnesses that oppress and brutalize America are so massive and entrenched, sometimes it feels stupid and hopeless to fight. Though sometimes I’ve felt lonely and lost, meeting John Lewis reminded me that if we keep going, we can be a little piece of progress every day. It galvanized my heart to keep working for racial justice, for gender equality, and for LGBT rights because there is such a powerful wave of good history and work behind us, pushing us forward like a wave. The warmth of his hand let me let go of my failures and really touch the little bits of good I can accomplish in this life. I will never, never stop saying thank you.

Things That Made 2016 a Life-Changing Summer, Part One

Things That Made 2016 a Life-Changing Summer, Part One

In some ways, I’m just beginning to process the fact that my summer began an intricate fracture and a harrowing surgery that coincided with forty-nine of my people being brutally murdered in a nightclub. But somehow, the magic of staying engaged and working for change kept me from seeing the world as a pile of bloody bones. It was a miracle summer that changed me in so many large and small ways. Hoping to honor the profound and ridiculous experiences that I’ve been blessed with, in no particular order.

1.      The way the world looked out for me when I was hurt. From the moment that I was hurt, passersby gathered to help. A pair of strangers called 911 and stayed with me. A passing friend-of-a-friend brought me ice and stayed to comfort me. My library friends came out and helped me to keep from passing out, helped me to get the driver’s information. The driver waited with me too. The EMTs and policemen were kind and helpful, keeping me calm in such a scary moment. Nearly every healthcare professional I encountered has been expert, thorough, and kind. 

      

      Most important, though, has been Amy. She has sacrificed so much time to help me get through recovery and to this place of near-health. Our original plan for the summer had been for me to cover the store as much as possible so that she could take a vacation and get some of her own medical stuff done, and I feel TERRIBLE that that didn’t happen—I hope that I get to make it up to her somehow, thought she certainly doesn’t expect me to. Every day I’m amazed that I pulled off the magic trick of being best friends with my ex-wife, and I’m so, so lucky.

2.      The Philly for Pulse Vigil. I’ve already written about it here, but that evening stayed with me. It made me so proud and grateful to be part of such a diverse and activist city, to keep that closeness with my fellow humans as we marched through the street and tried to remember the words to “Born This Way.”

3.      Marching for Black Lives.  After the murders of Philando Castile and Alton sterling, Amy and I decided to join one of the many marches happening around the city. The march we chose was in a cool Puerto Rican neighborhood I’d never visited before. There were metal palm trees decorating the street corners and golden murals like everywhere. As we marched, residents unfurled flags from their balcony like something you’d see on the news, like being in history. The gnashing events of the week found expression, everyone was rising up. I didn’t agree with everything the march leaders were saying, but why should I need to? It was grief and revolution and honesty. After the post-accident weeks I’d spent being afraid to cross the street, I was helping strangers shut down an intersection, awed to be a body for them. My own allyship has been fraught and deeply flawed, but it was a gift to be trying still, standing up for justice in such a clear and tangible way.

4.      Flowers and fireflies. While I was scared and stuck and concentrating on growing bones, while I couldn’t write or draw or drive, I made myself keep up on my walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes I was sad that I couldn’t go further, but the flowers on these few blocks were different every day. There was always something new to notice, and for the first half of the summer, there were always fireflies. Being separated from usual summer goals and preoccupations, I was able to look more closely at what was in front of me, to slow down and take more notice.

I originally meant to put all of the things in one post, but I got overwhelmed so I’ll have to space it out. So much to get to!

The Day I Shook Bill Clinton's Hand

“We can’t hide from any of these hard truths about race and justice in America. We have to name them, and own them, and then change them.”

Hillary Clinton, June 20, 2015

Although as someone who remembers the Nineties well, I know enough to blame the Republican Senate for many of the letdowns of Bill Clinton’s presidency, I did have to cross some picket lines in my mind to get excited about going to see him speak. However, as both he and Hillary have done so much to support the poor, to fight for women’s rights, and to bring GLBT rights into the national conversation, I was jumping-up-and-down happy to show up first thing in the morning as one of the volunteers for the April 7^th event.

