It's been almost a year since I last blogged. Been busy with the whole finish the degree thing. Still got a lot of work to do on that. I've a prospectus due .... today. I've done ...little to middling on that. And, then, there's the dissertation. Still gotta do that. *sigh* Between that and being a Mom, not a lot of time for blogging. I need to do better. I will...
Next week.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day Purple
I spent the last week with growing angst about Mother's Day. I know a wonderful mother who has a wonderful family that takes her children to purchase gifts for her. My family doesn't do that. Come Mother's Day, I was sure, I would go out of my way to celebrate my mother who would go out of her way to celebrate my sister-in-law but no one would do squat for me. I felt selfish at the thought but angered also. The days passed and Mother's Day grew closer. My mother -gramma- helped my nephew make his mother (my sis-in-law) a card. This meant he used my son's crayons. This meant my son's crayons were broke. That's not the part that bothered me. My son sat down to color with his cousin. Did gramma suggest he make a card for his mommy, too? Nope. What DID happen? My brother pulled a crayon from his hands to help my nephew make his card. Of course, my son threw a fit. Then my mom gave my brother a crystal vase and money to buy my sister-in-law flowers.
To their credit, my sister and my brother each gave me a card.
To their credit - and my joy - my son's day care had him make me some very beautiful keepsakes.
I made my Mom brownies....with too many walnuts. Just like she likes.
The night before Mother's Day there was a concert - Morehouse Glee Club. I purchased a ticket. As we got dressed, my mother was ...snarky to say the least. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to go. My son and I had a blast and enjoyed my Mother's Day gift to us.
On Mother's Day, my mom was shocked when she remembered to tell me "Happy Mother's Day". This is my 2nd Mother's Day - my son is almost 2. How are you shocked that I'm a mom. The morning got worse from there.
My son and I wore purple to church. Purple, my favorite color. We were twins. After church, my family of choice took me to brunch and gave my son flowers to give to me.
On the way home, I knew it was me. I thought that I didn't try hard eneough to "fit in" to or didn't know how to appreciate my family. I thought that the issue just might be that I'm too stuck up. But then I got home. The accusations started. Apparently, I'm not a good mom. Or so they say. And, suddenly, I was over it. In this family, it seems, that Mother's Day is only for mothers who have a father - or a father's mother - for their children. For the rest of us, well, our place is to support them. Blue with sadness and red with rage. A very purple Mother's Day indeed.
To their credit, my sister and my brother each gave me a card.
To their credit - and my joy - my son's day care had him make me some very beautiful keepsakes.
I made my Mom brownies....with too many walnuts. Just like she likes.
The night before Mother's Day there was a concert - Morehouse Glee Club. I purchased a ticket. As we got dressed, my mother was ...snarky to say the least. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to go. My son and I had a blast and enjoyed my Mother's Day gift to us.
On Mother's Day, my mom was shocked when she remembered to tell me "Happy Mother's Day". This is my 2nd Mother's Day - my son is almost 2. How are you shocked that I'm a mom. The morning got worse from there.
My son and I wore purple to church. Purple, my favorite color. We were twins. After church, my family of choice took me to brunch and gave my son flowers to give to me.
On the way home, I knew it was me. I thought that I didn't try hard eneough to "fit in" to or didn't know how to appreciate my family. I thought that the issue just might be that I'm too stuck up. But then I got home. The accusations started. Apparently, I'm not a good mom. Or so they say. And, suddenly, I was over it. In this family, it seems, that Mother's Day is only for mothers who have a father - or a father's mother - for their children. For the rest of us, well, our place is to support them. Blue with sadness and red with rage. A very purple Mother's Day indeed.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Like a sock in the dryer
She told me to write my bio line.
Those few sentences at the end of a piece
that direct the reader
to know who is writing.
That should be simple, right?
Just write
yourself on to the page.
But that advice, for some reason, had me at a loss.
Who am I?
Other than Mommy?
