Black People Don't Float

In the world of the random, I had a swim coach tell me that Black people don't float the same as White people. It was very early in the morning, I had not eaten my energy bar, and I wasn't in the mood to defend my entire race. Not today. I made a mental note for self and opted to really not focus on what appeared to be a slight trip down the lane of crazy.

Later, when I was caffeinated and more alert, I learned about a few statistics that address the reason why more Black people don't swim. Most of the information related to parental habits, access to pools, family patterns, soci0economic factors, etc. Not one article had anything of merit or relevance about black folks and the ability to float. I did stumble across a variety of hateful and racists comments about the inferiority of Black people, but I had too much productive work to do for that day. And so, I shared this little comment with the woman who taught my dear little ones how to swim. After she rolled her eyes and let out a big sigh, she effectively said, tell them to swim harder and faster and to enjoy each day they are in the pool - that's crazy.

If there is anyone who would be able to attest to the float factor, it would be the woman who has taught my heavy non-graceful behind how to swim the length of the pool. If I didn't have to go to the deep side, I could probably swim 100 yards with some amount of competence. Reality is, it was just good to have someone who didn't share background, race, ethnicity, wealth, upbringing or anything else - simply dismiss this silly comment, after her 40+ years of teaching this craft.

The Josh Project is just one of the amazing discoveries I encountered as I was shaking off the potential offense. A phenomenal mother in Toledo, Ohio started this organization after her son lost his life to a drowning accident. Minorities make up a disproportionate number of drowning victims each year, and we should do something about it. I grew up in a middle class household, with tremendous values, and learning to swim was not a priority. The group lessons at the Y failed in many many ways, but that was me. Once I had the benefit of a personal coach - float. swim. enjoy.

Kids who complete the Josh Project lessons can earn a t-shirt and a tremendous lesson. Conquering your fears, whether in the water or in life, can happen if you simply put your mind to it. Problem is, your mind may be willing, but circumstances might not. Seek out opportunities to conquer those things that seem a lifetime away and spend little time debating the crazy. Black people can float. Maybe more importantly, all people can be taught to do things once out of reach, by ignoring at first glance, those that are simply out of touch.

Breathe and blow. Breathe and blow.

Back to School BLUES.....

I have a paper and pen fetish so I understand with no lack of clarity that my children like school supplies. I'm trying to renew their interest in school as well.

The kids see the ritual of securing Wide Rule Paper, spiral notebooks and an assortment of writing utensils in the same way I used to have "Trapper Keeper Envy" as I walked the aisles of the stores in the 70's. I can remember 30 some years ago, praying that my grandmother would take me school shopping - because she believed in new everything. Toss out the list sent by the school - my grandmother brought new underwear, slips, socks, undershirts, multiple versions of all school supplies imaginable and an assortment of hosiery, purses, hair supplies and earrings too. She didn't believe in new schools too much though, she picked a team and stuck with it. Being prepared meant something very different for my grandmother, as my mother figured out how to pay tuition. (A tradition my grandmother started with private schooling...)

I would hope for my mom to embrace the basics, but I relied on my grandmother for all of the cool choices, including my 2 pair of back of school shoes. I had a difficult elementary life after all - one had to be prepared. On this year's shopping list for said 4, 6 and 8 year olds... a Brand New School. A Black one this time! Thus, I break my week long silence for the Back to School Blues.

We attended a predominately white Christian school for two years, and I must have said 1,001 times, "at least we have the love of God in common." Well, not quite so fast - after two years and a boat load of heartache, we made the switch back to what we know. Our only reason for ever changing schools was a relocation that meant we had to make a new selection. Prior to that we would annually do a cursory scan of the environment in our home state, check test scores, compare tuition, and confirm in our mind that we had made the best possible choice. My husband from a public school background and my lifetime in private schools makes for a great combination. One new realization that we've added to the mix - Diversity does Matter, and saying we have God in common doesn't really cut it when you're alone, isolated and repeatedly subjected to the Caucasian Card. (Yep, when race cards really don't apply and cluelessness rules good sense.)