I phone-banked for President Obama, but this was my first time volunteering in support of a big event. When I got there and saw the other volunteers, I almost wept for joy. My facebook feed had made me feel like quite the lonely feminist, but here was a beautiful, diverse, welcoming team of mostly African American people from around the city and from the campaign itself. One volunteer was wearing a shirt that said, in rainbow letters, “Women’s Rights Are Human Rights,” and I knew I’d found my people.

My team was given clipboards so we could have people fill out their tickets to get inside. Two hours before they were to open the doors, I was sent around back of the building to help direct anybody who was lost. My directing partner was an African American gentleman who’d just retired. He told me that he and his wife love trading off the remote these days, but today he had to get out and do something. We groused about the rain together. He spoke passionately about how relieved he’ll be when President Obama is out of office, because he isn’t treated with the respect that a President deserves. We agreed that Hillary Clinton would have to go through similar assaults on her dignity, that it would be hard.

He and I were stationed near a friendly Secret Service agent who kept us updated on the weather. As it blustered and rained, we signed happy people in. One lady was wearing her T-shirt from the first Clinton presidency, the first time I voted, when I was eighteen.

After we were done helping people in, I said goodbye to my partner and switched clipboards so I could help sign people up to phone bank and canvass. The crowd inside the event was BEAUTIFUL, smiling, dancing here and there to Bill Withers’s Lovely Day. I signed up people of all ages and demographics, some of whom were inspired by Hillary’s platform to sign up for a campaign for the first time ever. I loved helping them find hours in their days and fill out their forms, letting them know that they could even phone bank from home. Men, women, and children volunteered their time, their talent, their artistic and organizing skills, the few spare moments they have.

A classroom of children were up on the bleachers, looking around the room in wonder and chanting “HRC! HRC!” In the midst of this tense and often-segregated city, it was a pleasure to be united with my fellow citizens for a common cause. Well, almost united. Almost all of us.

We were a festive crowd, but serious. I didn’t see the appealing Phish-show merriment that Sanders rallies seem to have, but I think I’m okay with serious when it comes to electing a president.

I used up all of my extroversion and almost all of my clipboard sheets. My fondness for paperwork comes in handy once again.

When President Clinton took the stage, I was standing with a class of African American kids and their teachers, my heart overflowing with love. The crowd was rapt for the President’s speech, woohooing the loudest about teachers and about Planned Parenthood. I’ve heard Bill Clinton give a commencement address, so this wasn’t the most eloquent I’ve seen him, but he was hitting the points we’d come to hear.

When the protest signs went up, my heart dropped. I watched them there in the middle of the crowd, hoping that they would be safe. When that brave woman started to speak, what you can’t really tell from the news is that she was heard. Though I don’t agree with her choice to blame Hillary for the crime bill, I was absolutely dazzled by this young woman’s courage. To stand up in the middle of a crowd and disagree with one of the most powerful men in the world is an act of bravery that should be honored, whether I agree with her or not. And I do agree with her on her most important point, that Black Lives Matter.

Wanting Hillary to have a chance to continue the Clintons’ decades of social justice work kept me on Bill’s side, but it the going was tough. I had a therapist once tell me that I don’t have enough room in my life for moral ambiguity, and I would like to have emailed her this deeply complicated day.

I want to be careful about how I say this next part, and it may well come out wrong. As the protesters continued to make themselves heard, I knew the exact moment when Twitter would explode. When Bill said the thing that I knew would be the headline, I looked around me in horror, expecting to see the same in the faces around me, but I didn’t. Though I  cannot and would not presume to know what they were thinking, the African American people around me seemed to be nodding in emphatic agreement with the President. One of the young women from the elementary class next to me yelled at the protesters to “Shut up!” but I (my teacher brain making me think all kids are my business) told her to listen to the protesters too and that everything would be okay.

