Mother's Day

Ahhh, another Hallmark holiday is here. Below is a poem I wrote recently that sums up my feelings about that role. I think I'm kinda ambivalent, after 21 years.


Inaudible whispers
Phantom touches
Layered, sheer
Evaporating

Heart aching
Breaking
Letting go
Letting be
Freeing

Part of me
Is you
Becoming you
Is me
Becoming null

Empty quiet
Peaceful oblivion
Slow tumble
Into new being
After mothering.

It's Postracial...NOT!!!

So I keep attempting to focus on some aspect of the human experience that doesn't revolve around race, gender, and identity...and damned if I'm able to do so without circling back and finding myself right where I started. I try, honestly I do, to find a way to view the world and my place in it without reverting to an analysis that privileges my reality as a woman of color...a middle-aged woman of color, at that; let's add age to the mix! I'm wondering how others are faring. Do you notice your racialized experience? If you don't, I'll wager you're not a person of color. Would love to know what others are experiencing. How does your identity inform your day to day life?

Some Thoughts on Big Love from a Mother to her Son on Valentine’s Day 2011

Twenty years ago today I was pregnant with you. I didn’t know it yet then, but I would in a few weeks. Carrying you and giving birth to you was so easy, at least physically. Emotionally, I don’t guess anyone is prepared for the miracle that is bringing new life into the world, of the connection that exists between parent and child. Some can’t handle it, I know; some are consumed by it, others run from it or try to minimize it. I do remember being immobilized by the vastness of it, by the enormous capacity for life and love and loss it presented. And it does still, which may be why I sometimes seem a bit stuck.

There are parts of my body that were always meant to fit with parts of yours. From the moment you were first placed in the crook of my elbow to your toddler self nestled into the curve of my chest and belly, to a rough and tumble kid, my arms around you and your head of silken curls tucked under my chin as snug as you were when I carried you within. We were as one, connected and warm. Now I try to hug you, wiry and manly, your angles and lean muscles alien in their familiarity, limbs too long and strong for me to enfold. My memories of holding your little hand, chubby and delicate, of your long lashes against your round soft cheeks, are fading. Your kiss, once sloppy and moist and only for me, is dry and quick.

I see your childhood in the rearview mirror. It gets smaller by the minute, with every quick glance receding into a distance I can barely make out. It’s almost like it never happened. I don’t trust my recollections of your first tooth, first word or step, of your scent or the pitch of your laughter. I only know that even now, your safety and security and wellbeing are all that really matter to me, and I love you even more as you grow away from me and toward your own understanding of this immensity in which we all share.

Keep your love big, Babu. Time passes way too fast to waste it on the small stuff.

Still Grateful

I am the world's worst blogger. I'll have to devise some sort of incentive to encourage regular postings. The fact that few appear to have discovered my words of wisdom might have something to do with my failure to recognize this forum as a means to communicate my thoughts to the world. Well, if indeed only I am privy to my genius, I may as well make sure that some higher purpose is served...like once again proclaiming to the Universe my deep gratitude for the life I have lived to date.

I am fortunate, blessed, in fact. I have a warm hearth, a hot hot tub, sustaining friendships, a job (!), interesting hobbies and habits, a wide network of colleagues, a wonderful kid, an awesome boyfriend, and a family that constantly inspires. What more could a girl ask for?

How about cars that run! No sooner had I typed that last paragraph when the phone rings. It is my sweetheart, stranded half way to Columbus with a broken down vehicle. So much for counting blessings, though it certainly could have been a lot worse. I'll just consider myself fortunate to have the resources to make a quick rescue...

2010...and counting!

It's here again...census time. Every ten years the American people view with some mistrust that temporary government worker who shows up on our doorsteps, survey in hand.

Since I have become a formal student of identity, its development and manifestation, the census has loomed large in my ruminations. We may call ourselves whatever we choose on a day-to-day basis, but there's something about declaring ourselves to our government that makes it...official. For me, checking the race box is more than a statement about who I am; it's also a political statement, not as personal as it is an act I perform with the greater good in mind. Regardless of the complexity of my "racial" identity, I am officially "Black, African Am., or Negro."

I highly recommend checking out the census website: http://2010.census.gov/2010census/

Which box(es) will you check? And why?

The Best of Intentions

I certainly have the best of intentions when it comes to keeping a regular blog, but somehow, it just doesn't seem to work out as I'd hoped. As with everything else in life, I can only acknowledge that it is sometimes tough to fulfill those well intended intentions, and attempt to do better.

Below is a little something I wrote this summer while on vacation. It is a thoughtful little piece, and this seems the appropriate spot to post and share it. I wrote it as a sort of postcard to the students in my African American Speculative Fiction course.

