Kiss My Black Ass, Donald Trump

Shocked by my title? You should be.  That is not the way I talk.  It is not the way I think.


It IS the way, however, that megalomaniac Donald Trump has chosen to portray the majority of his black female contestants on his long-running The Apprentice series.  I have watched it for the last time.\

There are two versions of this so-called extended job interview/contest: 
Season 1 premiered in the winter of 2004 with 8 men and 8 women who all ran successful business enterprises throughout the United States.  Among them was the now notorious Omarosa.

Armed with her Master's degree from Howard University, this attractive and glib former low-level staffer in Vice President Al Gore's offices has the personality of a buzz saw. There is nobody on Earth who could tell Omarosa she isn't fabulous.

Ever the showman, The Donald re-called the eliminated woman- viewers- loved- to-hate for the first episode of Celebrity Apprentice in 2008.  The Buzz Saw then went mano-a-mano with the Bulldozer -- ascerbic Brit Piers Morgan, the eventual winner.  According to an article on DailyGuru.com , Morgan described Omarosa as "one of the most venomous poisons", a "disgusting little tramp", an "irrelevant, ghastly little creature", and a "pointless celebrity wannabe idiot."  A TV Guide survey conducted in the summer of 2005 voted her as the most reviled reality show contestant of all time.

Over the eleven seasons of the Apprentice franchise there have been several African American contestants who have acquitted themselves admirably.  Among the celebrities, supermodel Selita Eubanks and singer Tionne “T-Boz” Watkins of girl-group TLC fame come to mind.  Actor and talk-show host Holly Robinson Peete was a finalist in the competition, coming in second to Piers Morgan.

Apparently, however, the American viewing public really enjoys a good cat fight.  That was again confirmed when ratings shot through the roof the season Joan Rivers, the eventual winner, and pro poker player Annie Duke tried to relieve each other of their gizzards.  So The Donald upped the ante and assembled not one but four strategically selected black cats and threw them in the sandbox this season.  And what a four they are:

LaToya Jackson – Oh, my goodness -- the overly sculpted big sister of Janet and the late Michael, even in her prime, whenever that was, was never the sharpest knife in the drawer.  The trademark Jackson whispery voice seems to emanate from a distant planet.  Her limited business related skills had her relegated to serving as timekeeper on last night’s project.  Timid and reticent, LaToya is described by teammates as “sweet.”



Star Jones – Only the most dedicated TV hater will have escaped knowing who this attorney cum fired talk show host is.  The aggressive, conniving and manipulative former prosecutor is nothing if not fabulous.  Just ask her!  Winning at any cost is her modus operandi, but she is as smart as they come and would never allow her real cards to show.  When addressing “Mr. Trump” the fabulous Ms. Jones is all smiles and over articulation.  The proverbial butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.


NeNe Leakes --This 5’10’ breakout star of The Real Housewives of Atlanta is a walking IED.  Loud, flamboyant and volatile, NeNe makes Omarosa look like Princess Di.  Although she seems to be trying to tone down her in-your-face aggressiveness on Celebrity Apprentice (CA), her inner ghetto fabulousness is almost sure to emerge before the season ends.  Recently, she has been making the rounds of TV talk shows to promote CA and has minced no words about her disdain for Star Jones.  I am sure America will continue to tune in on Sunday nights so as not to miss NeNe in all her I-will-cut-you splendor.  We real real housewives of Atlanta are seriously offended by this woman’s (as well as the other three over-the-top divas on that show) representation of us.
Dionne Warwick – Since we are not and have never been girlfriends, I don’t know if Dionne has always been a pompous ass, or if being 70 has given her a sharper edge.  Suffice it to say, Dionne believes it when she is called a legend in the media.  Her petulance has turned off everyone, but the other African American women seem to be struggling to maintain a certain degree of respect for her, in deference to that aforementioned legend status.

So, Donald, you have assembled a veritable smorgasbord of negative stereotypes: The Air Head, The Intellectual Bitch, The Angry Ghetto Bitch, and The Arrogant Diva.  As you hoped and probably expected, they are going at each other with claws and fangs glinting in your bright television lights.  To your great delight, Star Jones smiled like Hannibal Lecter in the board room while she eviscerated poor, defenseless and white Lisa Rinna.  You wouldn’t quit last night until you forced NeNe to say in so many words that LaToya is not very bright.  Because Dionne was too…whatever…to stay up late with the rest of her teammates and went to bed, you rightly fired her,  but not before you tried to force the other three black women to call her out on her haughty attitude.
 
Last night, as I watched Dionne leave the board room and board the elevator to elimination, I thought about what you have said about President Obama.  You fed the ignorant belief (I prefer to call it a tactic manufactured by the puppeteers of the right) that Barack Obama was not born in Hawaii or any other state in the union.  You said you thought it was strange that nobody heard of him before he appeared on the political scene.

