Another Rant On Racism

As a white (tall, blonde) woman, I've been looked at many different ways:  Dismissively. Appreciatively. Not at all. On the sly. Disrespectfully. Up, down, up, down and back up again.

But, before last weekend, I've never experienced a look of complete and sheer terror. The kind normally reserved for lunging lions. Or realizing that you've woken up inside a burning building. The kind fueled by sheer adrenaline and gut instinct, far beyond any calming grasp of logic. 

The kind that black people, like André, my husband of fifteen years, deal with way too often.

The kind that gets black people killed for no other reason than the ignorant narrative of hate in someone else's head.

The kind that white people never get to experience, because if they did, maybe they'd get it. And maybe they'd speak up. And maybe this would finally have a chance of ending in my lifetime.

I'm not holding out hope.

Last Friday. Date night. Boston. 2014. Fifty years past the Civil Rights Act of 1964. A half century since we've had any meaningful dialogue in this country about race or racism, because, just like polio, didn't we cure that back in the day? And, really, what do 'they' want anyway?

We are a country of cowards without empathy or understanding.

Our evening started underground in a garage on Boyston, near historic Fenway. The garage was new. And well lit. And apparently safe enough for the cast of Top Chef Boston, who lived in the expensive digs above during the taping. But on this rainy night, only one other car drove by.

"This place is kinda creepy," said André--uttering the most ironic line of the night.

By the time André and I rounded the corner for the elevator, another couple, also on date night, were waiting in the glass enclosed space. They were in an embrace. Relaxed. Her head tucked on his chest. And then the white man spied André, coming directly towards him. 

In his eyes? I saw sheer terror.

And it wasn't even directed towards me. Tunnel vision had kicked in. His focus was entirely on André and the danger that a dark-skinned brother in a black puffer coat, represented to him. Within milliseconds, he transformed my kind husband, known to take in PBS documentaries on wild turkeys, into a violent thug, ready to rob, rape, break both his legs and beat him with them. 

White dude, and his limited brain, had entered into a fight for his life. 

Only it was all by himself.

As André opened the door for me, white dude immediately went into action, frantically patting himself down, in places that he didn't even have pockets. The dude's complete panic would have been humorous if it wasn't so sad. He said to his date he left the ticket in the car. 

He might as well have said the gun.

And he was off. Flight. Leaving his girlfriend, whose only fault was her taste in men, behind. She was polite. She spoke to us directly, telling us to go ahead when the elevator finally came. She treated both of us like human beings. Clearly, her dude could learn a thing or two from her.

If he ever came back from his car.

I can't stop thinking about this. In a sick way, I'm grateful to this asshole, for showing me,as a white person, something that not only has never happened to me, but something that would be really hard for me to imagine, even with my understanding of André's experience in this world.

But really, it just leaves me with more questions.

Like how do we end racism when it comes from a place so deep in someone's soul, that it's a defining characteristic, like eye color--that never gets acknowledge, nevermind challenged? How do we end racism when simply seeing a person of color invokes such an intense, primal response, that certain people decide their only option is to kill before they are killed?

Damned if I know. 

I just continue to believe that I'm in this unique place for a reason. So I'll just keep talking.

Turning The Page

Everyone remembers their first big job. You know, the one that bumped your pay grade just enough to indulge in stuff other than groceries or rent. And I, I, was working towards one thing. That single splurge that would mark, to me at least, that I'd made it. 

Cue the Hallelujah Chorus: A subscription to The Providence Journal. 

Delivered daily. 

To. My. Door.

Go ahead. Call me a journalism geek. I'll take it. (And probably deserve it, especially once you add in the fact that the second indicator of my world domination was being able to subscribe to Newsweek--at the same time!) Eventually, I MADE it, wildly flaunting BOTH subscriptions. 

But then, things slowly began to change. 

Newsweek got cut from the roster first, after gradually deviating from its oddly successful model, of, well, promoting news, that had sustained it for over 80 years. Kim Kardashian. Not news. It's on-line model, to me, was a shell of its former self. I didn't renew. 

And earlier last month, after an agonizing decision, I reluctantly decided to let my beloved Providence Journal go as well. (Ironically, or not so much, it was the same week that this column appeared in the Providence Phoenix. It's so not my imagination.)