Noting the presence of the Secret Service in the crowd, the teachers soon led their students out. I’m glad they got to see this. I’m glad they got to see how powerful one voice can be, and I hope that they’re inspired to grow up just as passionate and vocal.

I felt overwhelmed with so many different emotions, but when the line formed and the President came to shake hands, I stuck mine out. He took it, and held on while he was talking to the person in front of me, for a long time, and it almost felt like I was holding him up. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life. I was connecting with everything I stood for and against, with power and struggle and humanity. With a new forgiveness in my heart, I almost looked into his eyes. He looked tired, sad, and haunted. I’ve only done a microscopic fraction of what he’s done, but I do know what it’s like to fuck up while working against racism, what it’s like to set out to do good and find oneself pinned down by a poison system. What if, like everyone, he’s doing the best he can?

In the end, though, it’s Hillary Clinton who is running for president, and I believe she’s the candidate with the drive, skill, and wherewithal to help us build a country where Black Lives Matter. Her racial justice platform touches on many issues that are deeply important to me as an educator, particularly her plans to take apart the school to prison pipeline, [1] and end the achievement gap.[2] She also aims to protect transgender women of color [3] and has the clearest plan for supporting LGBT rights overall. [4] For these reasons, I hope that voters will look past the headlines and choose the candidate most equipped to improve African American lives.

---

[1] “In too many communities, student discipline is overly harsh, with too large an emphasis on suspension, expulsion, or even police involvement—disproportionately impacting students of color and those with the greatest economic, social, and academic needs. Hillary will work to dismantle the school-to-prison pipeline by providing $2 billion in support to schools to reform overly punitive disciplinary policies, calling on states to reform school disturbance laws, and encouraging states to use federal education funding to implement social and emotional support interventions.” (https://www.hillaryclinton.com/issues/racial-justice/)

[2] Every child—in every ZIP code—deserves the opportunity to live up to his or her potential. That begins with a world class education from birth through college. Hillary will double America’s investment in Early Head Start and ensure that every four year old in America has access to high quality preschool to begin closing the achievement gap. She will modernize and elevate the teaching profession to drive student achievement in our K-12 schools.” (https://www.hillaryclinton.com/issues/racial-justice/)

[3] “LGBT Americans, particularly transgender women of color, are disproportionately the targets of discrimination, harassment, and violence. As president, Hillary will fight for full LGBT equality. She will work to protect transgender individuals from violence by improving the reporting of hate crimes, investing in law enforcement training that promotes fair and impartial interactions with the LGBT community, and directing the government to collect better data regarding crime victims.” (https://www.hillaryclinton.com/issues/racial-justice/)

[4] “Today in America, nearly 65 percent of LGBT individuals report experiencing discrimination in their daily lives. LGBT youth are nearly twice as likely as their peers to be physically assaulted at school, and 74 percent of LGBT students say they’ve been verbally harassed for their sexual orientation. And a recent study found that nearly 50 percent of of LGBT elders experienced discrimination when applying for senior housing. Despite this discrimination, 31 states do not have fully inclusive LGBT non-discrimination laws. Hillary will work with Congress to pass the Equality Act, continue President Obama’s LGBT equality executive actions, and support efforts to clarify that sex discrimination includes discrimination on the basis of “gender identity” and “sexual orientation.” (https://www.hillaryclinton.com/issues/lgbt-equality/)

Dr. Qiyamah Rahman: The Ties That Bind Us

I couldn't find video of her speaking at USG, but this is the sermon that had me sniffling through the rest of the service. Toward the "Be Less Lonely" resolution...

And here's one of my favorite Radiolab Episodes, with the same whale story: Animal Blessings.

Friday Love Poem: J Mase III!