I don’t want to call you the names I see floating around in my mind, but I most certainly will call you a fraud.  You have no more desire to be President of the United States than I do, Donald.  You are simply a media whore who will do anything…anything…to keep those cameras rolling.  You can take your circus act already in progress on Celebrity Apprentice and shove it.  I’m done looking at that animal atop your head while you exploit people for your own amusement.

---

A few women I highly respect have reminded me it is not just black women Trump is exploiting, but women in general.  Then, somebody mentioned men like Gary Busse and Dennis Rodman, David Cassidy and others who are also being used to draw ratings.  I should have made it clear:  I believe ALL reality shows are exploitative of ALL the people they put on camera.

Perhaps my responses to a couple of these comments will help crystallize the place from where I am coming today:

 Thanks, Alysa. You made just the right comment to get me back up on my soapbox. I knew people would point out the fact that the idiot is exploiting everybody. And that is absolutely true. But there is a big difference; a difference that many non-minority people have trouble grasping.

When a white woman acts like a wild woman on TV, NOBODY decides, based upon that one incident, that ALL white woman act that way. They rightly observe that this particular women -- they don't even note the woman's ethnicity -- is weird, out of control, low-life or whatever. But, as much as we all hate to hear it, there are still people in America who make judgments about all African Americans (or Latinos or Asians or Nigerians) based on what they see on these stupid "reality" shows. It's not just Trump and his pap. I have been steaming about this for years. I have watched Survivor and Big Brother in the past, for instance. Every time there is a person of color participating on those shows, they are some kind of strange. NONE of the people in my world act like any of them do. Yet, there is going to be some yo-yo out there who will decide, just for example, that he won't date black girls because they are rowdy, bossy, loud, crude, conniving, dishonest and pushy. Where'd they get that from? Am I any of those things? (Well, okay, I'm a tad bossy :D)

L.

Gabby Abby: Please go up the thread and read my response to Alysa.

The point you make that no one has a gun to these women's heads is valid. I don't think it is they who are being exploited, but viewers of color. If I were to list my vulnerabilities in order of frequency, being black always comes in ahead of being a woman. God and you and every other woman on this thread know there are times when I'm not really sure which one it is, but I tend to think color before I think gender. I never want to get into a debate over who gets mistreated more. I could have written the same kind of post using all white women, for sure. But today, the black side of my sensitivities kicked in.

L.

Are You My Big Sister?

His name was Garland.  Three-year-old me thought that was the funniest name I had ever heard.  If I had had a bigger vocabulary by then, I might have blurted “Who names their kid Garland??!!”

It might be easier for me to remember what he looked like because of the number of times I have been told “You look so much like your father.”  But since hardly anyone even knew who my father was as I grew in age, the statement was usually delivered by my mother, her brother and her mother.


Before long I started feeling resentful of that.  After all, the name Garland would be hissed with the dripping venom of a rattlesnake when my mother said it.  Then one day a petite young woman rang our doorbell.   Despite repeated warnings in the weeks before that not to, I dashed to the door and jerked it open.
Even to my very young eyes, it was clear the young woman was a grownup version of…well, me!  The resemblance of this woman to the mental image I carried of myself took my breath away.  Had I been a little older, I might have been convinced I was simply in some kind of dream state.
Aunt Vivian was her name, she told me.  She said she was my father’s younger sister.  My mother, after throwing me the icy, chastising, evil-eye for once again being disobedient, greeted “Aunt Vivian” with a squeal and a hug, thus confirming her identity.
From that day forward, I looked “just like your Aunt Vivian” instead of my father.  That was fine with me – she was bubbly, beautiful and beyond the reach of my mother’s wrath.  But it was also a development I came to view as sad; because that was the day my father left my life almost forever.
Recently I have found the courage to question my mother about the series of events that led to Garland disappearing from the lives of his two young daughters.  I also wanted to see if she still had the photo I can see in my head of Garland in a swimsuit standing in the shallows of Lake Michigan holding the hand of toddler me.   I can see the sun bouncing off the ripples of the lake water, and the white satin ribbon that anchored the top braid of my hair.

Mom doesn’t even remember the picture.   She wonders if I had seen it the one time I was allowed to spend two weeks with Garland’s parents at their summer home in Idlewild, Michigan, a rural resort community where “prominent” African American families in the Midwest “summered.”  The *rural* part is what I remember most, after the beach and boardwalk, because of the haunting memory of chickens being chased down and having their necks wrung.  Nothing like watching a headless chicken flying madly around the barnyard spewing blood in all directions to help a kid make a memory!

From all accounts and from my suspect memory, Garland was a handsome “brown-skin” man with a receding hairline (thanks a lot, daddy!), medium height and the powerful, athletic build of the champion swimmer he reportedly was.

You have just read everything I know about the man who contributed half my DNA.  He would show up exactly three times before he died in 1971.  One Easter Sunday he arrived at the front door bearing a gift of live baby chicks, which my mother rejected loudly and threw him out.  I wanted those chicks.  

The next time he drove up to my grandparents’ house as we were having dinner.  With him was a young woman who carried an infant.  He had brought her by to show my grandparents how much his new baby looked like my little sister!  