Anna Quindlen writes an intriguing fact of life article regarding being Black in American, in the latest edition of Newsweek - something that my 8 year old daughter can relate to. It is really pretty bad when a 4th grader understands the peculiar challenges of being Black in a white world, something lost completely on her clueless teacher for the last year.

The tough stuff builds character the article goes on to say, but how much character do you need to build at age 8? We went through more than tough stuff, we went through a regression of resilience, high performance and a strong resolve for science achievement spiraling down the drain. For what? Teasing, lowered expectations, why doesn't your hair (just fill in the blank), you can't be my friend, "I don't see anything wrong", MESS! I was hoping for a great command of the English language, the ability to multiply 3 digit numbers, a practical application of the Scientific Theory...but what we got was a crash course in the difference between being white and financially elite, and being working class and invested. We didn't fit in. The two are not the same

We value diversity and made the mistake in thinking everyone appreciates the value of a classroom more representative of the real world - false assumption. We have effectively traded in the joy of "don't label anything, drive through drop-off and pick-up, room moms akin to the mafia hierarchy, and more 1/2 days than the world knows what to do with" for a starkly different experience. The private Black School experience merits a blog post. Imagine that...they actually want our children. They want our volunteerism. They are invested in keeping us there. We like that change - but there are differences.

1. There will be lots, and lots, and lots of homework. Why? Because the Black private school ethic is different. There is an urgency in good education. They believe that children can, should, will and better learn. I was used to being told that children should play and be children...but it didn't work. While my daughter was busy being a child, she was regressing from a teacher who expected nothing from her and rewarded her occasional compliance.

2. Expectations are different. When a child who scores phenomenally on standardized tests and receives a final term grade of a C with a crack pot - well it makes you wonder. Communication at a parent level is different when the school has a partnership with you - when you are a number that doesn't really matter - you are told, "no one has ever looked at a 3rd grade report card in real life." I still wonder if that is something any intelligent person should tell a parent paying for education.

3. You label, well everything and the kitchen sink. No lie, we labeled for more than an hour on Sunday and I'm still believing there is a pencil, folder or paper clip that escaped our home without a Sharpie or label imprint. This is definitely in stark contrast to the "group supplies" approach. But, I think I'd rather label all of my Target, Walmart and Staples loot - than have my child labeled, or be labeled as "one of those troublemaker parents." (My pic is probably in their office!)

4. Electronic prowess. I have landed where there is a clear and consistent expectation that my children will believe in their value, their ability to learn, their level of excellence and their obligation to show it. We'll just have to do it sending SOS signals. When I got a supply list that included a disposable camera, I was grieving the days of digital camera access for every administrator and staff member in each classroom. I may have to do just 1 PTO fundraiser, just 1.

And although I could easily go on - it has led to Back to School Blues. Not because I mourn the routine or being away from my kids - I don't. I mourn the experience of families like ours in environments where their children are not encouraged, educated or esteemed. Sure, I know that there are failing school systems everywhere - we moved from Detroit mind you. But, there are still others, paying for and seeking alternative education with marginal success. Although we paid to attend one of the schools perceived to be a tremendous community asset, we'll be countering the negative impact for years to come. I wonder how many others are in the same boat?

We teach our children, embrace being their first teacher, pay for access to the "best and the most recognized" ...only to realize all that glitters is not gold. I'll sacrifice some of the nuances that I will admittedly miss, to eliminate the nuisances that were slowly eroding the potential of a tremendous kidlet. I am thinking simultaneously about Akeelah and the Bee and the swim movie Pride - and I believe that both will serve as entertainment this week. Before we prepare children for this wonderful "melting pot" of experiences that will await them - we must invest in their demonstrated understanding that they are high achievers, wonderfully gifted, capable of all things. As Anna Quindlen noted - they get tougher because of what they go through - but they shouldn't have to be battered black and blue by insensitive and unskilled teachers to learn. For some child and his/her family this school year - they'll be battling more than academic achievement this year. They'll be battling for their esteem - and I wouldn't wish that on anyone - no matter what race, socio-economic group, religion, whatever. (except the haint that tried to steal my daughters' esteem...I can think of a few choice battles she rightfully earned.)