A Desperate Stonewall Love Poem for Nikki G

40 years after the fact
I am standing in this store rifling through the crisp pages
Of a famous old dyke’s poetry book
Created just months ago by
Beautiful butch hands that have become bitter 
From penning notes to her male lover
Fictitiously invented for her conservative fan base
And her elderly mother’s weak heart]
And it strikes me amongst all these words
Devoid of her own emotional presence 
That I expected her to write me a poem
I want her to write me a poem
I want her to write me the sweetest love poem
About my kinky hair
About my brown skin
About my smooth hips
About what our two bodies must look like moving through the dark
I want her to write me a love poem about freedom
I want her to write me a love poem that will convince a father 
His 13 year old gay son is still a child~ 
and not a leather bound punching bag]
I want her to write me a love poem that will house 1000 trans girls 
that have not had a home to go to 
I want her to write me a love poem that will petition the president of Uganda 
And tell him that love is not a reason to be put to death

when there are so many other wars going on outside
I want her to write me a love poem that lets two boxer wearing tranny fags 
hold hands down a dark alley and not feel fear
I want her to write me a love poem
That would have saved the lives of Tyra Hunter, Nizah Morris, Erika Keels and Sakia Gunn 
I want her to write me a love poem that lets a lesbian English teacher 
simultaneously keep her job 
and a picture of her first lover on her heart
I want her to write me a love poem
That would have tucked me in at 16 and told me
It was okay to want love
to try love
to feel *loved*
And that the true sin of Sodom and Gomorrah 
was about GREED
I want her to write me a love poem
Because to her other fans
it could be just that
But to us 
it could have been so much more

J Mase III is the author of If I Should Die Under the Knife, Tell My Kidney I Was the Fiercest Poet Around and creator of two annual performance events called Cupid Ain’t @#$%! andTransfags Taking Over. A Philly based poet, activist and loud mouthed queer, J Mase III is the stuff that dreams are made of! To find out what J Mase is doing these days, check out his facebook page at: www.facebook.com/masonthewordartist

On This Day Last Year

On this day last year, I left my second AmeriCorps term early, due to a hostile work environment and a can’t-get-out-of-bed depression.

It was a gorgeous, warm day and XPN was playing all of these really soothing songs about transition. I went in before anybody was in the office yet. Amy kept the car running while I gathered up my bins and some supplies.

I left a note that said “I’m sorry. But I have to get myself healthy or I won’t be able to help anyone.”

You can read the whole story starting here, but you certainly don’t have to.

Here are some things that have changed since last year:

1.I no longer hate the sound of my own voice. Sometimes I even like it.

2. I’m even more committed to fighting racism, sexism, and homophobia, especially the ways in which those things interfere with the happiness and safety of African American kids. (Well, all kids. But especially.)

3. I don’t feel quite so guilty about being smitten with people sometimes, even though that co-worker aimed that car at me that time.

4. I don’t feel like I have to work quite so hard to prove that I’m not evil.

5. That poet guy who told me once that I don’t have a right to an opinion about hip-hop? Can suck it. And so can anyone who tries to tell anyone they don’t deserve to have a voice.

I’m so grateful for almost everything that has happened since that devastating/liberating last day. So many thanks to everyone who helped bring me back to life.

Unintentionally Sad Quotation Marks

Old-Job Exorcism, Part 1

The other day at work, I was sitting around with the children's librarian and a couple of students watching the Philadelphia Free Library’s “It Gets Better” video. I wished that I could send a video of that moment to my eight-months-ago self.

My high school bullies seem dumb and insignificant to me, as they should at 36, but the adult bullies of the past few years feel like zombies: I’m safe for now, but they’re always coming for me, ready to take everything.

I guess “exorcism” would be mixing my monster-metaphors, but I really hope that writing out the homophobia and fear from my old job will go some distance towards getting the fear out of my mind and heart.

Disclaimer 1: If you come to this blog for a cheer-up (and why shouldn’t you?) you may want to skip this series.