The third time he didn’t actually show up.  He called me at my Milwaukee apartment where I lived with my new husband.  The spies he had in our town who kept him informed of our milestones had told him I had gotten married.   

As an allegedly grown woman, I minced no words explaining to Garland exactly what I thought of a man who would leave his children for years on end without any attempt to visit or speak to them.  I called him a poor excuse for a man, in fact.  Despite his protests that my mother had made that next to impossible, I told him to forget my phone number and leave me alone.

Five years later, as I stood and viewed his lifeless body lying in the puffy white satin of his casket, I wondered what I had missed.  Who was this man I looked and apparently thought so much like?  Why had he abandoned me?  Why did he allow us to grow up without him, all the while keeping tabs on our little triumphs?

The answer is all too familiar.  He got caught cheating.  My mother threw him out.  My mother is the least understanding, least flexible and least forgiving person I have ever known.  He got behind on his child support payments.  She canceled all visitations.  She told him he would never see his children again because he was nothing, never was anything and never would amount to anything.  How do I know this?  I heard her tell him.  "He was worthless.  He was a drunk.  She and her children didn’t need him or his money.  Go to hell.

What I hated him for most was that he listened to her and didn’t fight for his right to be in our lives. 

As my sister and I were turning to leave the chapel after the funeral services ended, a little girl around the age of 6 pulled on my sleeve.  I looked down to see a miniature version of myself.

“Are you my big sister?  Mommy says you are my sister.”  Through a veil of tears and a sad, sad smile, I nodded yes and gave her a hug.

Garland was gone to her, just as he was gone for us all.  I hope she got to know him better than I did.

What Are We Doing To Our Kids?

Are we ruining our youth?  In our panic over losing our once significant leading role in public education, combined with our dramatic change in opportunities for adequate employment going forward, are we systematically destroying the very thing in our children that gave us that edge?
I think we might be.

"Jordan" on his backyard basketball court

 

Jordan* is my neighbor friend’s – let’s call her Val -- 12-year-old son.  He is fourth in birth order in a family of six children.  Ordinarily it would be irrelevant to mention, but this time I believe it to be important:  of the six, the youngest is the only one to which Val actually gave birth. The eldest, a boy, was born to her brother.  The next two, both girls, were born to her other brother.  Both brothers failed to avoid the clutches of drugs and drug-related crime, as did the children’s mothers.  Val petitioned the courts for guardianship when the girls were just toddlers and the nephew was around 12.

Jordan and his younger sister were adopted as infants from two different mothers who put them up for adoption at birth.  Val’s only biological child is almost 4 now.

Every conceivable dynamic one might expect within the framework of this unconventional family of children is there for the viewing.  The influence of the birth parents in the case of the three older kids; the curiosity and confusion about adoption (who am I, really?  Why didn’t my “real” mommy want me? Why do I look so different than everybody else?); and, the one that has prompted this post:  the educational expectations of my friend and her husband from all the children, regardless of genetics and the accompanying innate aptitude for learning.

Even in a family of children who all have the same parents, the ability to perform in a classroom can vary wildly.  Imagine how wide the ability continuum becomes in a group of biologically unrelated children can become.

Val is very bright, a college graduate and highly successful businesswoman.  She is determined to give those children every opportunity to have the same kind of life they are enjoying in their childhoods with her.  She puts in the time to make sure each child stays abreast of their homework.  She makes unannounced visits to the school to observe what really goes on in her children’s classrooms.

At the same time, the Atlanta public schools they all attend are frantically trying to respond to the demands of the government’s No Child Left Behind program edicts to raise standardized test scores which have spiraled downward for decades.  How are they doing that?  Well, they’ve been caught cheating, for one!  Several schools and school personnel have been indicted for manually changing the answers on standardized tests.  That’s how much pressure these schools are feeling.

The majority of the Atlanta public schools, however, have responded to the pressure in two ways:

1.        Teaching to the test – the only things the classroom teachers are allowed to teach are the things that appear on the CRCT tests, Georgia’s Criterion-Referenced Competency Tests.  Teacher creativity is encouraged, but only as it relates to the prescribed curriculum.  Enrichment activities are often deemed “a waste of valuable time.”

2.       Loads of rigorous homework -- Sixth-grader Jordan is often up as late as 11 p.m. working on school homework projects under parental supervision.  He seldom has time to get outside during the week to shoot baskets, ride his bicycle or play hide and seek with his buddies and siblings.

Val learned with the two older girls that her vigilance will sometimes not be enough.  When one of them was in second grade, about 10 years ago, Val hired me to tutor her because she was already behind in her mastery of basic language and reading skills, and basic arithmetic went flying over her head.  The child thrived with the special attention I gave her and she improved…some, but she has struggled throughout her school years.  No one is expecting her to go to college, unless it is for a certificate in practical nursing, cosmetology or something similar.  She has neither the aptitude nor the desire.  Her older sister, who has the same birth parents, has slightly more ability, but shares the lack of desire to excel. 

