The Mama Spot

Shades of Blackness

It's been a while, I know.  I'll confess that I was a little peeved with President Obama who was still President-Elect Obama when my grudge began.  But, with the whole Inauguration/Leader of the Free World thing coming up, I didn't want to make waves for the man, so, you know, I played the background for a minute.  But, I'm back.

Here's the deal.  I was going to write an open letter to my son on his birthday, January 10th, but Mr. Obama bet me to the punch with that Parade piece and really stole my thunder.  This isn't a Victim Binge post, but...you do feel me here, right?  Thus, the whole grudgey silent treatment thing.

It took me a while to figure out how to recover, but I did.  Whenever one finds herself at a loss for blog content, turn to one's child's father.  There's always something rich there.  So...I decided to write an open letter to him...but it isn't complete.  Alas, that's an upcoming post.  Fortunately, something else came up recently...

During an interesting conversation, my new colleague, a Black man who has hinted at Republican leanings but seems to support our new President nonetheless, and I were trying to make sure we were talking about the same person.

"Oh.  You mean the light-skinned brother?" he asked.

Now, this is a reference every Black person in this country at least (I don't know how they do elsewhere in the Diaspora) has had umpteen million times.  It's a standard way of describing the man you're dating, which child belongs to whom, which woman you're about to stalk at the club...yourself.  But for some reason, in this instance, I found myself stumped, confused, befuddled, as I looked at my own skin trying to compare myself to the nameless subject of our chat.  Still, I responded appropriately albeit unconfidently, "Yeah.  Maybe my complexion or a little lighter."  Or was he?

I don't know if it's my new Obama Era sensibilities that have shifted my perspective and suddenly left me questioning so many things, including my ability to differentiate shades of Blackness or perhaps some new consciousness about the relativity of Black people's skin color comparisons, but dangit, I need a Complexion Color Wheel.  And, if we are truly going to be led into this post-racial America, I know White folks need one, too!

Seriously, I consider myself relatively pecan, not light, not quite brown-skinned, definitely not caramel, because there's a certain glow that goes with that that I just don't have, but to my son's father's Charleston-bred family, I'm just light-skinned.  And, when is a brother dark-skinned versus chocolate? Is that just when he's fine?  Then there's yellow versus red, although, I haven't heard "redbone" in a long time.  My middle sister is the yellow one in our family, and I think my youngest is brown.  I can't quite place my son. His father, dark-skinned.  And, then, there are those among us, who can't be classified as other than white, but on the spectrum of Blackness.  You get my point.

On second thought, I guess I realize that my color wheel could lead to more Wannabe/Jigaboo colorism, but I'll hope that in the Age of Obama, we will finally dead that.  Because, for real, some Black-is-beautiful Pantone chips would help a little.  Anyway, I found my confusion confusing until I realized that this thing we do, this way of describing ourselves is confusing and relative and dynamic...but still so beautifully Black, fraught with all the creativity and contradiction that color us as a people.  

The good thing is, turns out that my colleague and I were talking about the same person...at least I think we were.  

Your turn...Have you figured this whole shades of Blackness thing out yet?  Do you really know what brown-skinned means?  Are dark-skinned and chocolate the same thing?

What Would I Tell Myself?

Two nights ago I was going to write this post...then I remembered that my computer had crashed...right after my big comeback.  But, I'm back again, with a real-life excuse this time.  My computer crashed!

So, two nights ago, as my son was falling asleep, I asked him a really deep question.  If you could meet your grown-up self now, what would you want to tell him about yourself?  Apparently, it was so deep that his six-year-old mind had no idea what the hell I was talking about.  His appropriate response, "Um...huh?  I don't know.  Why are you asking me that, Mama?"  Kiss on the forehead, "Never mind, Sweetie.  Go to sleep."

For the few days prior to that, lost in doubts about whether I can really do the things I say I really want to do with this life I've been given, I remembered something my mother said that has stuck with me since college.  One night, I called home in the throes of a procrastination-induced hysteria over a 20-page paper due the next day for Sociology.  The topic was something I cared and had thought about quite a bit, but hadn't written a damn word about.  I lost it when I realized that once again, I had set myself up to underdeliver, if I could even deliver again.  Through my victimy tears of fear, doubt and self-blame, I heard my mother say calmly and knowingly, "You'll be fine.  You're a survivor."  I just stopped, not because of what she said but rather how she said it.  The tone was one of deep knowing, like she held the key to some secret about my having survived some traumatic experience in the womb, at birth,as a child or maybe a family history of triumph that was now genetically coded in me.  I imagined that it was one of those things I might only remember under the magic of a deep hypnosis but that somehow it defined my character, my truest spirit in a way I had yet to remember.  But, it was fact, nonetheless, and fact that I could draw on even in the midst of my homemade recipe for academic disaster.  I am a survivor.  My Mama said it, and she knows me better than I know myself.  I finished the paper that night, and I got an A (an A that was not worth the pain it had cost.  But, still...whew!)