Disclaimer 2: Some people that I like, including one of my favorite readers, still work there. They do a LOT of good work and this is definitely not meant to hurt them.

Disclaimer 3: I don’t want to paint myself as a victim. My inability to deal with my own culture-shock went a long way toward making things harder, and I have a lot of regret about my various storm-outs. I wish there was a way to make it up to the kids I left suddenly, to the friends I lost.

The company that I worked for during my AmeriCorps service (Sept 2008- March 2010) had this mission statement: “To enrich the lives of children, youth, and families by providing educational programs and services in communities confronting high rates of poverty and other barriers to educational achievement.” That’s worth going through a lot for and I’m glad that I tried as hard as I could to accomplish that.

It is not illegal in Pennsylvania to discriminate against someone based on sexual orientation. However, since my AmeriCorps stipend was paid with federal funds, I do believe that the law was broken. You’ll see, though, why I feel like there’s not much I can do about that. Partly it was my own dumb choices.

The first afterschool site was straight-up sexist and racist. When I asked the manager for help with classroom racial tension (I was feeling drained from kids’ and coworkers’ near-constant “White people are evil” type comments, and I was unsure of how to address them) the manger responded by saying that we needed “a male teacher in the classroom, to bring more order.” My teaching partner and I were in the middle of trying to facilitate some kind of object lesson about unity, and this man wanted to pull a barrier down the middle of the room to separate the boys from the girls. I was so shocked and livid that I packed up my little pink teacher bins with my supplies and left before the kids arrived for the day. I felt like a horrible abandoner to my partner and students. I still feel that way while typing this.

The company was kind enough to transfer me to a site with a more progressive coordinator. One of my first days there was for the yearly field trip to Washington, so it was pretty easy to bond with the kids quickly. As I always do, I answered their “Who are you married to?” questions honestly and matter-of-factly, and the coordinator supported my choice to do so. One little girl spent the trip saying things like “That’s disgusting, that’s wrong, that’s a sin,” but most kids kind of just took it in stride after a few follow-up questions.

Things went really well at the new site. We published a chapbook of the kids’ poems, I got to emcee the talent show, and I brought in some slam veterans to create the tiniest performance poets. My artsy boss made me feel like my skills were welcome, even calling me “The Poetry Lady” rather than my real title, “Group Leader.” I felt like I’d found a place to fit in.

But a coulple of months after I started, The Operations Manager (my boss’s boss) pulled me aside at a training and let me know that a parent had complained and accused me of showing a kid pictures of Amy on my phone. (I hadn’t, but that seems pointless to say.) She said that talking about my family was offensive to people’s culture, and would I please show some more respect. She said that she wouldn’t want her own children to know about Amy and me.

I responded calmly but asked for a meeting about a week later. I told her that I felt discriminated against, since my coworkers could talk all about their families. My boss’s wife was always around with her pregnant tummy and their little daughter, flaunting their heterosexuality for all to see. I felt like OM and I reached some kind of understanding, but of course I never mentioned my family again, and my “progressive” boss acted terrified whenever the kids brought it up.

Since I’d accomplished so much, projectwise, in my first school year, I was promoted to Summer Program Facilitator. Stay tuned, if you can stand it, for what happened that summer.

We Have Been Known to Rally

In a rally to support the Democratic candidates in the upcoming midterm election, yesterday The Roots opened for the President and Vice President right behind our house, in the playground of the school where I worked when we first moved to Philly. I’m not quite over the shock, still, of living someplace where such a thing could happen.

I’d originally planned to go to church and then join Amy in line, but I got antsy when I started seeing families getting in line with families of folding chairs already at 10:30 am (doors were at 3), so I went home and tried to get cute while Amy made us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Yesterday was the most out that Amy and I have ever been here in our superchurchy neighborhood. Going to line up for a Democratic rally, it seemed more okay to hold hands than it usually does. We were also happy to sort of snuggle up in a sleepy way in the sun during the four hour wait.

