Today I read Clyde Haberman's column in The New York Times, Cleared as Criminals, but Forever on Trial.
Sometimes there is a certain measure of Justice.
Ironic justice does promote restful sleep for me; I'm not grinding my teeth from the stress induced by an unfair world.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Personalizing Sean Bell
At work, there are four of us that almost daily e-mail each other: out of boredom, the news of the day, who’s screwing who on the job (and got promoted for it). Two are female, one of Chinese and the other of Italian heritage, and CK who happens to be a 40-something white, gay male. He sometimes likes to goad us into feminist rhetoric with tricky comments like, “Women want it both ways,” and sends ridiculous Hillary-bashing cartoons. Other times, any of us can launch into or participate in a flurry of e-mail discussions on some pretty serious topics – openly and with refreshing frankness.
So I took it serious when CK sent me the following e-mail.
My reply:
That’s my opinion, because Sean Bell could have been my son, and I had my own child’s life to worry about day after scary day. I knew that the same police officers who out of their job, passion, and sincere concern went searching for and found my wandering three-year-old, could be the same cops who could one day shoot him down for wearing his pants too big, his hair too long and nappy, his wise-talking mouth too sixteen year old, his testosterone-filled jogging body too “suspicious.”
My New York-born son never returned after graduating from the Wahoo (sounds too close to “yahoo,” doesn’t it?) college, University of Virginia. He chose to make a life for himself in the antebellum South. I finally released my 20-plus-years-old held breath, and exhaled with a black mother’s huge sigh of relief.
So I took it serious when CK sent me the following e-mail.
Subject: Bell verdict - All 3 officers aquitted
Mixed feelings about this... On the one had, the law hinges on intent and I don't think these police officers set out to kill this man. OTOH, as a police operation, it went so terribly awry that the participants should be held accountable.
I'm sure this is not over, with all the Civil lawsuits that will almost certainly follow.
Of the 3 defendants, only 1 of them is White, so how this pays [sic] out racially will be interesting as well.
My reply:
There may be a federal suit as well. I didn’t expect this city to convict anyway.
As for my opinion, I have little doubt what would have happened, or how race would have played out, if it had been my son who shot 31 times at a vehicle filled with unarmed white men. If my son had been brought up in a racially segregated environment ignorant of companionship, knowledge or respect for any other race but his own, yet forced to “work” with other races because of judicial ruling not civil or humane sensitivity, what then? Intent? – legal jargon, which hasn’t caught up with social reality.
That’s my opinion, because Sean Bell could have been my son, and I had my own child’s life to worry about day after scary day. I knew that the same police officers who out of their job, passion, and sincere concern went searching for and found my wandering three-year-old, could be the same cops who could one day shoot him down for wearing his pants too big, his hair too long and nappy, his wise-talking mouth too sixteen year old, his testosterone-filled jogging body too “suspicious.”
My New York-born son never returned after graduating from the Wahoo (sounds too close to “yahoo,” doesn’t it?) college, University of Virginia. He chose to make a life for himself in the antebellum South. I finally released my 20-plus-years-old held breath, and exhaled with a black mother’s huge sigh of relief.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
And then there's Bill (Cosby)
I keep receiving these e-mails about the great Bill Cosby, the one-time comedienne and TV personality, and his tirade about black people and what we’re doing wrong in our child-raising. I don’t disagree about the outwardly observable behaviors. But there’s something that goes a whole lot deeper that has very much to do with our racial history in this country. Bill shows no sensitivity to the complexities of that peculiar and unique American black experience. Those realities don’t serve as excuses for civic misbehavior, lack of scholastic interest, or maladjusted family relationships. But it takes more than media-attention humiliation to encourage people to change for the better.
What did Bill do to bring up people before he started putting down people? What improvements did he make before he started complaining about what improvements should be made – by other people? When his own “glass house” got broken, did he ever admit – publicly – to his own failings?
It’s not what or how he’s telling the truth, it’s that his truths seem shallow and certainly one-sided. Here’s what I heard: Bill’s family had their own problems. If his child became a junkie, his wife must have read her daughter bedtime stories, tended to her care and welfare, and brought her up with good manners. All was done while Bill was out being the great comedienne and TV personality – and hardly ever home. All was done while he was supposedly placing himself in positions to being accused of impregnating other women – just not getting caught. His wife performed motherly acts that didn’t take exorbitant amounts of money to do a good job, so why wasn’t Bill there to be the father the child needed?