So, that memory made me wonder, what if my younger self could tell my older self all those truths I've forgotten or chosen not to believe along the way.  Would that make me feel as secure and fearless as my mother's knowing?  My childhood memories are a tad spotty, but I do remember themes.  I remember always being a kid who was starting one business or another.  Before I was ten, I had owned a mobile lemonade stand (for a day), a consumer newspaper (for an issue), a bakery (for a week), and countless other businesses.  At that early age, thanks to the instruction of my father, I was able to calculate my cost of production and figure out what to charge to earn a profit.  (Translation:  He actually made me pay three cents for the copies of the newspaper!  I was seven!)  Back then, I did it for the love and it didn't bother me that the lemonade stand operation was shut down by bees.  I learned a good lesson...for me, the risk of being chased by bees far outweighed the joy I got from selling lemonade.  I moved on with no shame, no blame, no sense that this lesson somehow made me a marked woman bearing the red "L" for loser.  I merely pursued what interested me, enjoyed it while I was doing it, and moved on.  

Anyway, I wonder if I had been able to write encouraging messages to my grown-up self back then when I was living that fearless and joy-filled life, if those messages would resonate now.  I wonder if they would wash away the fear, and shame and unknowing that I seem to have adopted along the way to womanhood...and maybe, one day, entrepreneurship again.  Just a simple reminder of who I really am without all the grown-up stuff, a girl who gets a thrill out of thinking up some business idea and trying it out.  A note to adult-self that that's OK and actually pretty fun.  A permission slip to just be me with no judgement...written in the practiced handwriting of a second-grader.

So,though it was silly, I was hoping that my six-year-old could actually have enough of a concept of how confused he will likely become as an adult that he might be able to save himself now by simply telling himself who he is at his core.  But, the beauty of my child, I guess, is that his knowing is not intellectual, conceptual.  It is not articulable.  For him, all there is is to just be.

My question for you:  What do you think your younger self would have told you? 

Missing In Inaction

This is just a short post to announce that I've found my way back to The Mama Spot.  I have a great excuse for my absence...really.  I was stuck in a time warp!

Somehow, I find that when I walk through certain doors in my life at certain times in my life, I find myself being propelled into some sort of black hole time warp thingy that makes it seem that one month ago was really just yesterday.  Now, it can work in reverse, but lately, it's been the accelerated scenario.  So, in my mind, my last post was just yesterday, although I realize you may have experienced it differently.

The doors that get me there usually materialize when my mind is racing through too many options for what to do with my life.  Understand that none of the options are exactly real options yet, mostly just thoughts, paths I'm contemplating journeying along.  Unrealized possibilities.  But, they all seem so real...and each one has it's own potential life-changing or life-unchanging (is that possible) rewards and consequences.  So much to ponder...walk straight, turn left, right or run the hell back where I came from.

And, then...BAM!  Two doors appear, Door Number One and Door Number Two.  The one I chose this time took me to a place called "Back to the Basics", a time warp where I had to focus on some important things like decluttering my office to help declutter my mind, feeding myself better food and sleeping more than four random hours a night to strengthen my body, committing a little more on my day job to ensure that for now we have food to eat and a place to sleep. 

But, I'm back now, and my fingertips are tingling with new posts to share.  So, if you aren't lost in some time warp somewhere, I hope you'll find time to start reading again.

Independence Day Dilemma

Our bedtime story for tonight was  If You Traveled on the Underground Railroad a book of questions and answers about slavery and the pursuit of freedom.  Once we established some chronological context, (i.e., my son understood that I had not been a slave, which I have explained before, and that even his 100-year-old great-great-uncle hadn't been enslaved), we settled into a wonderful discussion about a piece of history he has only seen glimpses of in segments of "Roots."

As on so many occasions, he stumped me with a simply complex question.  In the book there is a discussion of how some slaves ran away to fight with the British during the Revolutionary War, because the British promised freedom; and the Americans promised nothing.  The book went on to explain that this is why some Black people said that July 4th was not their Independence Day.  I explained that Mommy is one of those Black people, although I do like fireworks.  And, then, as I turned the page, he stopped me, twisted his face into the most pensive expression a six-year-old can muster and said slowly and deliberately, "Mommy?  Should I celebrate the 4th of July?"