The wait wasn’t too bad. We both brought reading material and were entertained by a the very excited group in front of us first naming TV shows and then having an awesome, awesome sing along.

Of course we signed up, in a wave of 2008 hopeandchange nostalgia, for some campaign work this month. (Politics, like baseball, are something I tend to mostly only notice in October…)

I liked how, when we got to the gate, the security guard was splitting people up by “families” to go in, whether they were actually families or not.

We found a spot about 30 feet from the stage where we could clearly see both the podium and The Roots’s instruments. After a few minutes, who should come over and stand in front of us but one Mr. Mark A, my favorite student from when I worked at Fulton. He was with two young family members who I think may’ve been dressed in purple for tolerance.

Ending up behind them, out of all the 18,000 people, made me feel like the Universe was telling me I’m forgiven for the past two years’ teaching mistakes, and am now free and clear to make some more. 

After this amazing kid’s rendition of The Star Spangled banner, a DJ who played such crowd pleasers as “It Takes Two” and “Poison” (Not to mention line dances we gamely tried to execute, despite the smooshed lack of space), here came The Roots.

They were amazing, of course, though I wish the crowd had been a little more willing to go bonkers with them.(Gratuitous aside: I never realized how hot The Roots are. Usually my Sunday forays into my hetero side begin and end with Mad Men…) Amy and I had debated whether “Dear God” was a politic song for them to sing…Amy won, I guess, cause they sang it. I was happy to sing “Why do haters separate us like we Siamese?” and the original Monsters of Folk lyrics: “I know I’m thinkin’ aloud, /But if your love’s still around/Why do we suffer?” along with 18,000 people. Pretty much makes up for missing church.

After The Roots and the actual 2010 candidates, Joe Biden introduced the President. They hugged for such a long time before the president began speaking.

The last time we saw Barack Obama speak, it was also right by my house—in Vernon Park on October 11, 2008, a few weeks before he won the election. It was a beautiful day then, too, and they kept playing that U2 “Beautiful Day” song that I begrudgingly ended up liking because it reminds me of campaign fun. I was in the middle of a race and class-struggle awakening and I really felt all the hopeandchange. I was pretty much drunk on it. We still have the flyer from that day along with other campaign ephemera on the wall.

Since that day, I’ve gotten more reticent and measured about working for change, and the nation and the president have been through a whole lot of shit. His voice has a nice pissed-off edge. He called out the Republicans on their nay-saying, rich people funding, education fucking-over: it was the most calling out that I have ever heard a democrat do.

If that speech that moved me so much in Vernon Park was the Meet the Beatles with all that exuberance, newness, and revelation, then the speech I heard yesterday is somewhere between Revolver and Abbey Road—edged, complex, and a little heartbroken. I loved it.

I didn’t love his getting-the-car-out-of-a-ditch metaphor, though. It reminded me of this household’s hopeless car years. Can’t argue with his “You put a car in “D” to move forward, in “R” to go backward” joke, though.

I can’t say that I fully believe in elections anymore. Ever since I found out that some of my students saw 2008 as a black versus white election, I’ve felt like things are so many years away from true justice and peace. But I do look forward to working on the Democrats' campaign this month. It just comes down to; it’s more fun than helplessness.

You can commit to vote and find volunteer opportunities here: http://www.barackobama.com/

July Resolution #3: Practice Writing About Race

“And why do haters separate us like we Siamese?” –The Roots

Being racist against myself might not seem like an ideal topic for a happiness blog, but if I can learn to write about it, it’ll lift a great big weight off my shoulders and help me feel more confident about my point of view.

I’m trusting you to understand that:

1. I understand that I am privileged.

2. I hate all kinds of prejudice so, so much. I am prejudiced against prejudice.

Before I came to Philadelphia and became an AmeriCorps member working in the Philadelphia public school system, I mainly thought of racism in the abstract. I was raised to believe it was wrong to discriminate, and I thought that was the norm in professional settings, at least in terms of race. I also thought of integration as something everyone agreed was good. This is a story about how I was naïve.


