Summer blogging break

I live on the northern tundra in the upper Midwest. This means our summers are short and sweet. I love the sun, the heat, the long daylight hours. I am outside whenever possible and not doing many other things, including blogging. For example:

Vacation days: kite flying at the beach


I'll be back. Promise. The summers are short here.

Buying Home: The Story the Story the Story

I am super excited to present the first guest post on this blog, by Sherry Quan Lee! This piece is a must read about the complex issues of race, class, gender, and privilege. Ann

Sherry Quan Lee

Note from author: I started to write an essay about my experience buying a foreclosed townhome. A second story wanted to appear, one about race. Does everything always have to be about race? The second story is in caps. Then, someone wrote to tell me about her experience buying a foreclosed home in North Minneapolis. Yet another story wanted visibility. The letter to Dear Caucasian (in italics) is not a replica of any sent letter to any particular person, but hopefully gets to the heart of the difference of understanding and of experience. It is difficult for me to write a story without including factors of race, class, gender, age, etc., whether I want to or not. Thus, the following story may feel disjointed and be unwieldy to read, but that’s the point.

Buying Home: The Story the Story the Story

I am a single woman, with a low/average income, student loans in forbearance, a bankruptcy on my credit report, no savings account, and no down payment; however, I just experienced buying a home. Foolish, lucky, naïve, and determined, I now live in another new neighborhood.

Nomad. For forty-two years, since I left my childhood home at the age of nineteen, I’ve moved at least fifty times. In the past eight years, I moved eight times. I moved because I had to. I moved because I wanted to. I moved because someone else wanted me to. I moved for love. I moved to get away from love. I moved because the moon was full and I was foolhardy. My most recent move, moved me, surprised me, challenged my bravado. Told me some things are not true, some things are.

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THE STORY I WASN’T GOING TO TELL, THE STORY I DIDN’T THINK WAS PART OF THIS STORY IS TRYING TO BE HEARD.

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I didn’t plan to take advantage of low interest rates, and foreclosed homes. My plan was to take control of my life. Stop whining about relationships, renting, winter—any number of, perhaps, unrelated things. It was time, I thought, to plan my future. An ad for a senior high rise, enticed me. There was something seductive about the neighborhood, and about the building itself. It’s subtle curve. How it leaned into the sky. How the price was—affordable. However, by the time I was, much to my surprise, pre-approved for a loan, the affordable unit was sold. Other units in the building I couldn’t afford, especially the remodeled unit with a tenth floor view of star filled nights.

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THE STORY I AM TRYING TO AVOID IS REMINESCENT OF TOO MANY STORIES. THE ROOMMATE WHO LOCKED ME OUT OF OUR APARTMENT WHEN I TOLD HER I WAS BLACK. THE APARTMENT THAT WAS SUDDENLY UNAVAILABLE WHEN I SHOWED UP IN PERSON. THE ALL WHITE NEIGHBORHOOD I GREW UP IN. NEIGHBORS WITH GUNS. THE LUTHERAN CHURCH I WAS A MEMBER OF (TAUGHT SUNDAY SCHOOL AT, SANG IN THE CHOIR, AND EDITED THE NEWSLETTER) THAT SAID NO BLACK PEOPLE WERE WELCOME.

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I had no money and not the best credit, but I was paying $720 for rent in an unkempt, noisy apartment building with no heat or too much heat, broken windows, mold, and any number of annoying problems. I had been feeling sorry for myself for being such a loser: no partner, no home, no career, and no extra $s. I would forgo the penthouse, exercise rooms, stainless steel appliances, and a short commute to work for anything that came with an affordable mortgage.

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DID IT MATTER WHO MY NEIGHBORS WERE? SO WHAT IF THEY WERE ALL WHITE. IF THEY DIDN’T LIKE ME, SO WHAT? IT WAS TIME I NO LONGER WORRIED ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE’S REACTIONS TO ME.

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Dear C (Caucasian),

Thank you for sending me your new home announcement. Congratulations on purchasing a new home. Yes, I am sure you are thrilled that you were able to buy a low cost home, and given thousands of dollars extra to live in North Minneapolis, even though you had a suitable down payment. And, yes, I am sure you are happy that you will be living in a diverse neighborhood (wherever I live, the neighborhood is more diverse by one person).