For me, it went back, just as it came in, to economics. An outstandingly bad timed quarterly payment to the newspaper, rolled up alongside taxes and life insurance premiums, made me look at the budget hard. The value for the information received just wasn't there anymore. So, I substituted the e-edition for print, wondered when exactly people stopped being able to pay weekly, and tried to be okay with not physically turning the page. 

I'm not.

In fact, I'm not really cool with the pace, in the twenty years since I graduated from college, that the industry has changed. This short attention theatre stuff is killing me. Where's the details? The art of the long form? The investigations? The building of the story? The getting lost in it? The learning of something? Anything.

I know it's all just business. Like it was in 1992, when two daily editions of the ProJo got folded into one. And in 1997 when the independent locally owned newspaper got sold to a media corporation in Texas. And in 2008, when the ProJo closed their local bureaus, and ending neighborhood zone coverage. 

It's all just business. But it still makes me sad.

Kindness of Strangers

You may have seen me in Narragansett Pier last Saturday afternoon. 

I was the chick shuffling along the seawall in flip-flops and an aqua cover-up, balancing my beach bag in one hand, while clutching this lovely white floral centerpiece, along with its glass vase, against my right hip, trying not to spill too much water.

The theme of the day? Kindness of strangers.

It was our first visit to the beach this year. Sigh. I know. We live in the Ocean State. But I've realized that giving yourself complete permission to mark off a single day on your calendar, to sit in the sand and watch the waves lap at the shore is something that most people beyond the age of 22 rarely do. 

It's more adult, read: productive, to run around on these beautiful days and do errands. Or laundry. Or clean the house. 

Completely wrong. We will fix this.

Narragansett is an outstandingly special spot for Andre and I. Way back in the spring of 1992, when I was a student at URI, and in the midst of my daily walk on Ocean Road, someone shouted from the window of a passing automobile, "Hey, sexy!", then stopped 100 feet ahead. (He'll deny it.)

A girl with street smarts would have turned around when they didn't recognize the car. But I wasn't finished with my work-out, so I continued on my path, naturally, while peering out of the corner of my eye at a safe distance. Thankfully, it was only Andre, my co-worker from the Showcase Cinemas, who also lived in the neighborhood.

The start of our special place.

Last Saturday, Andre and I were looking for a spot to sit on Narragansett Town Beach (the BEST in the state), when someone Andre used to work with spied us. We've run into Vinny before near the beach, but truthfully I don't even think he knows my name. There was a couple minutes of small talk before Vinny said:

"I'm glad you guys are still together."

Aw. Beyond sweet. His words, along with the truly perfect weather, was more than enough to make this beach day memorable. But there was more to come.

On the way back to the car, we walked beneath The Towers, where our wedding reception was held back in 1999. Pure magic. The door was open, so we went inside to look at the pictures of the historic casino that were hanging in the lobby.

Maybe a minute after our arrival, I could hear someone struggling at the front door with something heavy. I turned to Andre and said, "Maybe someone could use your help."

The someone was Towers coordinator, Kate, a passionate steward of the historic building. She remembered us from over 14 years ago, and our passions--photography and writing. When I commended her on her memory, I occurred to me that maybe it wasn't so much her recall, but our stories, and who we are as people, that made us stand out.

She took us on a tour of the upstairs banquet hall, set up for an evening wedding, including a stop on the truly breathtaking outside deck, with its panoramic views of the shore. Here, Kate pointed out an osprey in the water and told us how when the seagulls followed fish at night, they look like white butterflies fluttering over the water. 

When we were leaving, Kate presented me these flowers, leftover from a reception the night before. I was beyond touched by her beautiful gesture. And I was once again struck by the fact that some of the most powerful positivity in my life has not come from traditional sources, but from surprising places when I least expected it.

It was also a further reminder that if you listen to the universe, it will always give you what you need. 

And what you deserve.

All Good Things Must Come To An End

In July, 2011, I set out on a personal challenge: Write one blog post per week for a year.

That's fifty-two essays, in case your elementary math really sucks.

And I wasn't just going for a record of what I ate for breakfast. (Oatmeal. Steel cut. With fresh blueberries, raw almonds, a glass of cranberry juice and a Starbucks iced French Roast.) I wanted to create a platform that was thought provoking. Conversation inspiring. To bring voice to issues that mattered. 