Or is life all that simple.
My opinion: Bill Cosby beats his breast about global observations and condemnations, while wearing self-imposed dark shades and steel-armored self-reflection.
What did Bill do to bring up people before he started putting down people? What improvements did he make before he started complaining about what improvements should be made – by other people? When his own “glass house” got broken, did he ever admit – publicly – to his own failings?
It’s not what or how he’s telling the truth, it’s that his truths seem shallow and certainly one-sided. Here’s what I heard: Bill’s family had their own problems. If his child became a junkie, his wife must have read her daughter bedtime stories, tended to her care and welfare, and brought her up with good manners. All was done while Bill was out being the great comedienne and TV personality – and hardly ever home. All was done while he was supposedly placing himself in positions to being accused of impregnating other women – just not getting caught. His wife performed motherly acts that didn’t take exorbitant amounts of money to do a good job, so why wasn’t Bill there to be the father the child needed?
Or is life all that simple.
My opinion: Bill Cosby beats his breast about global observations and condemnations, while wearing self-imposed dark shades and steel-armored self-reflection.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
I hated being a child
I hated being a child because my life was controlled by others: parents, teachers, siblings, friends, strangers. The core of my being was malleable, ready to be molded by anyone who held out a manipulative hand of compassion. I had no shame; I would’ve accepted pity.
My mother beat me, my father ignored me, my siblings disliked me, my friends betrayed me, my teachers misunderstood me (“quiet children are good children”), and strangers couldn’t have cared less about me. I don’t know why. My life was just what it was, and no one explained any part of the mystery of my aloneness. Don’t know if anyone was even aware.
People, after all, get caught up in their own issues: my husband doesn’t love me; her hair is longer than mine; she’s light-skinned, I’m dark-skinned, can’t trust her; I only like cute little boys that I can mother and hold in high esteem by default; spare the rod, spoil the child – never spare the rod, never spoil the child; my feelings are the only feelings that count and kids are flexible, she’ll get over it; I can make it up to her tomorrow . . . or the next day . . . or . . . .
Being a child so sucked.
I was a favorite though to other members of my family who instantly loved the first born child to the favorite baby daughter of the most respected brother who married the most loving woman. But they lived somewhere else, not with me, and I became convinced that I didn’t know if they would have been better for me – love me better – if they got to live with the real me.
Don’t know what was wrong with me. No one ever bothered to say – even when I dared ask. My younger sister could get away with saying the most disrespectful things, behave in the most outrageous manner, settle for the lowest range of her capabilities – and everyone but me would ask for more, more of her punishment. She dropped out of high school, I began college; she got pregnant, I stayed a virgin until it became embarrassing; she went on welfare, dabbled in drugs, had sex with her boyfriends, and loved the street. I went to work, stayed a virgin, participated in routine entertainment, and avoided getting high (as much as possible). One day she woke up and pronounced, “I think I’ll turn my life around.” She did. Well, she at least had a life.
But I am the most fortunate adult. I was born a first-year Boomer.
Boomers got to break all the rules in the 1960’s. We got the pill, burned the bra, wore pants to work, took on any number of lovers and rejected those that attempted to restrain our freedom to choose – choose anything we damned well pleased. I fought hard for my financial and emotional independence. I didn’t need anyone or their opinion of me.
My inner strength came from me accepting me. Who knew it would take something like thirty, forty years?
The Age of Aquarius coincided with the Information Age. Instead of spindling my life away as an underpaid secretarial drudge, I discovered my knack for computing and made the most of it. With no unsolicited mentor willing to guide me, I hacked out my own “bull in the china shop” method of learning and promoting myself from one job to the next better paying job, from one position to the next higher position.
I’m done believing I’d probably have to work until the day I dropped. Today I own property that includes my own home, have a little money in the bank, and contemplating in-house service to my personal needs when I decide to retire to a sweet little village in Central Mexico.
My good friends are fun, supportive, and loyal. My lovers don't exist -- but I'm not waiting for the good knight on the white charger. My jobs have finally developed into a career. I'm happy.
Childhood sucked. But timing is everything. Boomers rule!
