The Crazy Train

With Barack Obama in office for around a month, the fearmongering in written form has begun. Just two weeks ago, the NY Post published a cartoon which, on the surface was inspired by the stimulus bill, but clearly had racial undertones. Then, Dean Grose, the mayor of Los Alamitos, CA, decided to resign rather than deal with the debacle he started after he sent around an e-mail depicting the White House lawn as covered in watermelons. It was titled "No Easter Egg Hunt This Year". Now that a person of color is in charge, those who're accustomed to being at the top of the power hierarchy in this country are losing their minds at the demographic and cultural changes afoot, and this is their desperate, rather pathetic attempt at putting us back in our place. Well, now that we're finally represented in the Oval Office our voices can be heard and it's gonna take a little more than some whiny articles to bring us down. back to the drawing board, fellas, better luck next time.

Squirmin' in my Seat

Two weeks ago, I went to a lecture of historian C.R. Gibbs, a specialist on the history of the African Diaspora. The subject matter, "Black Presidents Before Obama", was a speech concerning historical black heads of state in Latin America and the Caribbean, supplemented with the seemingly unfounded belief that this region's governments have denied the African descendancy of their citizens, past and present. During the Q&A, I was the first to shoot up my hand to inquire about the differing perceptions of race in these countries as opposed to the U.S, especially regarding the one-drop rule. The convoluted answer I received, stating, in effect that these things do not matter, only served to solidify my understanding of and strength in my dual heritage. Although there were certain points on which I agreed, specifically concerning the effects of colonialism on populations of color, I take great issue with distorting history to further one's agenda, especially when it appears to denigrate those who don't fit into the confining boxes we've invented in this society.

How Rachel Getting Married Got It Right

I recently watched the lovely ensemble drama Rachel Getting Married and was quite pleased with its depiction of interracial marriage. Interestingly, Rachel Getting Married doesn't make its title subject the focus of the story, instead portraying the troubled mindset of Kim, a young woman freshly out of rehab, and the effect her presence has on her family. Kim has rejoined the family in time for her sister Rachel's wedding, and the movie shows with great realism how her loved ones are unwillingly absorbed into her life. The two interracial couplings, that of Kim's father and stepmother, and Kim's sister and her fiance, aren't mentioned, they just exist, and that is amongst the beautiful aspects of this film.

The Whole Picture

Black History Month is upon us again. Even though a 28-day month is far from sufficient to honor the legacy of Blacks' existence in this racially complex country, it is still a good time to focus on the strong history that has been forged here, from the first slave ship to the struggles of the Civil Rights Movement. It is a good time to respect the bravery of those who fought against such inhumanity, a good time to celebrate the artistic talents of the poets, the singers, the dancers, the painters and the musicians. How does a mulatto fit into this? First of all, although my truths don't fall entirely within this history, I recognize that I am a part of this greatness, and secondly, I consider a more personal angle, that of the stories which my maternal family members passed on to me. Stories which include the melding of Black Caribbean and Black American cultures, the witnessing of historic court cases, discrimination during lunch breaks, and personal ties with great black leaders of the day. I recall vibrant and spiritual moments on Sundays and delectable food such as my aunt's juicy greens and my grandmother's pineapple upside-downcake. Through these tellings and experiences, Black History has always been up close and constant, outside the generic Black History box that comes about every February. I am thankful for this, and I ride a gentle wave of beauty and strength from this knowledge.

Hail to the Chief

For those who were dragged here across the rough sea, chained to the bottom of rotting ships.

For the mothers and the fathers whose humanity was worked away in the boiling Southern sun.

For the ones called nigger, whose lips were too dirty for the water fountain, and who hung on the end of ropes.

For Martin and Rosa, and the countless others, who said enough! Who asked "Do I not bleed red just like you"?

For Richard and Mildred Loving, who crossed the line and the law, for whom love was not even a question of color.

For the skinny kid with the funny name, a blended heritage that brings forth the Dream.

For my country 'tis of thee, Hail to the wisest and most thoughtful of Commanders-in-Chief.

Biracial Adoptees

Connor Cruise and I have something in common. The 13-year old son of Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, is a biracial adoptee. It's refreshing to see someone in the public eye (he has a moment in the new Will Smith film "Seven Pounds") who became family through the same circumstance as myself. It is a beautiful reminder that family is not formed only through bloodlines or racial homogeneity, but through the ultimate power of love.

Lessons on a Country Road

The biracial prism from which I view the world came starkly into focus during a holiday shopping trip with friends. On the drive to the mall, we had to pass through an area well-known as being racially unfriendly. As my friends continously stated how uncomfortable they were in this neck of the woods, I inwardly scoffed, thinking their fears were exaggerated, but as I listened to their stories of past unpleasant experiences with local residents, I realized I was mostly removed from this type of trouble. I can't relate to having a gun pulled on me during a swimming outing, having people move aside when I walk up to pay for a purchase or being concerned about who I can safely ask for directions. My tales have consisted of those who've wondered why I "talked white", taunted me on the playground with the wounding "oreo" epithet, commented on my"exotic" looks, and curiously perused my facial features as if I were from another planet. As frustrating as these encounters have been, they could in no way compare to the stings that my friends, and some of my relatives, have had to deal with. I've been naively immune to such things, and going on this shopping trip has been yet another learning experince in this ongoing school of life.