I was also hired to tutor Jordan when he was 4.  Val said she wanted to give him a head start to insure his success when he started Kindergarten.  Jordan was a little sponge, soaking up everything I put in front of him.  He couldn’t wait to get to my laptop which I had loaded with reading readiness programs and games.  He became proficient in the use of the computer before he was 5.  He sailed through K-5, always earning top grades.  And then he went to middle school.

There are all kinds of reasons a child will falter while transitioning from elementary to middle schools.  The change in environment is enough, but there is also the change in status – top dogs in 5^th grade, rookies in 6^th grade who are antagonized by 7^th and 8^th graders.  Puberty kicks in for some, as it has for Jordan.  Parents sometimes seem to forget how hormonal changes can mess with one’s mind.  Suddenly, girls are no longer annoyances; clothes and shoes receive a new level of focus.

All of the above have put Jordan and his mother at odds.  The afternoon he brought a test home with a score of 33, I received a call from Val.  It was clear from her voice and speaking pace she was very upset.  She said she needed to call in “the reserves”, as she called me, before she completely “lost it” and did something she would regret.  She knew that what started as a sincere effort to support Jordan’s success in school has now become a pre-adolescent power struggle and she was losing.

I have been working with Jordan for about a month now, and he is certainly not the same child he was when he was 4, to which I say “Duh!”  Yes, he is distracted, disorganized, disinterested and disgustingly lazy sometimes.  But something else is happening that his mother thinks he is doing deliberately.  Mentally, there is a delay between stimulus and response.  Instant recall, which Jordan once had, is long gone.  Instead he must verbally go through a set of wrong responses before he can zero in on the right one.  He is not making conceptual connections; i.e., he can only learn rotely.  So, even when he has memorized whatever is on the typed study guide the teacher provides, when the test is structured in a more random order than the study guide, his so-called learning is lost.

Jordan was once confident enough to verge on cockiness.  In just the few months since school started last fall, he has failed so often his confidence is gone.  He cannot trust the mind that once served him so well.  His lapses cause his mother to lose her patience, accuse him of faking, take away his extra-curricular activities and resort to spankings.  Now fear has been added to the mix.

I taught school for a couple of years, but I’m no expert.  I can’t say exactly which one of the many possible dynamics is at work in Jordan’s case.  I do know, however, that when I was teaching we were urged – no, required – to meet each child where he or she was, not where we wished they would be.  We were taught to expect dramatic changes in the personalities and performances of middle school kids.  One principal jokingly characterized what they go through as temporary insanity. 

We also made sure the children got plenty of exercise, plenty of creative stimulation and plenty of laughter.  These aren’t miniature adults.  They don’t all have the ability to fully understand the correlation between effort and success.  Their brains haven’t completed the development yet that helps them understand the concept of cause and effect. 

As much as I could use it, I won’t accept Val’s money; that’s not why I’m doing it.   I am desperately trying to help Val with Jordan so that she and The System don’t murder this far- from-average kid’s spirit.  This is a child who is charming, loving, considerate and shockingly articulate.  He is not even close to being stupid.  He has leadership potential.  He has heart.  If we aren’t careful, we are going to destroy all that in him and in so many other young people who are simply trying to grow up and into their bodies.  Shouldn’t we cut them a little slack?

*Names have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

 Photo by L in the Southeast March 2011

 UPDATE:  A few minutes ago someone started banging on my front door.  I looked through the peephole to see "Jordan" beaming.   When I opened it, he kept smiling that blindingly white smile of his and handed me two sheets of paper.  The first was the Social Studies test I coached him for last night.  100%  What makes that so much more special than it even seems is Jordan used the technique I taught him yesterday to try to accommodate whatever the misfire is in his brain that takes him to the wrong answer first.  He said if he hadn't used that on the test today, he would have gotten an 80% instead of 100%!  But wait -- there's more.

The second sheet of paper was his report card.  He had 3 As, 2 Bs and 1 C+! (one percentage point away from a B)  I am so proud of him, I was screaming with joy.  

Who the Hell Is Carl?

Note:  A fellow Open Salon writer, Dom Macco, came up with an idea awhile back about a fictional character named “Carl” who has recently died. In the story, other fictional characters have been asked to prepare eulogies for Carl’s funeral, but each has little or no actual knowledge of who Carl was. The only thing anyone does know about him is that he was a good man.

Dom and Alysa Salzberg selected other Open Salon writers who have kindly gotten together and written pieces in an effort to help put Carl together as a person. The following piece is a contribution to that larger work.

 

 

 

  When Carl was found dead on the corner bus stop bench, he was wearing a men's 3-piece suit, women's underwear and opaque pantyhose. "Carl" was embroidered on the silky panties he wore under the lace-topped black tights.  He had no wallet, no identification and five brand new $100 bills in his breast pocket.

Daphne received the call from her friend Luther, who ran the Hildebrand Funeral Home in her hometown. 