July 28, 2009

I am vacationing on Martha’s Vineyard, staying in a funky little summer cottage owned by a paternal aunt and her husband. They are in their 80s, and the cottage suffers from deferred maintenance, as the dwellings of older folks who can no longer perform that maintenance themselves often do. Nevertheless, I am feeling relaxed and thoughtful, and am grateful for the miracle of computers and wi-fi so I have the opportunity to record my thoughts and share them with others.

Early this morning I did a little beachcombing along the Oak Bluffs public beach known as The Inkwell. Martha’s Vineyard has a long history of diversity. The island has many layers of race, class, and culture to peel back and explore. Oak Bluffs contains an African American enclave that has been well documented in Black literature, as well as whimsical Victorian-era gingerbreads and the country’s oldest carousel. Five miles south, Edgartown is tony and upscale (think Kennedys…Chappaquiddick, Teddy’s Waterloo, is a stone’s throw). Then there’s artsy, earthy Tisbury, where vegetable stands, yoga centers, and the homes of many year-round residents are located. This area has rural New England feel to it, with deep woods and rolling fields divided by stone walls.

At any rate, I took a stroll this morning along the Inkwell, thinking about race and Skip Gates and the history and legacies of this region. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. wasn’t always a famous Harvard professor residing in Cambridge. He was once a young colored boy in the hills of West Virginia. He’s only a few years older than me, so we share recollections of an America in which African American literature was most certainly not a subject taught at Ivy League institutions, let alone a part of mainstream American arts and letters. We also share memories of pre-Civil Rights Act America, when being a Black man in the wrong place at the wrong time could mean not just harassment but death, especially in the South. It’s not a stretch for me to think that Skip Gates could have arrived home from a grueling trip with lowered physical and emotional immunity, feeling tired, under the weather, frustrated with a jammed door, and not at all his usually erudite and diplomatic self. And it’s not much of a stretch for me to think that no matter how well-trained or sensitive to racial issues a white police officer might be, he or she might not fully comprehend the deeply ingrained connections to history and our experiences of the world that have created this place where we people of color go ‘cause we honestly don’t know if race is a significant factor in a given situation. I would say from his remarks throughout the public airing of this incident that Barack Obama knows of this place, that he has been there himself. I know I’ve been there.

As I wandered along the shoreline considering all this, a smooth white object caught my eye. The beach is a little stony here, much more so than the sandy Atlantic South Beach that I’d hung out on the day before. Small rocks of all colors and composition, rounded by the waves, are strewn about the water’s edge here. I picked up the pale stone and turned it over in my hand. Probably quartz, not a rough edge to it any longer. I looked down and found another, and another, and soon I was walking ankle deep in the surf, searching out the smooth white stones. It wasn’t long before I had a handful. Intuitively, without thinking, I shifted my search to smooth black stones, and picked up a handful of them as well. I was then struck by the metaphor of the stones, worn smooth by the water and the passage of time. So it is with white folks and Black folks. Our sharp edges, our exteriors, are being worn away, slowly smoothed by time and contact, though we maintain our distinct compositions, our histories, our origins.

I’m gathering up the white and black stones on this Massachusetts beach where generations of Black folks have found respite from racism as mementos of this trip, and of the wearing down and wearing away of our rough histories. I’ll set them in a basket back home to remind me of our nation’s most recent “teachable moment” and my vacation on Martha’s Vineyard.

Enjoy your summer reading, and know that you are part of a larger story yet to be told!

Jocelyn

In sickness and in health...

It's been quite some time since I put my thoughts down in blog form, so there's a bit of catching up to do here. I just spent the last several weeks fighting a truly debilitating bout of sinusitis. Started with a cold about a month ago that slowly morphed into one of the worst illnesses I can remember in my adult life. I just want to state publicly that I am grateful for my employment-afforded insurance and for the support of my sweetie, who nursed me and forgave the crankiness that accompanies the discomfort of such an illness. I'm now well on the road to recovery, and hope I don't have to travel back down that road again any time soon. I've got too much going on and too much to do to be out of commission like that again!

It's February, that time of year when the nation remembers its debt to Black folks, only to forget it once again on March 1. This time, however, there is a buzz going on, due in part to our newly-elected President of color, and our newly-appointed Attorney General of color. Let's talk about race! I've been trying to talk about race for years. My life work is talking about race. A whole new era is opening up in which it is becoming OK to actually talk about the one thing that is always present between us as Americans, yet is the one thing we always want to discount and deny. I have every intention of seizing this opportunity, of not letting the buzz die down after the initial burst of energy surrounding it.

Stay tuned. I'm collecting my thoughts and soon they'll be spilling across this blog screen.