In Which Miss Thing Discovers That She's Black
Relieved as I am to be free of Albany and all that it connotes for our beleaguered band of three, life remains a challenge. Our existence now is a godsend, but a difficult one. Skippy (the friend of 40 years who took us into her lovely home) has welcomed us not like family but like the few members of your family that you actually like. Yet, we're still refugees.
No money, no car, no child care, no job, endless debt and speed-dialed calls from India. Always underfoot with two shut-in kids and a PTSDing Mom when surely all she craves is a moment of peace and a chocolate-milk free place to sit after a harried day at work. Though you could never tell that by her. I hate to give her credit, after 40 years of insulting her mama, but the heifer's actually serene.
(Menopaus-ing like a sonofagun, but serene. When home from that godawful commute, Skippy spends half her time looking for either her phone or her glasses --both of which always turn out to be on her person--and the other half demanding my agreement that it's hot as hell. But only within two feet of her. The AC keeps her home to arctic levels of chilliness, but I'm smart enough to nod like a German shepherd in the back window of a Chevy. "Yeah, girl. I'm burnin' up!" It's gotten so now that I'm having sympathetic hot flashes, since our periods can't roommate-synch. Skippy also makes time to watch me walk into walls or stand stupified in the middle of the kitchen trying to remember why I was holding a skillet full of Legos when I'd meant to fry eggs. The other day, I watched her face crumple with the need to laugh. I finally figured out that she was enjoying me spraying Pam on her glass table instead 401. The cannisters look just alike! We've decided to hold an Early Onset Alzheimer's Contest. Whoever does the stupidest thing that day wins. So far, she's up: girlfriend drove half an hour to Walmart, totally forgot why she went, bought a cartload of crap for the kids and didn't remember she'd gone for her prescriptions til she was pulling into the driveway. Ever the writer, I exclaimed, "You know what you should do?" Sensibly, she responded, "Write things down?" How dumb is that? "Hell no! You should guest post on my blog all the dumb stuff you do." Again, I got 'the look' from over the top of her glasses. Sister just thinks so loudly. And what was she thinking? "Now I see why you're homeless.")
But where was I? (See: Early Onset....)
The kids watch endless TV broken by bouts of brawling worthy of the Crips and the Bloods. I'm glued to my laptop or cell, desperately trying to find a job by navigating the mystery that is 'networking'. I simply have no talent for it. Why my resume sn't enough, I'll never understand. That's the working class in me. I'm a Harvard Law grad, dammit! and my CV runs to six pages. Where's the bloody old boy network when you need it?
No distractions for us til Skippy gets home between 630 and 7pm from her grueling commute across Atlanta's concrete jungle. Almost invariably, rain, lightening and thunderstorms greet her return and I'm torn between spending a few minutes of blessed conversation with a grownup, snatching her keys from her tired hands to head to a Mickey D's playground with the housebound kids, and worrying about lightening strikes. Atlanta's so hot, we can't even go for a walk unless we do so in the wee hours of the morning or after dark.
Not complaining. Just reporting from the front lines of poverty. If I were any more grateful that the three of us are in one piece and living indoors, I'd be gibbering.
Speaking of being housebound, did I mention that we were booted from the subdivision's pool?
From Day 2 here, we braved a hella, sunbaked hill between home and there to spend 4-6 hours everyday. Hardly ever leaving the pool they gloried in, I Evelyn Wood-ed selections from Skippy's vast library and waited for my waterlogged kids to grow gills. How they love the water. Then, someone's kid pooped in the pool. I dragged my kids behind a bush and checked their tanned little tushies immediately. It wasn't us. Too bad. Someone had to take the fall and "the strangers' were duly chosen.
I explained to the heartbroken kids that it's just human nature to blame the outsiders, with or without proof. My son Lefty became incensed at the injustice of it all. Ranted and raved. Miss Thing, my 6 year old, looked squinty-eyed at me.
"Mom. You know it's not because we're new."
Oh dear. I prayed she wasn't going where I thought she was going.
.
"Sure it is, honey. That's just how people are. They need someone to blame and don't want to blame one of their own. They say it's never happened before and we just got here, so...." I was pinwheeling and I knew it.
"Mom." Her pity at my naivete was palpable. "This is like the olden days?" My second grader was leading me by the hand to what she saw as the obvious. She was giving me a pathetic hint, but I refused to take the bait.
"What do you mean, honey?"
I'm not sure, but I think she rolled her eyes.
"Come on, Mom. Martha Luther King? Rosie Parks? It's because we're black."
This line of reasoning she's never heard from me. Or the Disney channel, so I have to assume it was her former classmates at her almost-all black school.
She's only six.
Welcome to the world of racial paranoia, Baby Girl.
In case you've never had a six year old daughter with a 'unique' fashion sense, the pink cape is a halter dress.
Pity me. I lost control of her wardrobe choices when she was three.
Posted by Debra J Dickerson at 6/25/2010 12:26 PM 
Categories: Skippy, race, Lefty, Atlanta, poverty, Albany, Miss Thing
Categories: Skippy, race, Lefty, Atlanta, poverty, Albany, Miss Thing
I am amazed at how good you are...I knew you when ....
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yeah, and I knew YOU when.
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Debra, I love your entries and like I said before I liked "The End of Blackness" even if I didn't agree with everything. But I don't think your baby girl is exhibiting racial paranoia from that scenario. That sounds like what I deal with every day since moving to Alabama! Real prejudice! I've tried hard to make sure I'm not being paranoid but I know I've become the Invisible woman. I was in Chik-fil-a, which I'm sure you have discovered in Atlanta, people were going out of their way to act like they didn't see my kids or I. I guess they are fearful that i may try and steal their purse, while my toddler and child hold them up. i may be a little paranoid but the play area was full until we walked in.
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I just have to say I know you didn't mean this to be funny but I laughed. As a college educated child of the working class this networking thing stumps me too. Like you I feel like damn, I am educated, have experience what's the dealio? Yet we live in a brave new world and its all about networking. We will adjust and more specifically you will.
As for your daughter, mine is 4.5 a few weeks shy of 5 and has a similiar style of fashion. As for her observations, I went to all white schools in Chicago growing up and even without a discussion of race as the only Black kid in class back in the 1970's there are just some conclusions you draw without any prompting. n
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I totally meant for it to be funny.
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Debra,
Your playful yet meaningful commentary is bright and enlightening. Thank you for that.
So sorry that the challenges to getting back on your feet when dealing with your necessary life choices are a test of strength and endurance.
I'd like to introduce you to a film, "Empress Hotel", a full length documentary that reveals the human face of homelessness. Through the voices of principally 10 residents, a range of voices and experiences are heard and the viewer meets folks they typically would not have the opportunity and privilege to meet. Afterall, we are all a daughter or son, mother or father, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, etc.
A 5 minute short that the documentary channel put together may be viewed at:
www.youtube.com (search Empress Hotel DOCTalk)
I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments about the film.
Good luck to you and your kids.
Roberta
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