"Hey, Daffy.  I've got another one for you.  Male.  John Doe.  We think his name was Carl, but that's really all we know.  The Coroner asked me to handle the body; my turn in the pauper rotation."

"So you want me to get him ready for the viewing."  she said rather flatly, knowing that if Luther wasn't getting paid, neither was she.  "Wouldn't it be better for all involved to just send the body to a crematorium?"

"Yeah, it sure would.  Thing is, we found a rosary in his pocket, so the guy must have been Catholic.  A very unusual Catholic, to be sure, but he probably wouldn't approve of being cremated.  I don't want to take any chances with the guy's soul, although..."

"Luther, you know I'll do it, damn it.  Don't even try it.  His soul, my ass."

Luther laughed.  "Thanks, boo.  You know I love you, you Creole wannabe.   Everything's ready for you, whenever you are."

Daphne sighed and put her Blackberry back in its holster.  Luther's timing couldn't have been worse.  Her reputation as the best hair, makeup and wardrobe artist in the undertaking business had her dance card full constantly.  But she never could say no to Luther. 

---

Daphne pulled the white sheet away from the newly embalmed body.  She would learn a lot about the man he used to be by examining his corpse.

Both ears were pierced, but there were no teeny tiny diamond studs in either lobe. 

" Hmmmm.   What were you up to, Sweetie?"  Daphne whispered toward the head.  " 

She gently picked up the left hand.  The ring finger bore no ring, but it did sport a tan line where a band had once been. 

"Were you just divorced?  Where is she, honey?  Or did someone find you on that bench before the one who called the coroner and steal your wedding band?"

Her eyes traveled up to the expertly cut head of brown wavy hair.  It was neither long nor short, as men's haircuts go.  Just right.

"You look pretty straight to me, darlin', in spite of your undies.  Were you just a little freaky, is that it? 

Carl's answer became visible as soon as Daphne rolled the body toward the wall.
Daphne had been dressing bodies for 15 years.  She had seen it all.  This, however, sent her jaw agape. 

He had a tramp stamp!  Positioned strategically around his butt cleavage was a tattoo in the unmistakable shape of one of those machinces taxi drivers use to swipe your credit card.

"What the hell, Carl?  You were a naughty one, weren't you, baby?" Daphne squealed with laughter.

---

Luther entered the chapel where Daphne had just put the finishing touches on their John Doe. 

Something about this case had really grabbed Daphne's little-known sentimental side.  She told the staff she had planned a small service -- just a few guests she had invited who she thought could help give Carl a proper sendoff.  She was off to pick them up with one of the funeral home's stretch limos.

The lid on the plain wooden casket was closed, which was unusual.  Luther wondered if maybe Daphne still had some last-minute touchups to do before the service.  He walked over and lifted the top-half to take a peek.

"Holy shit, Daffy!  he murmured.

---

Luther waited in his office until he heard the stretch drive up in the circular drive in front of his elegant building.  When he heard Daphne enter the employee's back door, he called out to her and she stopped in his doorway.

"I don't know how to tell you this, Daffy, but somehow the wrong body has been put into the chapel.  I looked in every prep room and every other casket in the place.  Our John Doe is not here!"
Daphne grabbed Luther by his hand and pretended to pull him out of his leather desk chair.  Confused, he followed docilely. 

As they approached the chapel, Luther could hear a rather loud crowd laughing and talking as they entered from the front parlor.  Daphne led him directly to the bier, where Carl's casket was perched.  She lifted the lid.

"See? I have no idea who that woman is...," Luther started.  Just then, an extremely tall redhead wearing a boa called out to Daphne. 

"Where should we sit, Doll?" 

Luther's expression transformed in stages from confused, to shocked, to bemused.  About a dozen "women"
were filing into the chapel chairs.  The redhead's royal purple boa was trailing behind her, sometimes snagging in one of the red sequins that covered the dress that hit at mid-thigh on the bottom and around mid-navel on the top.

There was another wearing acrylic stilettos with platforms that appeared to contain goldfish swimming inside.  Shifting his gaze, Luther did a double take when he spotted "Cher" tossing her black mane as she slithered into an aisle seat.

Daphne smiled up at Luther and walked to the microphone standing beside the casket.  Luther looked back into the pink satin-lined box and extended a hand to straighten one of "Carla's" platinum blonde ringlets around her gorgeously painted face. 

"Dearly beloved...."

THE END

---

Other Project Participants: The following OSers have also written pieces for this project.  While all are to post on March 15, 2011, some may not yet be posted. If not, please check back a little later today.

 

Sam Lee Jackson

  Jerry DeNuccio

Scanner

Matt Paust

Alysa Salzberg

Dom Macco

Linnnn

Shiral

Naomi de Plume

ocularnervosa

Bully For Me

Excellence was expected and required. There was no chance of getting a pass from my mother for anything lower than a B.