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I found a realtor on the World Wide Web. He recommended a mortgage broker: if anyone can get you a mortgage, this man could. I was pre-approved—for less than some people still pay for cars. Tears of joy. I was going to own a home.

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C, do you want to know why your happiness makes me angry? As a white person you can use your unearned privilege to move anywhere you want and expect to be safe, and even welcome without giving it any or much thought.

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WAS I WORRIED ABOUT HOW NEIGHBORS WOULD REACT TO ME, OR WAS I WORRIED ABOUT HOW I WOULD REACT TO THEM?

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When I was a girl, my aunt lived in North Minneapolis in the projects—how much choice did she have? Another aunt moved into the, then, Jewish neighborhood in North Minneapolis—was she safe or welcomed?

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Silly me. I knew I would need a down payment, but I didn’t bother to calculate how much, or other expenses. (The first time I dropped out of college it was because I was going to fail math.) I can’t believe I asked a friend to gift me the down payment, but asking is what we sometimes have to do to take control of our lives, and it doesn’t have to be about shame.

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HE GAVE ME MONEY IF I ASKED FOR IT, BEGGING. I GAVE HIM………. HIS FATHER HELPED BUY US A HOME, BUT I HAD TO PRETEND I WASN’T BLACK………HE DIVORCED ME TO MARRY A WHITE WOMAN WITH A FATHER……..MY CHINESE FATHER LEFT HOME. HE AND HIS NEW WHITE WIFE AND THEIR KIDS MOVED NEXT DOOR TO MY BLACK RELATIVES IN CAMDEN WHO WEREN’T ALLOWED TO VISIT MY MOM, THEIR SISTER, IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, OUR HOUSE, BECAUSE THEY WERE BLACK AND WE WERE PASSING FOR WHITE.

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Yes, Dear C, you are correct, it was a long time ago that my aunts lived in North Minneapolis, but don't fool yourself into thinking racism has disappeared. Just the other day three Black men were stabbed because the white man that stabbed them didn't like Black people. Just the other day, I saw KKK painted in life-size letters across a garage in a Minneapolis suburb.

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Unfortunately, the bottom line isn’t always the bottom line. There are half truths and avoidances. Extra expenses included a pre-purchase house inspection, and fees and interest I only half understood. And, boxes, and bubble wrap, and movers--$10/hr and pizza and beer. And locks, and window coverings, and cleaning supplies, and painters—$10/hr and pizza and beer.

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I GREW UP POOR. BEFORE GOVERNMENT CHEESE THERE WAS CANNED MEAT AND POWDERED MILK. WAITING IN LONG LINES. AID FOR FAMILIES OF DEPENDENT CHILDREN (AFDC). SALVATION ARMY FOOD BASKETS AT THANKSGIVING. MOTHER WAS A DIVORCED SINGLE-PARENT ( FIVE CHILDREN) WITH AN EIGHTH GRADE EDUCATION, YET SHE OWNED A HOME. I AM COLLEGE EDUCATED WITH A GRADUATE DEGREE. I OWN NOTHING, BUT A BIT OF SHAME (AND SOME REALLY GOOD BOOKS). IS IT TRUE THE DOLLAR IS WORTH LESS TODAY THAN FORTY-FIVE YEARS AGO?

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The process of finding a home, putting in an offer, and closing, took three months. My realtor, mortgage broker, and closer were patient and mostly calm—unlike me--the frustrated, impatient, nervous, sometimes angry buyer. I was in control of some things. Checking the MLS listings daily, telling the realtor which townhomes I wanted to see. Most things I had no control over: where properties I could afford were located, the condition of the properties I could afford—and if they were FHA approved.

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WHEN I FOUND A HOME I COULD AFFORD IN A NEIGHBORHOOD I WASN’T FAMILIAR WITH I ASKED MYSELF WHO LIVES HERE—ANY PEOPLE OF COLOR, ANY GLBT, ANY WRITERS, ANY ACTIVISTS, ANY GRANDMOTHERS, ANY ………….. WITH NO TIME FOR ANSWERS, I MADE AN OFFER, WHICH WAS ACCEPTED. I KEPT TELLING MYSELF, IF THEY DON’T LIKE ME IT’S THEIR PROBLEM. IF THEY DON’T LIKE ME, IT’S THEIR PROBLEM. I KEPT TELLING MYSELF I WAS NOT AFRAID.