State employee
who hates her job?
Preacher, ordained clergy
who won't sit in the pulpit?
An academic
who can't complete her degree?
An intellectual
who never has time to think?
I am
and I am not.
And I feel lost.
She suggested I come up with a theme
around which I write.
Something that interests me
something that displays my expertise
something based on my identity
something that comes from my voice.
Race?
No.
Single motherhood by choice?
No.
Gender?
No.
Theology?
Uh...
Barthian theology?
Feminist theology?
Womanist theology?
No.
Who am I?!
About what will I write?
I feel so lost.
Sitting quietly, giving hugs
full of cheer
quickly turned to tears
about nothing.
Cars dug for
get launched down the stairs.
Hungry?
Sleepy?
Yeah.
He ate the waffle
wouldn't drink his milk.
He couldn't keep his eyes open.
Sleep before he hit the bed.
It's 6 pm.
I feel so lost.
Those few sentences at the end of a piece
that direct the reader
to know who is writing.
That should be simple, right?
Just write
yourself on to the page.
But that advice, for some reason, had me at a loss.
Who am I?
Other than Mommy?
State employee
who hates her job?
Preacher, ordained clergy
who won't sit in the pulpit?
An academic
who can't complete her degree?
An intellectual
who never has time to think?
I am
and I am not.
And I feel lost.
She suggested I come up with a theme
around which I write.
Something that interests me
something that displays my expertise
something based on my identity
something that comes from my voice.
Race?
No.
Single motherhood by choice?
No.
Gender?
No.
Theology?
Uh...
Barthian theology?
Feminist theology?
Womanist theology?
No.
Who am I?!
About what will I write?
I feel so lost.
Sitting quietly, giving hugs
full of cheer
quickly turned to tears
about nothing.
Cars dug for
get launched down the stairs.
Hungry?
Sleepy?
Yeah.
He ate the waffle
wouldn't drink his milk.
He couldn't keep his eyes open.
Sleep before he hit the bed.
It's 6 pm.
I feel so lost.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
“Feminism is for everybody!” that’s what bell hooks insisted in her book by the same title. Men and women, young and old, regardless of race. Everybody. But I am not a feminist. It is not that I eschew the feminist ideal as much as the label itself. Still, I was a little more than irked when I read that single moms of color need to be more “feminine” in order to date and, presumably, “complete their families.” If such an ideal had been written anywhere else, loud Palin-esque cries of racism and sexism would’ve radiated throughout the internet. These words, though, were written by a mothering, single Black woman on a blog for moms, single and married, of color. And that alone is painful.
The mother who typed those words is a mother of a son. She insisted that, prior to having a son, she thought the ability to run a household, to make her own decisions and be in charge was admirable. In fact, she chided the men who wanted women to be “more feminine in conduct and action.” Having a son changed all that for her. Not because she realized, in raising a son, that being able to decide is a quality of life that is not gender-bound. Neither did she conclude, in rearing a boy, that relationships should be mutual, with neither partner “in charge.” Instead, this sista, in charge of her own household, being the mama and the daddy, looked at her son and worried that he may just choose someone like her. She concluded she needed to be more feminine. (Don't believe me? Here's the link: http://www.momsofhue.com/2009/09/single-moms-embrace-your-femininity/)
I have a friend who has been a single mother for less than a year, though her son is almost school age. She has devoted at least half of that year to finding a partner, a replacement for her ex-husband. Recently, I spotted her in the grocery store with a teenager who had given birth to her own son less than a month ago. My friend was trying to convince the teenager to let her introduce her to a man. “He’s not that much older than you!” The teenager gave birth halfway through her senior year in high school, and dropped out. She’ll never attend prom. She’ll never have a chance to enjoy senior skip-day or walk across the stage for graduation. Fully in the midst of post-partum baby daddy mess, the last thing this child needed was to be introduced to a man. But there she was, standing in the check-out line, being prodded by an older, shoulda-been-wiser, mom to find herself a man.