Patriotism Interrupted

Eugene Robinson is a columnist at the Washington Post, and I stumbled upon a tremendous article in the July 4th Indianapolis Star that summed up my week. In his article, The Color of Patriotism, he spoke eloquently about the fact that patriotism is never simple as an African-American - but it does indeed exist.

When I think about the numerous veterans in our family, I'm humbled by their courageous service. Many have shared their personal experiences from the Army to the Navy - all contrasting their dedication and their opportunities, with the ongoing racism they countered before, after and during their years of service. Each has said in one way or another, they would live no where but the United States of America. They served a country with pride and commitment, but never fully escaped the challenges created with a country that rarely acknowledges the full extent of the beliefs held by its majority culture. My grandfather and my great uncles did not live long enough to see the first African-American with a realistic chance of becoming president accept the nomination of a major party. Yet, I can't pick up the paper without seeing countless articles that Barack Obama should have further defined, expressed and explained his patriotism. McCain's is just assumed.

My daughter, in camp this week, learned the hard way that patriotism is fraught with mixed emotions. She's been talking about celebrating the 4th of July, since some time in June. Yet, while at camp this week - a Christian Suburban Camp - she was told by her peers that she shouldn't be part of their club, "Because she's Black." I picked her up that day with explanations of reconciliation and efforts to explain the situation by the camp staff. I could barely hear their words as I searched the campers to see her face, to see if she was okay. And like generations of young African-American children before her, she had spent the majority of the day masking her emotions and making everyone feel better about what had happened to her. She was excluded, and made to feel less welcome - because of her skin color. Taunts about attractiveness and not fitting in followed.

It was her first, but I'm certain it won't be her last encounter of these experiences. I thought about my young cousin who had a similar experience at about sixth grade - I honestly wondered what my cousin might have done to provoke the attack. I owe her an apology. I now realize all she did was enter a world unkind and non-accepting of difference. Her experience in the suburbs of Toledo, ours just a few hours away. Our relocation to Indiana has had its share of these experiences (from school, to the parking lot, to neighborhood oddities unlike the experience of anyone else), but none quite as clear and overt as this one. With all of her frailty, we still love being Americans.

Our reality, however, is much different than that of our peers. Just like my uncles, and my grandfather before me, my children have had to learn at a very young age that being proud to be American means to accept the many imperfections of the country we live in. I don't believe you should have to define the oxymoron of the land of freedom and liberty at age 8 - but we are in the business of teaching it everyday. Sometimes it feels as if the color of patriotism should be green - green with envy for those who can simply celebrate without thinking about the daily experiences which reveal America's struggle to live up to its designed potential.

Looking for Daddy

I very rarely post in Alaine's blog space. We blog about different issues and ideas for the most part. She talks alot about our family and children, an area I'm far less competent at writing about. But every once in a while, I have an insight.

I didn't grow up with my father, never even met him until I was 14. Mine was a single parent home. My mother raised me and my Dad simply wasn't in the picture. For the most part, I can only recall feeling sorry for myself about this once during childhood. It was a moment that passed quickly and I got on with life. Having no Dad was just the way it was and how it had always been. While it never really troubled me, paradoxically, I grew up resolving that I would have a whole family one day and that my children would know their father.

Even still, though I understand intellectually that my children love me and that my interaction and presence in their life is important and meaningful to them, I have to confess that more often than not it doesn't feel particularly real and present to me. But sometimes it gets brought home to me with great clarity.