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In response to your proclaimed happiness, I am writing this letter to tell you about my experience. I too recently moved. IT WAS NEVER NOT ON MY MIND IF I WOULD BE WELCOME and IF I WOULD BE SAFE in my new community.

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Both the realtor and the inspector were surprised by the condition of the foreclosed home I purchased. It was not trashed. Apparently it had been tidied by Fanny Mae. The appliances weren’t missing. The walls weren’t bashed in. Although the property sat empty for a year, there were few cobwebs, no mouse turds, not a stain on the carpet. Okay, there was/is that icky smell of dog pee.

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The townhome I bought is what I could afford. What I could afford wasn’t much. No swimming pool, no gym, no balcony, no flowers, no picnic benches.(No grass to cut, no snow to shovel.) The furnace is twenty-five years old. The dryer doesn’t work. The dishwasher is covered with hard water stains. The front door handle is missing, as well as a window screen. Next door, another foreclosed property sits empty. What isn’t much, is much more than I expected—and I am thankful for my new home (as well as truly sad for someone else’s misfortune).

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FEAR IS THE FEELING SUNK INTO MY BONES, HISTORY CLINGING TO THE PERSON I AM. MORE PREVALENT THAN FEAR, ANGER. ANGER, WHICH EVERYDAY I TRY TO TRANSFORM INTO LIVING, INTO LOVE.

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I have made one friend where I live. I have made a couple of enemies. Others, pay me no mind. Not all people in my neighborhood are white, though according to the 2000 census, most were. I look forward to the next census.

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MY MOTHER IS HERE, I CAN HEAR HER, AND MY AUNT GRACE AND MY AUNT MARION. THEY ARE SAYING IT IS FORTY-FIVE YEARS LATER. I SEE THEM. THEY ARE SHAKING THEIR HEADS.

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Dear C, do you really think that I would believe you? How could you honestly say you had no other options?

Sincerely,

A woman who didn’t learn about oppression from a book.

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I await my tax credit. I have some gifting to do and some carpet to buy.

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SHERRY QUAN LEE, author of Chinese Blackbird, 2002 (“an underground favorite”) (Asian American Renaissance, 2002, reprinted Loving Healing Press, 2008), approaches writing as a community resource and as culturally based art of an ordinary everyday practical aesthetic. She is a honorary Distinguished Alumni of North Hennepin Community College. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Minnesota in 1996. Recently retired from ten years of teaching Creative Writing at Metropolitan State University, Saint Paul, Minnesota, Quan Lee facilitates community workshops at Intermedia Arts/SASE: The Write Place, and elsewhere. Quan Lee was a first year participant of Cave Canem. Previously, she curated cabaret performances and edited journal anthologies for the Asian American Renaissance.

Another hair story: Fiercely free or unkempt?

Renee of Womanist Musings recently posted a piece, Nappy Hair In the Jolie-Pitt World, in response to negative responses about the condition of Angelina Jolie's daughter's hair in this photo (Zahara). I think the post is really interesting as are the comments.

In her post, Renee takes exception with comments from others about Jolie needing to learn how to take better care of her daughter's hair:

While braids and bows are certainly one way to treat hair, again why is it so unacceptable that Zahara is allowed to have her hair flow freely?

One of the first thing a little Black girl learns is that unlike White children, her hair is automatically assumed to be a problem to be managed. Rarely are we taught to marvel at the gravity defying shapes that it can take on and before we can articulate any coherent feelings on the matter, the world has already encouraged us to internalize a negative concept of Black womanhood.

I know that as a white mother who raised a black daughter, I was judged -- especially by black women -- on my fitness as a mother based on the condition of my daughter's hair. People had no problem coming up to me and telling me her hair was a mess and how to fix it. Frankly, they were usually right. I didn't take in those criticisms as internalized hatred of their hair or my daughter's. Until I learned how to better care for my daughter's hair, I had allowed it to be dry, broken, unkempt. Learning how to braid, twist, oil and comb her hair was not being anti natural hair; it was, for me, about love for her and respect for her cultural identity.