Or at least ones that mattered in my world.

Two years, and one hundred and six consecutive posts later (107 if you count this one), clearly, this grand experiment has gone a bit into overtime. (I'll blame my obsessively competitive nature. Even if I'm the only one running in the race.) 

And so, while I'm giving myself a standing O for outstanding achievement in discipline and deadlines, without any enforcer (or money) involved, it's time to pick up this party and move in another direction.

What? And you thought authoring an unpaid blog was my life dream?

Don't worry. I'm not saying good-bye to the blog. (Or, horrors of horrors, writing.) My mouth is far too big to stay silent for long. But what I am saying good-bye to is this rigid schedule of posting every Thursday like clockwork. 

Because that part is feeling increasingly like a job. Instead of what it really is: 

A calling and a passion.

Trayvon Who? Or More Tales From Racist America 2013

Last Friday, my husband Andre, and a couple of buddies, took the two and a half hour ride from Providence to the northwest corner of Connecticut, to see Soulive, his all time favorite band. 

Norfolk, CT, not to be confused with Norwalk, is a small rural place near the foothills of the Berkshires. Population: 1,709. According to the 2010 US Census, the racial breakdown is: 1659 White, 12 African American, 11 Asian, 2 American Indian, 7 Other and 18 Identified by two or more races.

In other words: 97 percent of the population is white.

In other, other words:  Andre, a black man, is probably gonna stick out a bit.

No biggie. 

One of the many beautiful things about my husband is, even after living forty-eight years in his dark hued body, that he doesn't look at life with the weight of some angry chip on his shoulder, expecting folks to react in a certain way. 

Andre is ALWAYS just Andre. Mellow. Accepting. Nonjudgmental. A quality cat.

His only expectation? That you'll treat him the same.

Friday night was no exception. After dinner at the restaurant downstairs, he started to lead his two friends, tickets in hand, upstairs to the concert venue. The ushers at the top of the stairs, the only official people in sight, were Andre's target. 

But apparently, because he'd never been there before, Andre misstepped protocol--and clearly the safety measures that had been put into place to avoid gate crashers.

Even though the place only holds 300 people. 

Even though these Three Amigos, one towering way over six feet, would have been pretty easy to spot in the half sold crowd of 150 people, should their intent be to slip past the first checkpoint, a woman who clearly wasn't manning her station. 

"Hey! Where are you guys going?" called the woman from off to the side. 

"I saw you talking over there," said Andre.

Translation: I didn't think you were working here.

"Yeah, well I thought I was going to have to wrestle you," said the woman.

"I get that a lot," said Andre.

And then? The 'oh, no you didn't moment.' The kind that stops time, where the speaker realizes what she said and the participants wait to see how each other will react.

To Andre, a black man, the white woman said, "Watch it, boy." 

Really, lady. What were you thinking?

Sure. I can pause and give her the benefit of the doubt for a (milli)second. What if she was just trying to be flirty? Or show my husband that she was 'down with him'. Sorry. Doesn't matter or work here. There's just certain things you don't do in life, whatever your intent: Say hijack in an airport. Yell fire in a theatre. 

And, especially if you're a white person, call a black man, 'boy'. 

Way too racially charged. Way too much history. Way too much context.

And truly, what's up with the timing here? Her sorry outburst came just hours after the President's speech on race. It came just days after the George Zimmerman verdict. Maybe its me--and apparently it is-- but is it crazy to think those situations would cause other people to not only reflect about their beliefs, but be a bit more thoughtful about their interactions with one another?

Luckily for her, Andre had that introspection piece covered for both of them.

No doubt, timing is everything. If she had uttered those words to anyone other than my husband, she may have gotten a hugely different reaction. Conversely, if any of this went down prior to the Trayvon Martin case , and his own deep reflections, Andre may have reacted differently. Truthfully, he probably would have opted to say nothing, silently steaming about this ignorant woman.

She would have become part of his negative history.

But instead, because of this Zimmerman verdict. Because of his anger over the senseless killing of a black teen who was much like him. Because of his recent experience developing and teaching a workshop on cultural and race relations, Andre did something a whole lot more powerful.

He looked her in the face and said, very calmly, "That's not very culturally competent."

Andre spoke the truth.

And for a moment, at least, it worked.