Rachel Dolezal and me

Unless you've been living under a rock over the past few days, you have undoubtedly read the strange and bizarre account of Rachel Dolezal, the woman who apparently has been passing as a Black woman for years but is actually white. Google her name and you will find countless excellent articles that deconstruct all the ways what she has done is an insult to Black people everywhere, the worst kind of appropriation, and white privilege in full effect.

There are so many great articles covering every corner of this issue that I won't take up space linking to a bunch of them here, except to this excellent piece by Rafi D'Angelo because he breaks down the importance of being a white ally without tipping into madness and pretending to be Black. Which is what I want to get personal about.

I'm putting my two cents into the conversation to confess that this whole business has got me thinking about all the ways I connect to Rachel, and share some stuff both good and bad with her, as a white woman who is significantly connected to and invested in Black people and issues associated with being African American in this country.

Some, maybe most who know me well, would call me a good ally, someone who is "down," someone who gets it. Well, yes, maybe. I better be given my responsibilities as a spouse, parent, grandparent, friend, and welcomed person in some corners of black and brown communities, but it's a slippery slope. Sometimes I've tipped dangerously close to acting as if I am of the Black community, which never has been and never will be true.

The truth is I love Black people and culture, literally and figuratively. Pretty much everyone I love the most in this world is Black. And by association over the last 30 plus years of an interracial life, I've assimilated a lot of pieces of Black culture and understanding of the issues of race and racism in this country into my psyche. Sounds like Rachel in lots of ways, does it not?

And, I've experienced the sting of racism as closely as someone can who is not the direct target. My now adult children have dealt with with everything from name calling to the structural racism that is designed for them to fail. When they were young, I had to learn to think like a Black parent, and to change so many things I was taught as a white person. For example, assuming the police are your friends and will help you, or that most teachers will see your potential and nurture it. That doesn't make me a tiny bit Black but it does give me a window into the abyss that is racism in this country that's pretty damn personal. It fuels my rage and desire to make change.

The experiences that have made me the particular kind of white person I am make some Black people uncomfortable. I partake in and enjoy so many amazing parts of Black culture, and profess cultural competency, while also simultaneously enjoying the fruits of white privilege with every breath I take. I'm implicitly a part of the systems of oppression that I hate. Yes I can and do use that privilege to support change, but that's some deep kind of complicated shit and it's the truth.

I'm also a trusted friend and ally, something I don't take lightly. The racial divide in our country is deep and ugly. So when a Black person extends a hand of friendship or love and decides to trust me, that's no small thing. I'm so very grateful to have earned that trust and would never want to betray it.

Which brings me back to Rachel, and wondering what made her do the unthinkable and cross over. To commit such betrayal and to profit from her sins. It sounds like she could have been an amazing ally and trusted friend. But she wanted it all. She wanted to go where white people cannot. There is a part of me that understands the urge, that gets on some level that being a white woman in such close proximity to Black life can cause a very misplaced thought of wanting to be all in, to actually be Black. But it probably takes serious mental illness of some sort to actually go there and particularly to invent a personal narrative of oppression to go with it. 

Just this weekend I was with a group a friends - black and white - and we were reading the hilarious #AskRachel meme on Twitter and Tumblr and testing ourselves on how well we knew the answers. The black friends were having great fun testing the white friends in the group. I knew almost all the answers and laughed loudly - maybe a little too loudly - at the jokes, and maybe with a little smugness at being "down." Ick. It's that line of demarcation - the no crossing or passing zone. I'm acutely aware of it and usually when I cross it. No one called me out, maybe no one even noticed, or if they did they gave me a pass. But I felt it. Time to check myself again. One of hundreds of examples of my own journey with my own particular white identity.

So I can be repulsed by, angry at, and laugh at this woman who took things way too far, but I think there are lessons for me and other white folks like me. I have never and will never attempt to pass myself off as Black (the ridiculousness of the idea makes me shudder), but when you are a white person who spends a lot of time living and loving in Black families, communities and spaces, some of us, maybe most of us, have taken that privileged place too far. 