I don't know why it threw me, but it did.  I explained that that was his decision to make and that he didn't have to make it tonight.  But he pressed me.  Three more times he ardently demanded that I tell him if I thought he should celebrate this holiday, as I tried to convince him that only he knew that answer.  He has proven that he is a thinking person, a being with opinions and ways of making sense of the world all on his own.  And, in my clearer moments, I try to respect this and to give him the space to draw his own conclusions.  Sure, I still influence them, but I try. 

I remember when he was three-going-on-four, and this little person sat in the back of my Sentra on the way home from pre-school asking me questions about the president he'd learned about that day.  We did the whole chronology again...Lincoln was after the dinosaurs but before Grandpa.  Then, we talked about the current president.  I explained  that no, he didn't have to die like Abraham Lincoln to stop being president anymore; grown-ups get to vote.  And, no, I didn't vote for him, because I don't think he likes Black people or poor people. (Influencing...I know)  I said that I believe we should all be able to live good, happy lives and that it's our responsibility to pray for and work for everyone to have those things.  Simple enough.  The next thing I know, the child has broken out into prayer in his car seat.  Then, he pops his head up, lifts his pointer finger and says, "Mama, if George Bush doesn't start to love African-Americans, I'm going to ask God to turn the water into blood!"  And, that was that.  Apparently, they had also been learning about Moses that week. I was both amazed and proud.

With this whole 4th of July thing, though, I felt a pressure that I haven't felt before to just let him be a child and to sort it all out later.  I wanted to take it all back for a moment and to just let slavery be a bedtime story, to let the tale of a Black President with a Black wife and two beautiful Black daughters be the history that I teach him one day instead.  But, he wouldn't let me off the hook.  I haven't yet figured out the balance between teaching my child to politicize his existence and allowing him to just exist knowing that as he engages with the world outside our front door he will be forced to define his relationships with it.  And, then, maybe it is my place to help him make sense of that.  I don't know, and I wasn't going to sort it out tonight.  So, I did my best to let him be a kid but also be conscious of this part of his history.  Next July, I imagine he'll probably be waving sparklers somwhere...or maybe not.

Any thoughts?

A Genius Lurking in the Shadows

Have you ever been resentful of a friend's success, because deep down inside you feel like you had something to do with it?  Welcome to the story of my dating life...well, my life with men in general.  I can't say that I've felt full-on resentment, but my ugly confession is that there have been brief hints of it...at times.  I only admit this now, because being honest about those feelings and examining them has led me to some wonderful insights about myself.

I fancy myself the kind of woman any visionary man wants in his life...even if he's not relationship-ready...that's the punchline of my dating life.  I'm a shadow-toiler.  That's right, I'm content to play my position in the background, well semi-background, helping him realize his dream.  I have libraries of resources about things I never wanted to do on my own to prove it.  Ask me for a reference on film production management.  It's in my library.  And, if you want to know how to promote a band, I have books and websites for you to check out.  I can hand you a book about managing a retail outlet and generating all kinds of excitement among patrons and employees both.  I've written press releases, biographies, marketing plans--hell, I even own domain names--in my quest to help a Black man come up.

Some of them have--well, OK, they're on their way--but without me.  It's not that I've been used and dumped.  I've only done things that interested or excited me and many, many times without being asked.  And, as some will attest, I've done my fair share of dumping.  Shadow-toiling isn't about being used.  It's about choosing to use your talents, somewhere in the shadow of a person with great vision, to help realize that vision.  And, they see it, your talent, your passion, and, of course, want it to help further the cause.  It's a mutually benefical relationship.

In and of itself, shadow-toiling is not a bad thing.  In fact, it's necessary and noble and fulfilling...if it's a shared vision.  It may be that you're not actually a shadow-toiler, but really shining brightly right out int he open, using your gifts, pursuing your own passion and doing it in a role that supports a greater vision.

But, I have realized much later than I would have liked that, in my case, shadow-toiling has been a cop-out.  By attaching myself to dynamic men and investing myself in helping them shine, I have been hiding from my own light.  I know this because of the resentment itch, that victim thing we do, that I-gave-and-didn't-get lie we tell ourselves.  The truth is, I've given, and I've had some great adventures for having done it,; but I've also gotten.  I've received refuge from my own dreams and fear of success.  I've enjoyed absolution from accountability; if the vision isn't realized, no worries, because it isn'tt mine.  I've earned credit for doing good work, for being there, for being brilliant without the exposure to criticism...and failure.  I've gotten my fair share.  But, I have not been fulfilled.

I have had to come to terms with the fact that I have my own dreams.  I want my own shadow-toiler.  Although it scares me to tears sometimes, I want to allow myself to finally manifest what is within me.  It's time.  The talents, skills, interests and experiences I've strengthened and enjoyed under the shade of some wonderfully brilliant men, are urging me to get out of the way so they might reveal a truth that I have denied for too long.  Somewhere in these shadows is a genius waiting to see the light.