Both of these situations perplex me equally. I thought, at first, that I couldn’t understand because I did not conceive my son lying beneath a quivering, sweaty body. Or, perhaps, I was confused because I wasn’t simultaneously trying to teach a child and heal a broken heart. Being a single mom by choice affords me a few privileges. But I’m still a single mom. And I’m still raising a son. And I’m still a Black woman. Superficially, then, I am in the same predicament as all three of the women with whom I could not disagree more. What gives?
Maybe I’m a feminist after all. See, I thought long and hard about it. I concluded that being able to handle my own business, take care of my own family and concede the decisions to no one is not a masculine trait. It is a myth, to be sure, that a strong, independent Black woman is masculine in character. Back in the day, Eldridge Cleaver wrote about the Self-Reliant Amazon. She was so strong, mentally, that she had no use for the Super-Masculine Menial, the strong body. Cleaver, and the Black Panther Party that picked up on this ideal, identified Black women with the Self-Reliant Amazon and Black men with the Super-Masculine Menial. The self-reliance, the mental fortitude of the Amazon, they rationalized, was at the heart of the oppression and was counter to the revolution. Having a body, to be more explicit, was to be feminine; having a mind masculine. (I, quite obviously, venerate the Self-Reliant Amazon. Not just because of her iconic status as mental strength, but because of her resilience, her determination, her history as vanguard for freedom, justice, peace and her role as giver and protector of life. It goes without saying that I think Cleaver, (my beloved!) Huey Newton and the Black Panthers were misogynists. But I came into womanhood reading and loving them – with the exception of Cleaver – precisely because of their ideas about personhood and revolution. The day I realized that I was not included in their rhetoric for freedom was a sad day, indeed!)
This dualism is typical of Western society but, in the Black community, it turned into a call for women to abandon their strength for the sake of liberty. Boo.
Not only do I reject that dualism, I reject the notion that women who think too much are assisting in the oppression of their communities. Moreover, I fully refuse to accept the false dichotomy between thinking, deciding, choosing and being a woman. Not to mention what this says about being a man. To paraphrase President Obama, I reject that choice as false! No, I will not give up my agency – my personhood – for the sake of a partner in the sack. Not a chance. And neither will I teach my son that being a man means he expects that of a woman. Not a chance.
But what, then, do I teach my son of manhood, of maleness? And how do I, as single mom of color, deal with men and dating?
It is my considerable estimation that I will not raise my son to “be a man”. I’m teaching my son to be comfortable in his own skin. I’m teaching my son to think for himself. I’m teaching my son to stand on his own two feet. I’m teaching my son to speak the truth, to work for justice, to serve the people. I’m teaching my son to do right by people – even if they’re different from him, even if he disagrees with them. I’m teaching my son to walk gently upon the earth, to be careful of his footprint. I’m teaching him to treat those in his life with care – both physically and emotionally. I’m teaching my son to be compassionate and full of empathy. I’m teaching him to value himself. I have to teach my son to use the bathroom, one day standing up, and how to not get a girl pregnant. Those are the only sex specific lessons I’ll teach him. Not a single one of these ideals are reserved for men. Moreover, if my son chooses, as his life progresses, that he is in fact, genetically male but an engendered woman, none of these lessons will be lost to him. I’m raising a person not a stereotype.
Nothing about the way I’m raising my son, the values I pray he’s getting from me, or our family structure causes me to worry about the type of woman he’d choose (assuming his sexual orientation is such). Entreating single moms to rid themselves of their “masculinity”, their self-reliance, for the sake of their sons’ future relationships, I think, is proof positive for self-hate. Why wouldn’t you want your son to end up with someone just like you: strong, independent with a mind of their own? The alternative is far more frightening. But, then, maybe I am a feminist. Is feminism for single moms?