 Proviso East High School --Maywood, Illinois

 

High school was not the horrible place for me that it was for many who write about their teenaged experience.  Not completely, anyway.  When I wasn’t being bullied and harassed by the black girls who I hadn’t gone through grade school with, I was in my element.  I loved learning and adapted to the rigorous requirements of the Advanced Placement program I landed in with relish.

The harassment, though, was relentless.  According to my mother, it was all about jealousy.  I had no idea why anyone would be jealous of me, what with all the pressure I was under at home.  I was required to keep my grades above average or better as a result of the deal I had made with Mom in order to avoid being sent to the all-girls Catholic High School several towns away.  I was constantly reminded of how being a member of “Our Family” set us apart from the rest.  I was threatened with physical violence should I become pregnant.  No, it couldn’t have been jealousy, the way I saw it.  Who would covet all that?

Whatever it was, the girls who had attended the public elementary school while I was in a private Catholic school hated the air I breathed.   At least once a week a note would be wedged into the slats on my hall locker bearing threats against my skinny derriere.  The drill was to ambush me in the public park midway between the high school and home. 

The black boys didn’t seem to have a problem with me.  In fact, whenever I received a note to announce my ass-kicking of the week, all I had to do was mention it to one of the guys who had attended grade school with my tormentors.  After school, there would be a testosterone escort platoon waiting for me in the lobby under the clock tower of the building.  The girls never laid a hand on me, but the presence of the protectors did little to endear me any further to them.

One day, after the first grading period, I was walking by the Superintendent’s office between classes when I heard my name spat out of the mouth of my Lead Tormentor. 

 “She must really think she’s white.  That half-white bitch is trying to make all of us look bad.” 

What caused this loud and embarrassing outburst?  On the wall outside the Superintendent’s office was a large, mounted plaque that displayed the names of all students who had made the honor roll.  It was time to gather my posse; I could feel another locker note coming on.

I say it lightly now, but back then I was a wreck.  There was no way I was going to deliberately lower my classroom performance in order to fit in with the others.  Even if I had been willing to risk my neck with my mother, that just wasn’t my modus operandi.  Instead, I requested an audience with the Super.  With a student body of nearly 4,000, one could not simply burst into his office on a whim, even if I did consider it an emergency.

“Mr. Koechenderfer, could you please take my name off the wall?  I would prefer not to have it up there.”

“Why, Lezlie?  Why wouldn’t you be proud of being on the honor roll?  WE sure are proud of you.”

“Well, isn’t it enough for me to know?  And my parents, of course.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, young lady?”

I stared at the cuticles of my hands folded on my lap.  I said nothing.  One didn’t discuss this kind of thing with white people.  This was a kind of keep-it-in-the-family dispute; never mind the fact the family didn’t particularly want me in it.


“Lezlie?  I asked you a question.”

I felt the sting of impending tears behind my eyeballs.  I had to get out of there before any water escaped my eyes.

“You know, Mr. Koechenderfer, you are absolutely right.  I should be proud and I am.  Please forgive me for wasting your time.  I’ll get back to class now.”

That was the day I said “screw those bitches and the brooms they rode in on.”  That was the day I changed from a vulnerable little girl to an immovable young woman on a mission.

I became Harriet High School. Just about everything there was to do there, I did.  Student Council? Check.  Future Teachers of America? Check.  Drum majorette? Check.  Class officer?  Hold the phone!

I decided to run for secretary of the freshman class.  Back then, we were encouraged to actually campaign for class offices with speeches and posters and rallies.  Not only was it fun, it was an excellent way to learn about our local and national election processes.  I would also learn about dirty politics.

That same group of female black classmates decided they were not ready to see someone like me in a leadership position.  They launched an all-out campaign in support of my white opponent.  It worked.  I lost the election and another huge chunk of my innocence.

From Satan to Sanskrit

Watercolor by Joel Chua from Metro Manila, Philippines

I went to a funeral yesterday.  My next-door neighbor and friend Cathy’s* grandmother died at 92 after a long illness.  I went to support my friend, of course, but I also went out of sheer curiosity.

Cathy is a native Georgian but you’d never know it to meet her.  She talks more like a California Valley Girl, ending all her statements with a question mark, while adding lots of histrionics and swoon-like gestures.

After we knew each other for a while, Cathy started telling me about her bizarre upbringing as the youngest child of a religious fanatic mother and a traveling salesman father who coped with his family life by being gone for most of it.  I listened to stories of a small, fragile child who instinctively rejected the fire and brimstone stories of the born-again doctrine.  Her stubborn refusal to comply and “accept the Lord Jesus as her Savior” resulted in frequent accusations of devil-possession and Satan shenanigans.

As the only person in her family, aside from her father, who was never “born again,” Cathy walked her own eccentric and deeply spiritual path, all the while being bombarded by ridicule for her heathen ways by her mother and sisters.  Her parents’ house, she told me, is filled with religious pictures and framed prayers.  She showed me a photo to prove there is even a printed sign in a frame on the wall opposite the toilet.  It warns against the trickery of Satan.