No Water or Facebook Before Bed

It all started with me trying to help my friend, a Facebook newbie, figure out how to add me as a friend...

We all know that social networking is addictive, but now, it's giving me nightmares!  I've learned to manage the addiction by allowing myself scheduled binges.  The problem, I guess, is that tonight's wasn't scheduled, and it must have just taken me over the edge.  Schooling her turned into watching the Dru Hill "Beauty" video a friend dedicated to me.  Then, of course, I had to click through all of my fifty-four friends' profiles, wondering why it's taking me so long to break the 100-friend barrier, as I check to see if they have any new friends that I know.  And, for good measure, I made sure to write on a couple people's walls and promised myself that I'd hit the rest tomorrow.

But, it didn't end there.  A little taste--well, a gulp--of Facebook was all it took to drive me to my alumni roundup site where the whole routine began again.  Only, I also had to scan through every group on the site to confirm, again, that still no one had created a group exclusively for the ladies of Di Lambda Chi, LLC, my freshman dorm.  I made a note to post something about that on the discussion board on my next visit.  I did post on one discussion about illustrious alumns...who knew an apparently famous porn star attended my brother school.  You learn a lot through the network.

And, then, onto Linked In and Pulse, which took significantly less time, and I am still several degrees away from the same people who were out of reach last time I checked.  But, I'm closer to the 100-contact mark on Linked In.

I decided to leave Twitter and Soulgen alone tonight, since I really don't have enough friends to make it worth it...but that didn't prevent the nightmare.  After all that, I ended up posting over and over and over again...in my sleep.  Well, something that resembled sleep.  Seriously, my eyes had that swollen uncomfortable feeling you get when you hold them shut too tightly for too long.  It was like all the people I owed comments to, or Facebook gifts or invitation responses were haunting me, and I was trying desperately to make ammends...until my son came into my room to go potty.

The lesson is clear:  No more pre-bedtime indulgences for either of us.  He's already off water after 7 (and he's out of Goodnights, too, by the way), and no more friend-findng after 9 for me.

I Smell Pee

My son wets the bed.  My son also sleeps with me sometimes...and wets the bed.  I have developed a keen sense of smell--for pee.

So, a few minutes ago, I jumped up from my sleep--we're both sleeping in the basement on the futon, because the A/C is out upstairs--because I smelled pee!  The next thing I know, I'm poking at my sleeping child's Goodnight (a diaper disguised as boxer shorts--judge if you must) trying to confirm that he's wet himself.  I swore I smelled pee!

That's right, I was poking my peacefully sleeping six-year-old, who despite being a big boy is willing to wear a diaper disguised as boxers to take one for the team and prevent Mommy from being peed on and from having to wash sheets every single day.  As I poked accusingly, I suddenly realized that the issue wasn't with my bedwetting child, the issue was with me.  What was my problem that even the thought of pee would have me freaking out poking, poking, poking.  Seriously, I had to take a step back to realize that this whole pee thing, at least this time, was all about me and my pee fears.  Yes, I've felt victimized on nights when the Goodnight wasn't in use.  But, tonight, I was protected...the Goodnight had my back, and if I had wanted to, I could have slept peacefully.  Nonetheless, my fear of pee and my deciding to play pee victim in the past led me to the reactionary response of poking, poking, poking.

The reality was, there was no pee.  And, if there had been, my son was courageous enough to deal with a truth he'd rather hide about himself so that we could deal with it together in a way that brings us both a little peace. 

My lesson:  Even though I am really good at smelling pee, everything that smells like pee isn't.  And, sometimes it is my reaction to the idea that I may be smelling pee that is more important than whether or not I actually am.

Can you do dedications in blog posts?  If so, this is for you...you know who you are.

Listen to My Cousin Discuss "Black in America" on Monday

Please check out my cousin, Dr. Stephanie Wright, during her radio debut on WBAI's (New York City) morning program "Wake Up Call."  You can listen live on Monday, August 4th from 8am-9am EST at www.stream.wbai.org.  Stephanie is a historian who specializes in the herstory of Black women.

So far, in addition to many of the reviews and posts I've seen online, the verdict at my sister's get together last night is that Soledad sold us out.  Just playing on words, but the sentiment is definitely one of disappointment but not surprise.

Listen to Stephanie wax scholarly on the show, and then let me know what you thought...

And, don't forget to subscribe to this blog, so you can get regular updates.  My girlfriend and fella new blogger, MekhisMom of Cutie Booty Cakes fame has challenged me to blog at least three times per week.  That will be easier knowing you're out there listening!