My granddaughter is growing up in a time when natural hair styles are embraced for kids and adults alike (not so true when her mom was small). She and many of the kids at her day care proudly sport Afro puffs, 'fros, locks, and more. I love this freedom of expression. But when I head to that day care at the end of a day, I can see clearly see among the kids a difference between a lovingly kept head of natural hair, a natural style that's gone messy by the end of a day of play, and hair that is dry, broken, matted, and neglected.

So while I agree with everything Renee says about loving and claiming natural hair, when I look at this picture of Zahara, I don't see an example of natural hair embraced for its fierce curls and kinks. I see hair that needs some TLC, regardless of if her mother is white or not.

What's your take?

Related post by me on this topic: (Nappy) Hair Notes

UPDATE 8/10:
I have listened to the people who chose to post their comments or email me and I have come to realize I need to evolve. My "white mom/brown child" hair issues were born 25 years ago and times have changed. It's time for me to catch up! As a friend would say, "Let it 'fro!"

Post Racial America: Black kids booted from swimming pool

Today cries of pure rage could be heard across the Blogosphere and Twitterville when folks began to post and share this dispatch from "Post-Racial America"

Pool Boots Kids Who Might "Change the Complexion"

More than 60 campers from Northeast Philadelphia were turned away from a private swim club and left to wonder if their race was the reason.

"I heard this lady, she was like, 'Uh, what are all these black kids doing here?' She's like, 'I'm scared they might do something to my child,'" said camper Dymire Baylor.

The Creative Steps Day Camp paid more than $1900 to The Valley Swim Club. The Valley Swim Club is a private club that advertises open membership. But the campers' first visit to the pool suggested otherwise.

"When the minority children got in the pool all of the Caucasian children immediately exited the pool," Horace Gibson, parent of a day camp child, wrote in an email. "The pool attendants came and told the black children that they did not allow minorities in the club and needed the children to leave immediately..."

"They just kicked us out. And we were about to go. Had our swim things and everything," said camper Simer Burwell.

The explanation they got was either dishearteningly honest or poorly worded.

"There was concern that a lot of kids would change the complexion … and the atmosphere of the club," John Duesler, President of The Valley Swim Club said in a statement.

So angry you could scream? Me, too. But what fuels a deeper rage is the harsh reality that if you are a black child in America, this is your story, too, and some version of it has happened or will happen to you. The election of Barack Obama does not and will not protect you. The illusion of a post-racial reality is dangerous to your well-being.

Here's what my friend Quiana said about that truth: "A black president is not the same as the end of racism...We have to worry about the kids, white, black and those who live somewhere in the middle... messages about body, skin and self are painfully branded in moments like this. No matter what the club does, I hope all these kids have a caring adult who can support them to learn and heal instead of hurt and grow hard."

I remember with clear precision the first time my daughter was on receiving end of an overtly racist remark/action from an adult -- she was three. A mother on our block told her she couldn't come in their house because she was black and left her screaming in the front yard two doors down from me as the other children went inside. One of the children she let in was a very light biracial girl who must have "passed" to this woman. I ran and grabbed my child, not knowing why she was screaming. As soon as I knew (she told me), I raced and got that other girl's mom who snatched her child right up out of the that house. Our daughters had played like neighbor kids do on the sidewalks with the two little white girls from that home without prior incident. Who knew?

My son was five, in kindergarten, the first time he experienced the sting of a racist taunt from a classmate (I don't think I need to explain that one further). I will say it was a very racially mixed school that praised itself for its diversity and welcoming environment.

As a young, naive white parent I was shocked at each of those experiences. My Black friends just shook their heads and said to me, "So what did you expect?" They understood what I still needed to learn -- that it was just the beginning.

That was the 80s. Now here we are, a generation later, and even after we elect a Black man President of the United States, for some kids in a pool in Philadelphia, it's the same old same old same old.

Related posts

Womanist Musings: Black Kids Change the Complexion of a Pool

Harriet's Daughter: The Longer I live in post-racial America

Pam's House Blend: Black kids booted from Philly club's 'whites only' pool

Jack and Jill Politics: 60 Black Kids Booted from Philly Pool for Being Black