Anyone else wincing at this truth, even just a bit?

I cried, Stevie Wonder - a review

Last night I was one of the 13,000 people lucky enough to take in Stevie Wonder at the Target Center in Minneapolis, a part of his Songs in the Key of Life Tour. The concert was three plus hours long and worth every. single. minute.

I came of age in the '70s, so Stevie's music helped shaped the landscape (and soundscape) of my life. Innervisions and Songs in the Key of Life in particular were on my record player continuously (I have the old albums - they are so scratched and worn), and his music is still on regular rotation in my mixes and streaming music today. He's a musical genius, as we all know, and his songs have endured.

So I had high anticipation for this concert, but was a bit worried about our seats, in the upper decks and far from the stage. Surprisingly, for the Target Center, the acoustics were amazing and Stevie's voice was as soulful and full as ever. He had a 40 plus piece band/orchestra with him that he worked like a maestro conducting a symphony - while also playing and singing! When he needed the strings section, he brought them up, or the horns, the drums, or the vocalists. Or everybody for some joyous noise. Our ears were flooded with sound and it was beautiful. Our seats were more than fine.

I've seen other legends perform and sometimes, while the music is good, it feels like they are on autopilot, singing the same songs they have sung for decades, and performing as much for the money and ego as anything else. 

Not Stevie. He was present, and deeply engaged in the music. He reminded us all that we were all experiencing this evening together, only us, only this evening. He played with love. I broke into tears more than once. He was singing about love from the heart - his heart. How could you not be moved?

He stayed true to Songs in the Key of Life, opening with "Love's in Need of Love Today," setting the stage for a journey of music, love, and hope. If that sounds corny. I don't care. I cried during "Ngiculela – Es Una Historia – I Am Singing," "Joy Inside My Tears," and especially during his tribute to harpist Dorothy Ashby (who has passed away from cancer), with "If it's Magic," where he sang to the original harp track she created for the song. I think he was crying, too.

Thank you, Stevie Wonder, for your brilliance, your enduring music, and your gracious generosity last night as you brought us all home with you. Much love and respect.

 Stevie Wonder with musical guest india.arie as viewed from our seats...

 ...but thanks to the large video monitors, it didn't really matter. 
Just being in his presence was the real gift.

Here's a great review of the concert from The Current, including awesome pix.

Imagining myself at 60, bicycle edition

My current bike is about 15 years old. She's a heavy cruiser - nice for tootling around on bike paths and my short commute to work. But she doesn't inspire me to ride farther, faster, and more often.

So I've been thinking about a new bike and thanks to advice from a bike-expert friend, I've found one (on sale!) that will meet my needs. She's a sweet road bike, designed for women, light, and good for anything from a Sat afternoon leisurely ride to my dreamed about longer rides - fifty plus miles.

When I showed another friend the picture of the bike I'm getting she was surprised. She said, "I thought you were just getting a lighter cruiser. I don't see you at 60 wanting to be hunched over on a bike like that."

She didn't mean to hurt me, but it did, deeply. Implying that at 60 I'd only be up for gentle, easy rides (which actually makes sense, given how I've been riding these last years).

She was envisioning this: 

And I'm envisioning this:

There's nothing wrong with either vision, but I want a bike that lets me do both! At 60, I want to be as badass as I can possibly be, as a biker, and at life in general. I'm planning to bust out.

So, that hurtful comment was exactly what I needed to hear, because hurt turned to anger, and then to inspiration, for biking and beyond. 

At 60, I envision (and plan to be):

• A serious recreational biker
• Fit and toned
• Engaged with art and music - as both a participant and creator
• Not taking BS from anyone
• Clear, smart, calm
• Best grandma ever
• Downsized so I'm living great with less
• Traveling to amazing places - maybe biking in amazing places!
• Surrounded by people I love and who love and support me
 

I've got some of that down already (especially the friends), and a year to do the work I need to do to get to the rest in place. I'm on it. 

But first, the bike!