The mother who typed those words is a mother of a son. She insisted that, prior to having a son, she thought the ability to run a household, to make her own decisions and be in charge was admirable. In fact, she chided the men who wanted women to be “more feminine in conduct and action.” Having a son changed all that for her. Not because she realized, in raising a son, that being able to decide is a quality of life that is not gender-bound. Neither did she conclude, in rearing a boy, that relationships should be mutual, with neither partner “in charge.” Instead, this sista, in charge of her own household, being the mama and the daddy, looked at her son and worried that he may just choose someone like her. She concluded she needed to be more feminine. (Don't believe me? Here's the link: http://www.momsofhue.com/2009/09/single-moms-embrace-your-femininity/)
I have a friend who has been a single mother for less than a year, though her son is almost school age. She has devoted at least half of that year to finding a partner, a replacement for her ex-husband. Recently, I spotted her in the grocery store with a teenager who had given birth to her own son less than a month ago. My friend was trying to convince the teenager to let her introduce her to a man. “He’s not that much older than you!” The teenager gave birth halfway through her senior year in high school, and dropped out. She’ll never attend prom. She’ll never have a chance to enjoy senior skip-day or walk across the stage for graduation. Fully in the midst of post-partum baby daddy mess, the last thing this child needed was to be introduced to a man. But there she was, standing in the check-out line, being prodded by an older, shoulda-been-wiser, mom to find herself a man.
Both of these situations perplex me equally. I thought, at first, that I couldn’t understand because I did not conceive my son lying beneath a quivering, sweaty body. Or, perhaps, I was confused because I wasn’t simultaneously trying to teach a child and heal a broken heart. Being a single mom by choice affords me a few privileges. But I’m still a single mom. And I’m still raising a son. And I’m still a Black woman. Superficially, then, I am in the same predicament as all three of the women with whom I could not disagree more. What gives?
Maybe I’m a feminist after all. See, I thought long and hard about it. I concluded that being able to handle my own business, take care of my own family and concede the decisions to no one is not a masculine trait. It is a myth, to be sure, that a strong, independent Black woman is masculine in character. Back in the day, Eldridge Cleaver wrote about the Self-Reliant Amazon. She was so strong, mentally, that she had no use for the Super-Masculine Menial, the strong body. Cleaver, and the Black Panther Party that picked up on this ideal, identified Black women with the Self-Reliant Amazon and Black men with the Super-Masculine Menial. The self-reliance, the mental fortitude of the Amazon, they rationalized, was at the heart of the oppression and was counter to the revolution. Having a body, to be more explicit, was to be feminine; having a mind masculine. (I, quite obviously, venerate the Self-Reliant Amazon. Not just because of her iconic status as mental strength, but because of her resilience, her determination, her history as vanguard for freedom, justice, peace and her role as giver and protector of life. It goes without saying that I think Cleaver, (my beloved!) Huey Newton and the Black Panthers were misogynists. But I came into womanhood reading and loving them – with the exception of Cleaver – precisely because of their ideas about personhood and revolution. The day I realized that I was not included in their rhetoric for freedom was a sad day, indeed!)
This dualism is typical of Western society but, in the Black community, it turned into a call for women to abandon their strength for the sake of liberty. Boo.
Not only do I reject that dualism, I reject the notion that women who think too much are assisting in the oppression of their communities. Moreover, I fully refuse to accept the false dichotomy between thinking, deciding, choosing and being a woman. Not to mention what this says about being a man. To paraphrase President Obama, I reject that choice as false! No, I will not give up my agency – my personhood – for the sake of a partner in the sack. Not a chance. And neither will I teach my son that being a man means he expects that of a woman. Not a chance.
But what, then, do I teach my son of manhood, of maleness? And how do I, as single mom of color, deal with men and dating?