Recently, my 5 year old son had a Daddy's Day at school. On this day, all the Dads were to come for lunch and eat with the kids and hang out with them. I was a few minutes late arriving at the school and when I got there, the children had already been seated in the cafeteria with their Dads at the tables. I walked in and began looking for my son. I spotted him before he spotted me. He was looking for me too. He was sitting at the table, scanning the room, on the lookout for me. It was the look on his face as he searched anxiously for sign of his Dad that I haven't forgotten since: a look of worry and concern, maybe even the beginnings of fear, that his Dad was not going to be there for him, that maybe he had been abandoned. It was a look that told me that while this was perhaps just an inconvenient interruption of my workday for me, that for him it was a big frikking deal. It mattered to him big time. It made a difference to him if I was there or not.

I waved to catch his attention as I strode forward to join him, like a giant through a crowd of elves. For a moment, all I thought was "let me banish that look from his eyes right now". When he saw me, his face lit up like the brightest strobe light you've ever seen (my son has a wonderful smile). He hollered "Daddy" as I came into his view and instantly his demeanor changed from fearful and worried to happy and carefree. We had a wonderful time. But in that moment before he knew I was there, when he was "looking for Daddy", I learned something about how very real and important my presence is to him. I grew up without Dad and its clear to me that I really missed something, though strangely enough, its hard to define what it was. But now and then, I gain glimpses of what I lost through my children, who have what I didn't. I never knew a childhood with my father. My children will never know one without.

Baptism and the power of water!

Take me to the water....to be Baptized!

This year has been filled with new experiences. Many of them have involved water. Water surely brings renewal and an opportunity to think of cleansing, new life, birth. And for some of us immense fear.

The first of these lessons came about with the need for the swimming instruction, for at least 4 out of 5 family members. As we started planning our Summer activities we thought about swimming and the cost of swimming lessons. Our oldest had started in group lessons, had gotten much better about being comfortable, and couldn't swim a lick, or a lap. Fast forward to the mommy chatter and we heard there was only one woman who taught children to swim locally, Ms. Margie. I had enough good sense to skip the YMCA - as my childhood trauma came from that experience and I surely wouldn't subject a child to the taste of chlorine. At least not with regularity. So, by August we had signed up for oldest ninabot (affectionate term for kidlets) to start taking private lessons at the Country Club. (That is surely another post.)

I mentioned that I too didn't know how to swim, and the instructor insisted that I come ready to learn the next time I brought little missy. I don't know what made me think this was the year to learn - but I guess I did. The two of us, to my shock and surprise, are now water literate. She can dive, do various strokes, float, and do laps in the deep end. I can survive. I can swim, somewhat. Most importantly I am comfortable getting my face wet, moving from spot a to spot b, back stroke and I'm working on breath and blow. (My deep end skills have a little to be desired and I can still struggle with becoming overwhelmed with too much H20.) I still have a lot to be proud of though.

My oldest children made the decision to get Baptized this year. We were so excited about their decision and I wondered how my second ninabot would do when he understood just what it would require. He likes water about as much as I do. So we talked about it and he was certain he loved God enough to take the plunge. (Until he kindly lifted his hand out of the water to assist the minister in coming up!) Like many generations before him, my Noah doesn't care for any more water than he can drink. I was so proud of him for his courage and for his hand motions that confirmed he is surely my child.


The littlest kidlet wasn't old enough to get Baptized, although he clarified for anyone who would listen, "I love God too." We went to the Baptism and he was very observant of his brother and sister as he looked on and encouraged them in their big day. He had been overwhelmed by the company for the weekend and having the people who love him (and his siblings) surround him was such a big treat. So...it was my rocket science idea to take the children to the gym the following weekend for a little R & R, and pool time. I was happy with my new skills and the ability to go from one side to the other with relative ease. I was happy in general - until I rolled over to a yelling lifeguard telling me that I had better watch my son (age 3), even though dad was in the water too. It was a cold shock to my system.

Littlest ninabot tried to reach me and went out too far and got over come in the water. Let me introduce you to the next swim lesson contestants - ninabots 2 and 3. The life guard jumped in, dad wasn't far behind, but the joy of the water was sucked completely out of me. The power of water is really diverse - from fear, to renewal for frustration all in less than 3 months. I solemnly walked out of the pool not thinking about the joy of our time together but promising myself - swimming is a life skill, not an option. Isn't it funny how one thing can represent soo many things when you really look at it.