White moms, mixed kids, and hair (again)

Here we go again. Seems like this issue recycles over and over.

Read this article first, published on The Root, but it will probably make you mad. It sure lit a fire in me. I’m a White Mom With Biracial Children, and What I Do With Their Hair Is No One’s Business

Other than no one should just come up and touch your child's hair, I couldn't disagree more with this writer. 

As a white mother of biracial Black children it was my job and responsibility to learn the cultural values around their hair and how to care for it properly. I am glad Black women - including friends and strangers in the store - offered advice on products and techniques. I didn't know. My kids deserved to have hair that looked like their peers' hair, and that was healthy and neat. 

Frankly, after I learned how to braid, plait, twist and make puffs, even with practice, I was only just okay with my daughter's hair. And we had a few relaxer and hot comb disasters as she got older and wanted processed hair (like her friends). We found a stylist who could do blowouts for special occasions. And someone who could do awesome braids. 

I was relieved when she and her friends started doing each other's hair in high school. It was an art form I never mastered. And I was so glad my son and his friends found all the barbers that could make tight fades and designs in their loose, mixed kids hair (you remember the 90s, right?) 

My granddaughter and me. Different hair, different needs.

Change is brewing

I'll be 59 in April and somehow this approaching birthday - or more accurately, the beginning of the final countdown to 60 - has triggered the beginnings of seismic internal reflections about life, direction, time lived, time left, and so much more.


I don't plan. I lean into change, and when what I need to do and where I need to go manifests itself, I leap. I feel the tremors of a great leap coming. Similar to when I came out almost 25 years ago in my mid-30s. I had inklings, feelings, and then a slow rumbling (and a few secret kisses) that were telling me I was queer and needed to leave the good life I was living, and leap into the amazing life I've lived since. One day it all fell into sharp focus - I was actually driving in my car and suddenly yelled to myself, "I'm a lesbian!" and started to laugh and cry - and then I acted. Within a month I had left my kind husband, announced my queerness to the world, and found my first girlfriend.

The next great shift is coming. I'm leaning in and getting hints and signs. But mostly, right now, I don't know what will come. I just feel it coming. I'm thinking of re-activating this blog in some kind of way, to document the unfolding. Or maybe a new blog, or a different kind of thing all together. Or maybe I'll fall off the grid and be in coffee shops or out in the woods. Or downtown. Or someplace else in the world. We'll see. 

In the meantime, here's a very old piece of writing (with apologies to Tim O'Brien) that I did shortly after that last seismic shift happened (so long ago I still put two spaces between sentences). Reading it today, it is so corny, but so full of the amazement and pure joy of being a freshly hatched queer girl all those years ago.

The things she carried out 

When she walked out of the closet she carried her secret with her, and her children, but left behind her borrowed last name, and her husband, who was not surprised but sad to see her go.  When she walked out of the closet she looked around and saw doors flinging open everywhere, and a chorus of radical dyke angels greeting the multitudes, who were dressed in all kind of ways, and going in all kind of directions.  She saw the attorney in heels and a three-piece suit, the school superintendent, who was dancing under bright lights and not hiding his face.  She saw mothers everywhere, and fathers, and even a bevy of grandmothers.  Kids were twirling around a Maypole and holding streamers of every hue in the rainbow.  Lavender kites were flying in the sky.  When she walked out of the closet she saw artists and car mechanics.  She saw her friend the piano tuner and his new lover playing blackjack at Mystic Lake.  From the corner of her eye she saw her fifth grade teacher surrounded by a big crowd of aging teachers, nurses and nuns.  They were singing old Andrews Sisters songs and bent over laughing from their attempts at three-part harmony.  When she walked out of the closet she saw the women she had secretly kissed and touched, saw her future lovers and friends, who were no secret to anyone, and amazingly, were all together having a party and dancing to Nina Simone, Sade, Anita Baker, Stevie Wonder and even Prince, that bad boy. When she walked out of the closet and opened the door to the rest of her life, she never once turned back except to wave goodbye.

October, 1993