It is my considerable estimation that I will not raise my son to “be a man”. I’m teaching my son to be comfortable in his own skin. I’m teaching my son to think for himself. I’m teaching my son to stand on his own two feet. I’m teaching my son to speak the truth, to work for justice, to serve the people. I’m teaching my son to do right by people – even if they’re different from him, even if he disagrees with them. I’m teaching my son to walk gently upon the earth, to be careful of his footprint. I’m teaching him to treat those in his life with care – both physically and emotionally. I’m teaching my son to be compassionate and full of empathy. I’m teaching him to value himself. I have to teach my son to use the bathroom, one day standing up, and how to not get a girl pregnant. Those are the only sex specific lessons I’ll teach him. Not a single one of these ideals are reserved for men. Moreover, if my son chooses, as his life progresses, that he is in fact, genetically male but an engendered woman, none of these lessons will be lost to him. I’m raising a person not a stereotype.
Nothing about the way I’m raising my son, the values I pray he’s getting from me, or our family structure causes me to worry about the type of woman he’d choose (assuming his sexual orientation is such). Entreating single moms to rid themselves of their “masculinity”, their self-reliance, for the sake of their sons’ future relationships, I think, is proof positive for self-hate. Why wouldn’t you want your son to end up with someone just like you: strong, independent with a mind of their own? The alternative is far more frightening. But, then, maybe I am a feminist. Is feminism for single moms?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine's Day
There were no flowers for me.
No benevolent family members to teach my son thoughtfulness.
No card.
No chocolate.
Just my son
hugging, cuddling,
laying his head on mine,
tolerating a cousin,
sharing his toys
and his food.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.
Hurried footsteps up the stairs
a 3 year old in a panic.
"Can someone take me poopy?"
I asked my Daddy but he was too busy.
"My booty hurts."
Half way through a diaper change
a naked butt staring up at me from the bed.
Can you find your gramma?
"Sit on the potty,
I'll go get your Daddy."
Daddy, I don't like my aunty anymore.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.
"I want Salahaldin's toy."
Gramma, give me Salahaldin's toy
Salahaldin's food
Salahaldin.
It's MINE.
Okay, baby, we'll go get you your own.
No. I don't want my own.
I want HIS
His is better
His is nicer
His is his
I want his.
Bruises shaped like 3 year old fingers
taunt me from my baby's arms.
Why do you let him play with me?
"ENOUGH!
I told you no more pushing, no more snatching,
no more. Time out."
Screams.
Fake tears.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.
Sick stomach.
Hurting head.
Pounding sinuses.
Running noses.
Coughing toddler.
"Raisins, Mama!"
No. More. Raisins.
"Wah der?
Kah kee?
Milk?
A cup?"
Sleep before the diaper's closed.
No hug. No kiss.
That was my Valentine's Day.
No benevolent family members to teach my son thoughtfulness.
No card.
No chocolate.
Just my son
hugging, cuddling,
laying his head on mine,
tolerating a cousin,
sharing his toys
and his food.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.
Hurried footsteps up the stairs
a 3 year old in a panic.
"Can someone take me poopy?"
I asked my Daddy but he was too busy.
"My booty hurts."
Half way through a diaper change
a naked butt staring up at me from the bed.
Can you find your gramma?
"Sit on the potty,
I'll go get your Daddy."
Daddy, I don't like my aunty anymore.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.
"I want Salahaldin's toy."
Gramma, give me Salahaldin's toy
Salahaldin's food
Salahaldin.
It's MINE.
Okay, baby, we'll go get you your own.
No. I don't want my own.
I want HIS
His is better
His is nicer
His is his
I want his.
Bruises shaped like 3 year old fingers
taunt me from my baby's arms.
Why do you let him play with me?
"ENOUGH!
I told you no more pushing, no more snatching,
no more. Time out."
Screams.
Fake tears.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.
Sick stomach.
Hurting head.
Pounding sinuses.
Running noses.
Coughing toddler.
"Raisins, Mama!"
No. More. Raisins.
"Wah der?
Kah kee?
Milk?
A cup?"
Sleep before the diaper's closed.
No hug. No kiss.