My mother beat me, my father ignored me, my siblings disliked me, my friends betrayed me, my teachers misunderstood me (“quiet children are good children”), and strangers couldn’t have cared less about me. I don’t know why. My life was just what it was, and no one explained any part of the mystery of my aloneness. Don’t know if anyone was even aware.
People, after all, get caught up in their own issues: my husband doesn’t love me; her hair is longer than mine; she’s light-skinned, I’m dark-skinned, can’t trust her; I only like cute little boys that I can mother and hold in high esteem by default; spare the rod, spoil the child – never spare the rod, never spoil the child; my feelings are the only feelings that count and kids are flexible, she’ll get over it; I can make it up to her tomorrow . . . or the next day . . . or . . . .
Being a child so sucked.
I was a favorite though to other members of my family who instantly loved the first born child to the favorite baby daughter of the most respected brother who married the most loving woman. But they lived somewhere else, not with me, and I became convinced that I didn’t know if they would have been better for me – love me better – if they got to live with the real me.
Don’t know what was wrong with me. No one ever bothered to say – even when I dared ask. My younger sister could get away with saying the most disrespectful things, behave in the most outrageous manner, settle for the lowest range of her capabilities – and everyone but me would ask for more, more of her punishment. She dropped out of high school, I began college; she got pregnant, I stayed a virgin until it became embarrassing; she went on welfare, dabbled in drugs, had sex with her boyfriends, and loved the street. I went to work, stayed a virgin, participated in routine entertainment, and avoided getting high (as much as possible). One day she woke up and pronounced, “I think I’ll turn my life around.” She did. Well, she at least had a life.
But I am the most fortunate adult. I was born a first-year Boomer.
Boomers got to break all the rules in the 1960’s. We got the pill, burned the bra, wore pants to work, took on any number of lovers and rejected those that attempted to restrain our freedom to choose – choose anything we damned well pleased. I fought hard for my financial and emotional independence. I didn’t need anyone or their opinion of me.
My inner strength came from me accepting me. Who knew it would take something like thirty, forty years?
The Age of Aquarius coincided with the Information Age. Instead of spindling my life away as an underpaid secretarial drudge, I discovered my knack for computing and made the most of it. With no unsolicited mentor willing to guide me, I hacked out my own “bull in the china shop” method of learning and promoting myself from one job to the next better paying job, from one position to the next higher position.
I’m done believing I’d probably have to work until the day I dropped. Today I own property that includes my own home, have a little money in the bank, and contemplating in-house service to my personal needs when I decide to retire to a sweet little village in Central Mexico.
My good friends are fun, supportive, and loyal. My lovers don't exist -- but I'm not waiting for the good knight on the white charger. My jobs have finally developed into a career. I'm happy.
Childhood sucked. But timing is everything. Boomers rule!
Friday, April 18, 2008
Welcome Back, Me
A three-year hiatus, but I’m back. I stopped writing for a few reasons. But mainly – One: I moved twice in one year; Two: I was too emotionally involved in my pain with the forced separation from my adult son, K.
There’re always the jokes and horror stories about mothers-in-law (MIL). I presume they’ve been written and spewed out by indifferent and ungrateful sons- and daughters-in-law (DIL). I have friends who have the sweetest, most loving children, SILs and DILs. I once had a sweet and loving son. We had a close relationship. My sister, not of the touchy-feely sort, complained while walking down streets with him; he walked so close to her. My son and I walked that close together comfortably while sharing comments, observations, jokes, moments of peacefulness and quiet.
His first day at college, I didn’t know how to leave him. He was great about it, ready to throw himself head on into his new life. I was busy tucking in his bedsheets and blanket, something I hadn’t done since his striving for independence at eight years old. Delaying the time I would have to walk out the dorm and on to a life concerned mostly with my own well-being, my own thoughts and actions about feeding, clothing, sheltering, protecting, pampering, bolstering, boosting, encouraging, confronting, scolding, sweet-talking, soothing, growing, and educating myself – not our selves.
He graduated from a top-notch university, where I sent him to rub elbows with connected kids, children of similar aspirations, a future of unlimited possibilities. Instead, he met an insecure, whining steel magnolia, member of a family of female man-eaters – except for one: the patriarch who guided his family of female acolytes and cultivated their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands to genuflect and obey. That family had unerring eyes set on what type to pick: sociable, non-confrontational, gullible – and maybe somewhat over-protected – young men whose adolescent social age belied their marriageable chronological age.