On the first day of AmeriCorps training, the director gave us a talk called “The Big Picture” but it might as well have been called “Poor People are Fucked.” She showed us the Philadelphia numbers that proved how much the school system is letting down African-American children. The numbers she gave us were from the school I’d be working in, and that solidified my determination and excitement about actually getting to work for change. (It was the Fall of 2008. Everyone was drunk on hopeandchange and I was no exception.)

It didn’t seem like a big deal to me that I was one of very few white people in the company until the second day of training, when one of the staff members (a charming Latina with whom I later became friends) stood up in Classroom Management training and said ”Caucasian people cannot do discipline. They can’t control a classroom.” I was absolutely shocked that no one thought to question that statement or offer a counter- opinion. Because I have this annoying tendency to believe what people say about me, that comment cast a shadow over my whole learning process. Unfortunately, those comments were the norm.

(So wait—before this, did I think only white people were racist? Maybe! That’s racist!)

As The White Lady, I caught a TINY glimpse of what it’s like to be a racial minority, to feel trapped in someone’s expectations of you, to be frustrated and held back by stereotypes. I was treated with fear and suspicion that was made worse by the fact that I’m an out bi person. (Are schools ever not homophobic?) For two years, I was talked down to, accused of being snooty, accused of “thinking I’m Gandhi” because I was enthusiastic. (BTW a Gandhi quote was the slogan of the camp, but I never quite made it to being the change I wished to see. Still working on it.)

The worst part was learning how far we are from actual integration. I felt so deeply unwelcome that I stopped being able to imagine a peaceful future.

On Inauguration Day, when the students I loved so much were celebrating the fact that Obama would “stop the white people” and a coworker told the kids I was “from a separate culture and “probably a Republican,” (!!!) something inside me just cracked. (I wanted to be all whiny, like “Hey, I phonebanked!” but that seemed kind of wrong.)

I was having a deep, awful epiphany and I felt like I had no right to write about it. I knew I would sound whiny and privileged, especially in a poetry slam situation. I wrote a lot less than usual, and after a while I couldn’t stand the sound of my voice, so I stopped performing. I lost my point of view.

Now that I’m in more loving situations, I’m grateful for my time as The White Lady—it gives me maybe more compassion and even more of a drive to work for integration and, yes! Hopeandchange.

So I’ve opened a memoir folder on the desktop marked “White Lady Issues.” Maybe I’ll share the happy parts here!

Thanks, June! And Happy July

Since Thursdays have been the bluest lately, I decided to do something extra fun every Thursday. Today I went to visit my pal Rosanna at The Academy of Natural Sciences. You should go there. The butterfly garden is so wonderful, and I learned a lot about sea creatures too.

New Grrrl Scout Badge: Learn the names of 20 Butterflies.

Anyway, so The Happiness Project! Let’s start off the month with advice from Monsters of Folk:
“Do you like where you’re living?
Do you like what you do?
Do you like what you’re seeing . . .
When you’re lookin’ at you?
Do you like what you’re saying . . .
When you open your face?
Do you got the right feeling?
Are you in the right place?”

I’m so excited to get started on my July resolutions and continue with my (slightly modified) June ones.

July:

1. Music, Music, Music, Music, Music!
2. Recognize, accept, and believe love.
3. Practice writing about race. (Weird for a happiness resolution, I know. I’ll explain soon.)
4. Sit in cafés (or poolside!) with stacks of books as often as possible.
5. Be less aloof from the divine and more open about my religious side.


June:
1. Wake up before 7 on weekdays.
2. Take long and frequent breaks from things with screens.
3. Walk in the morning, swim in the afternoon, extra fun on Thursdays.
4. Spend almost all of my free time writing, reading, or making art.
5. Show love.