As a young adult Cathy traveled throughout Asia, lived for a time in Tibet and learned to speak Sanskrit in India.  Her home is decorated with the souvenirs of those travels, and the scent of incense can often be detected amidst the smokiness of burning sage.  She studies all kinds of alternative approaches to Western medicine and psychiatry, and she studies personality profiles as classified by enneagrams.

Until very recently, when she started dating an Otololaryngologist {Ear, Nose and Throat physician) who is a second generation son of immigrants from India, Cathy had been attending monthly Native American sweat lodges in an attempt to “work on herself.” About ten years ago, she discovered her significant artistic talent in the form of giant canvases covered with layers of paint applied with her bare hands.  At only five feet tall and around 100 pounds, many of her impressive works are far bigger than she is.

With her translucent skin that must be protected from the sun at all times to prevent exacerbation of her rosacea; her ultra-sensitive pale green eyes beneath white-blond bangs; a stomach that will take her to her knees without either warning or apparent provocation; and her frequent night terrors complete with sleep-walking and/or falling out of bed, Cathy has earned the nickname of Delicate Flower from me.

Cathy and I are about as unlikely a set of friends as one can find.  She is closer to my son’s age than to mine.  I am as non-religious as they come and it doesn’t matter if the religion in question is Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, or any of the other religions of the world.  I wouldn’t voluntarily sit in a sweat lodge for any length of time, much less the hours and hours she spent in them.  I get annoyed when spoken to about Feng Shui; she lives by it.

I went to this funeral expecting to be confronted by the worst example of the Christian Right in all of America.  I was primed to hold my caustic tongue if someone asked me if I had been “saved.” I was prepared to be stared at and ignored for being the only person of color in the chapel.  Hell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had pulled out a basket filled with serpents for the congregation to handle!

The only impression I held about Cathy’s family that materialized in the flesh was about her mother.  Described by Cathy as always “babbling” incoherently, her mom had been receiving the benefit of the doubt in my mind.  I thought Cathy had been exaggerating when she claimed to have never had a real conversation with her mom because of her inability to EVER get a word in edgewise.  She wasn’t.  The woman could talk!  I learned more about that family in one hour than I know about my own!

When we were in the car on the way home from the north Georgia location of the funeral, Cathy told me we had gotten lucky; that her mother had been on her best behavior after being warned by her daughters, and did not launch into one of her soulful sermons on salvation. 
 
In every other way, though, that family was the picture of familial perfection.  The service was more sedate and without dramatic effect than any I’d ever attended.  Conversation was easy and warm.  I was hugged and thanked for coming repeatedly.  Cathy’s mother told me to call her Granny!  

What I learned from yesterday is this:  We might have more to fear from the so-called Christian Right than we even know.  I’m not sure what I thought before yesterday, but people with these rigid beliefs that they attribute to Christianity are not walking around with any kind of identifying mark on their foreheads.  Some of them are quite capable of blending into the fabric of our daily lives without detection.  Not all the people who subscribe to the rantings of Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh are out carrying offensive signs at Tea Party rallies.  

I also have seen first-hand how religious zeal can affect a child.  Many adapt and adopt the same level of belief and zeal.  But some, like Cathy, are deeply wounded by it and spend their lives searching for what they consider to be a “real family.”  Deep down inside, Cathy feels alienated, judged and filled with rage and she is barely able to conceal all that in the presence of her mother.

It was an interesting day. 

*Not her actual name.

The Faux Faux Pas

She sat at her vanity mirror and unpinned the wiglet that lent more drama to her upswept mane.
  
He paced between the antique sleigh bed and the silk-draped windows overlooking the snow-packed south lawn.  As he slowly and mindlessly removed each carnelian stud and cufflink from his still-crisp tuxedo shirt, he searched every crevice and fold of his brain for the right words.

“Baby?”

“Yeah,” she answered, removing the last of the two false eyelashes.

“What were you thinking?  Out of all the choices you were presented for consideration, why did you pick that dress?”

She pushed her beautiful face into a scowl toward the mirror.  She was feeling less than gregarious after all that glad-handing she had just done for four hours straight.  The last thing she needed was to fight over a damned dress.

“Well,” she sighed, “all the other dresses were so…predictable.  They didn’t have any flava, you know?”

“And you looked hotter than Halle Berry on her best day.  You did.  And there was flava, alright.  Grape, strawberry, lemon…

“Very funny.   I thought the print was stunning, especially with that one-shouldered design.  Really showed off my collar bones, didn’t it?”

He had to admit the dress was …what’s that the kids say... off the hook.   It was just created in the wrong time zone.

She swiveled and faced her handsome husband.  She sighed the way a woman does when she knows she has screwed up, but isn’t willing to admit it.

“Listen, Buster.  I told you; it was completely accidental.  How was I supposed to know that Vera Wang never uses prints?  I wanted something red to honor our guests.  The Post-it on the hanger didn’t say Alexander McQueen; it said Vera Wang.  I loved it.  I wore it.  Get over it.   Okay?”