Once K’s girlfriend, C, found out I “peeped her whole card,” and wouldn’t comply with the role of simpering and fawning MIL, I was done. I never saw my son again, alone, for the next three years until she was safely married to him. Visits and phone calls were sharply curtailed. Feeble excuses and outright lies slid more easily from his lips. False accusations inflicted on my heart became the norm. Isolation from “unacceptable” members of the family was completed through C’s unrelenting encouragement. His “favorite” family members became only those two or three that, for whatever their own reasons, appeared to dislike me. I don’t know how many there are. The ones that matter, who love and care about me, I’m still in close contact with.
The cult-like tactics were many. I began to refer to them as “The Cult Fs”. No way I could blow him away from them with a guided atom bomb.
I finally built up the courage to cut myself away from that pain. This year I sent out letters to friends and family I had not regularly communicated with in all that time to reestablish our ties. Although the pain cut deep, I was healing.
Truth: my son does not like me. Period. Live with it.
And so I have. My health is improved; my mind is at rest. I gained additional friends, and I’m closer to the rest of my family.
I’ve made emotional adjustments to the fact that I will age without child or grandchild by my side. But, just the same, I’m not alone . (smile)
I’ve made financial adjustments by not putting a down payment on their house, and buying a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with a 500sq ft terrace in Harlem – my house. (BIG SMILE)
I party, I travel, I'm gardening, I'm back to writing, I'm returning to customizing my jewelry creations again.
There’re always the jokes and horror stories about mothers-in-law (MIL). I presume they’ve been written and spewed out by indifferent and ungrateful sons- and daughters-in-law (DIL). I have friends who have the sweetest, most loving children, SILs and DILs. I once had a sweet and loving son. We had a close relationship. My sister, not of the touchy-feely sort, complained while walking down streets with him; he walked so close to her. My son and I walked that close together comfortably while sharing comments, observations, jokes, moments of peacefulness and quiet.
His first day at college, I didn’t know how to leave him. He was great about it, ready to throw himself head on into his new life. I was busy tucking in his bedsheets and blanket, something I hadn’t done since his striving for independence at eight years old. Delaying the time I would have to walk out the dorm and on to a life concerned mostly with my own well-being, my own thoughts and actions about feeding, clothing, sheltering, protecting, pampering, bolstering, boosting, encouraging, confronting, scolding, sweet-talking, soothing, growing, and educating myself – not our selves.
He graduated from a top-notch university, where I sent him to rub elbows with connected kids, children of similar aspirations, a future of unlimited possibilities. Instead, he met an insecure, whining steel magnolia, member of a family of female man-eaters – except for one: the patriarch who guided his family of female acolytes and cultivated their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands to genuflect and obey. That family had unerring eyes set on what type to pick: sociable, non-confrontational, gullible – and maybe somewhat over-protected – young men whose adolescent social age belied their marriageable chronological age.
Once K’s girlfriend, C, found out I “peeped her whole card,” and wouldn’t comply with the role of simpering and fawning MIL, I was done. I never saw my son again, alone, for the next three years until she was safely married to him. Visits and phone calls were sharply curtailed. Feeble excuses and outright lies slid more easily from his lips. False accusations inflicted on my heart became the norm. Isolation from “unacceptable” members of the family was completed through C’s unrelenting encouragement. His “favorite” family members became only those two or three that, for whatever their own reasons, appeared to dislike me. I don’t know how many there are. The ones that matter, who love and care about me, I’m still in close contact with.
The cult-like tactics were many. I began to refer to them as “The Cult Fs”. No way I could blow him away from them with a guided atom bomb.
I finally built up the courage to cut myself away from that pain. This year I sent out letters to friends and family I had not regularly communicated with in all that time to reestablish our ties. Although the pain cut deep, I was healing.
Truth: my son does not like me. Period. Live with it.
And so I have. My health is improved; my mind is at rest. I gained additional friends, and I’m closer to the rest of my family.
I’ve made emotional adjustments to the fact that I will age without child or grandchild by my side. But, just the same, I’m not alone . (smile)
I’ve made financial adjustments by not putting a down payment on their house, and buying a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with a 500sq ft terrace in Harlem – my house. (BIG SMILE)
I party, I travel, I'm gardening, I'm back to writing, I'm returning to customizing my jewelry creations again.
I'm back to myself. Welcome back, me.
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