That was my Valentine's Day.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Little girls in grown up bodies
I moved in with my mom. That meant moving in with my sister, too. I don't like my sister. She's selfish, spoiled and very immature. Just talking to her is a challenge. Even the most benign conversations turn into arguments. Why? Hellifiknow. She's very, very bossy and ignorant at the same time. I hate having her around my son. It's just hard.
When we were smaller, we were friends. Then we were on and off again as teenagers, depending on the hormone level. Then, for a minute there, we were friends again. But the person she has decided to be is just intolerable. I keep making excuses for her. She's not used to change. She's still getting used to us living here and is behaving in response to that. But she's almost 30 years old. It makes no sense that she's still behaving like an upset teenager. I honestly wonder if she has Aspberger's Syndrome - she's that resistant to change and becomes that angry when you tell her no. We have the same argument every other week. The food I cook on Sunday night is for my child. No, you can't have any. Yes, it is fair. You are a grown woman, you can make your own food. He's a toddler, he can't. No, it's not selfish for me to prepare food only for my son. He's a toddler. He needs to eat. I don't have time to cook during the week so I cook it all on Sunday night. No, you can't have any. I can't understand why she can't understand that. She can't understand why she can't get what she wants.
My son eats a banana every third day. In any given week, we may eat 3 bananas between the two of us. Little sis eats 3 in a sitting. She's incensed that she has to buy bunches of bananas every week. "It's time for someone else to buy bananas." Responds Mom, "I just bought $8 worth of bananas." They were $.49 a pound. That's a lot of bananas. She ate 6 a day. "Not you, the other someone else." Why? Because you feel the need to have someone take care of your needs? If your pocketbook can't support the outrageous amount of food you eat, that's not my problem.
She has a sense of entitlement that I cannot begin to understand. It would make perfect sense for a 15 year old. But once you're over 25, it's nonsense. On the outside, she's grown. But...internally...not so much.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Oh Boy!
A few days ago, on a SMC weblist, a mom-to-be posted her disappointment upon learning that her growing child may be male. She claimed to be depressed, she really didn't want a boy. She had paid extra to gender select for a girl. (GENDER select? I don't know why it's called that and not SEX select. Seriously, there is no telling what gender your child will be - even if you're clear about their sex. But that's a tangent.) The moms and wanna be moms flamed her. Some concluded that she would abuse her baby. In their defense, she did say that she would look at her son with disappointment that he wasn't a girl. They insisted that she should give her son up for adoption, that she was insensitive to the women who were still trying to get pregnant. One mom chided her that motherhood is about flexibility, her attempts to control her family were contradictory to reality.
*SIGH*
While all of this was going on, my son became ill. Very ill. In retrospect, his temperature was never dangerously high. It just wouldn't break. And he couldn't keep anything down. So, for the second time in his life, he was given an IV. I missed days upon days of work. I removed vomitty sheets and replaced them with clean ones. Then I removed those. And again. I thought we were out of the woods. We weren't. Diapers blew out through the onsie, down the leg of his pajamas into his socks. Flexibility? Being a mother is about adapting. Adapting to new symptoms, adapting to new events, adapting to news. Adaptation, though, is not an easy process. It can't always be met with joy and glee. That's not reasonable. But newness, the introduction of the unknown unknown, is met. That's motherhood. Being able to say, "Oh what the hell now!", accept it and keep it moving.
The hormonal poster insisted that her vision of her child included purple bows and white dresses. How could she accept anything less? *sigh* We get no say.
While I sat up, taking temperatures, force feeding pedialyte, I watched reruns of RuPaul's Dragrace. These beautiful drag queens, born to their mothers as boys, wrapped themselves in dresses, slathered on more makeup than a little bit and looked better than I ever could. As mothers, our job is to help our children be the best they can be - who and whatever they are. We don't get to decide, we don't get to mold, we don't get to determine. That's what pregnancy is supposed to teach us. And if it doesn't, well, those first 3 weeks will.
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