She lied unflinchingly.  It was just too late to explain to him why she had given in to her urge to thumb her nose at politics, just this once.  She chose the one she liked best.  She was tired of other people deciding what she should or should not wear.

He flashed that trademark smile and pulled her toward him. 

 

“Yeah, well let me be clear.  Whoever the person is who mixed up those Post-its is going to join the ranks of the unemployed first thing in the morning.  Capiche?”

She unbuttoned that last button on his pleated shirt and slid the sleeves slowly from his muscular arms. She nibbled his earlobe and whispered in his ear.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

 

Has My Right Foot Killed My Verve?

Life is hard!  Lately, life has gotten close to impossible for some people.  Sometimes I wonder what sustains the basic instinct of living things to survive at all costs.  

 

A foot I fractured across the instep way back in 2006 has not healed and never will.  A foot I fractured across the instep way back in 2006 has not healed and never will.  This type of injury is called a Lisfranc Fracture.  According to my doctor, only 0.02% of all fractures fall into this category.  They are usually suffered by athletes who are generally sidelined by them forever.  

On good days I am able to shove my expensive, custom orthotics into whichever well-made sneakers I choose for the day and walk with only the slightest twinge of pain, and little or no sign of a limp.   

Today is not a good day.  At all.  Out of the blue on Sunday night, that foot felt as if it had been freshly fractured.  It feels the same today.  I was barely able to hobble around the block to walk the dog.  Five years later and I am unable to go to my exercise class, the one thing I look forward to doing on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I don’t like that.

Sitting here pissed off, I am thinking about how much I am looking forward to the day my son tells me I am going to be a grandmother.  Then I think: Really?  Is that something for which a forward-thinking future grandparent should be hoping?  Think about what awaits that precious little creature after leaving the warmth and safety of mommy’s womb.

The very first breath of air the child takes is awash in trauma.  He has pushed and shoved his way through a convulsing, squeezing birth canal, head-first, if he’s lucky.  Once out, some genderless person in baggy pajamas and a mask sticks a syringe up his nose and into his throat.  Some welcome, huh?

From that birth day forward, every move the child makes is fraught with danger, or so it would seem.  “No-no, baby.  Hot”!  “Ah-ah, don’t touch that.”  “Hold onto my hand or you will fall.”  “You may not cross the street alone. “  “Look both ways before you cross the street!”  “Don’t talk to strangers.” 

Little Johnny manages to stay alive and virtually unscathed long enough to go to elementary school, only to discover the challenges of socialization outside the family unit.  His Mom and Dad smiled at the dimples in his knees and elbows pinched his chubby cheeks with love and pride.  Now, some of his classmates taunt him for being heavy and call him names like Tubby and Wide Load.  Little Janie never thought having two moms was anything remarkable, but the remarks she heard about it in sixth grade were hurtful.

Now Janie is in high school, something she had looked forward to for many months.  Her excitement morphs into terror when she finds herself the target of the legendary mean girls she thought were just a Hollywood creation.  While Jane silently suffers their nasty attacks and anything-but-subtle threats, John is sitting in class planning his route home in order to avoid being hung from the post of a fence by his tormentors. 

The kids who have the courage, the inner strength, the family support, the protection of savvy school officials and the comfort of real friends manage to make it through high school.  Many go on to college.  Unless they have been so severely scarred by their journey through childhood that they are unable to forge any kind of meaningful relationships with other people, they might find college to be a short respite from the trials of that embrace-it-at-all-costs life everyone raves about.

Those who, for whatever reason, don’t complete high school or don’t go on to college are thrust into the world of work.  There is no respite for this group.  Their first challenge is to find a job.  Good luck with that, John and Jane.  Although they’ve heard stories about “the olden days” when there were so many jobs, many went unfilled for months and years at a time.  That is not the case today.  Now they are in direct competition with middle-aged adults for entry level positions.   Minimum wage, which most of the jobs they have any kind of chance of landing pay, does not afford them the ability to support themselves adequately enough to leave their parents’ home. 

For every Mark Zuckerberg who graduates from college and becomes a billionaire before reaching the age of 25, there are millions of college graduates in this country competing for the same entry level jobs I mentioned in the previous paragraph.   Some prolong the inevitable problem of finding employment by seeking advanced degrees.  Others – the few lucky ones born to wealth – become layabouts, slackers, do-nothing drains on the patience of their parents.

Instead of school-yard bullies, young adults ascend to becoming targets of Internet scams, identity theft, drugs and alcohol, obesity, post-traumatic stress, street crime, accidents and rich people.  And the beat goes on.  And yet, to life we cling.

Why? 

For the brief, fleeting moments that happen in between the traumas and challenges. 

For the baby’s first word and first step. 

For the sound of music. 

For the sight of puppies skidding in a group across the slick kitchen floor. 

For the feeling of the pure joy of creativity. 

For the hug from your no-nonsense father.

For the first buds of spring and the first sign of snow.

For the pride of a parent watching a child achieve.

For the sound of laughter.

That’s why.

Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be grateful it happens in that order.” David Gerrold