The same is true for friendships, life lessons and hardships. They come in all packages, mean many things in deed to us all - but when it all comes down to it - its the same substance at heart. I guess the challenge for each of us, is how you use what you know. A lesson from the power of water indeed.

I look at this picture and I'm certain about the power of many things. The power of water, the power of people, the power of smiles. The swim instructor encouraged us in ways that made such a bigger connection than anyone who comes into your life for such a specific reason. The Baptism was at our new church - and even though there was soo much newness, we were surrounded by an incredible amount of love. And for that lifeguard who just ruined my family water day - I had to get over that too. He was in deed trying to save the life of the special ninabot here - the fearless one, and in the process his fear and anxiety overwhelmed him in how to respond. I could have avoided the water, for many years I did - but now I'm thankful for the many lessons that I bring.

Baggage. Got Luggage?

I am serving as a helper in "room mom" duties, a concept invented in the suburbs. When I was growing up there was no "room mom" - there were a host of parents that stepped in to make stuff for bake sales, come to school for special events, or drive car pool for field trips. My mother worked out of necessity and was good at what she did, and she missed the memo on taking off work for field trips to places we went together to see on Saturday. I was whole-heartedly unprepared for the class of women that were created through this process. That is until this year.

I was having a conversation with a room mom who asked how our year was going. I took for granted that she wanted to hear the answer and I am no slacker myself - I can hold my own in the volunteer world for blessing classrooms. I responded honestly - its been a bit of a tough year. My academic genius is struggling a bit - in all areas, but mainly socially. I stated that the lack of cultural diversity and the absence of people of color remained a bit of an issue, even more so as the children grow up. Let the defensiveness begin.

After a few minutes of opining about how everyone is nice to my children, I clarified that I was not discussing nice. If you put your child in a classroom or school full of people from a different culture, we could all be very nice, but your dear child would notice that he/she was different. I was beginning to feel overly agitated. I was heading down a difficult road.

My first commitment is to my children and building their self-esteem to be able to cope with any situation. I'm just not sure I want to spend most of my life focusing on coping skills instead of fostering learning and enjoying childhood. I clarified my feedback in the conversation and explained we picked a Christian school because it was our belief that the most important commonality was values in a learning environment. I went on to say that Christianity doesn't mean, however, that people aren't diverse with their own priorities, interests and cliques.

Room mother insight, "Well we all have our baggage." Excuse me, pardon me, I think I've choked on my latte. Did I say that being a person of color was baggage or a burden? My children carry their ray of sunshine brightly in the midst of what can be unbearable circumstances. And now, being Black is just , baggage.

I wonder what the baggage is when history is filtered as to be more fiction than reality, when the staff and leadership doesn't reflect the student body much less the society, and when becoming a room mom is a power structure of homogeneous folks who often don't have a clue - can we say gang habits? I have finally decided that I'm pretty much done. So much for the education process of people who don't want to be educated. As a mom, I need not lead the class when my children are struggling to find their way in a world that believes color blind is terrific, and not a tragedy. The lesson her - 100% mine and 0% hers.

As moms we must carry a lot of things to make our children's lives work - we carry diaper bags, changes of clothes, purses, money, soccer gear, gymnastics gear, spare snacks, chapter books, life lessons, emergency medical cards, pocket games, grocery lists, to do lists, thank you lists......but be careful not to carry baggage. I mean really, you can fit or blend in, but don't just rock the boat - that would be uncivilized. As for me and my house - we don't subscribe to sanitized living where you deny race and culture, and we're, uhhh, umm Black folks. I guess for some that means we've got baggage, but I'm going to go with we've got work to do. Work building our children and our family, because in 2007 - We Are the World just isn't playing in the background as a soundtrack. I for one am worried about gang violence in my suburban area - the kind in private schools with cliques of women who paint th world with one broad stroke.

Stupidity. I mean't ..... well, for now I meant exactly what I said. Stupidity.