Shame on You

Ronald and I traveled to Cincinnati in the late 1990s so I could attend the annual conference of my professional association. After registering on Saturday afternoon, we hit the streets to explore the city.  A Bengals football game had just ended, and the streets were flooded with fans leaving the stadium. We walked against the crowd, holding hands and enjoying the rush and excitement around us.

I noticed a lumbering, middle-aged, white man staring at us as he approached us. He was heads higher than most of the crowd, so he stood out to me. Our eyes met just as we passed one another and he leaned down and said, “Shame on you.”

His comment stopped me in my tracks. “What did he mean?” I asked Ronald.

“You don’t know?” he said.

“Is he mad because we didn’t go to the football game?” I was distracted by the excited multitude, and I had heard Cincinnatians were serious about their football team.

“Dianne, think about it. I shouldn’t need to tell you.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes as I replayed the scene in my mind, and then it hit me. “Oh,” I said, realizing he was judging our interracial relationship. “Why does he care? What does our relationship have to do with him?”

“Nothing.”

“He doesn’t even know us,” I said, my anger growing prickly on my skin.

I feel that same anger now as I witness the conservatives trying to legislate women’s reproductive rights and access to reproductive health care. Especially in view of recent events in North Carolina, a state that used sterilization on poor and minority women and some men, right up until the mid-1970s, so they could not breed. That’s the ultimate birth control, irreversible, and it was often done without the woman’s knowledge, the medical staff telling the woman or her parents that it was an appendectomy or other procedure. Now the last few survivors of this government-run fiasco are fighting for restitution. The conservative legislators are against it and have kept it tied up in debate for years. Do we really want our government dictating our reproductive rights? They don’t even know us.

I can’t imagine choosing abortion, terminating a pregnancy, but I haven’t been in the situation where I might have to choose that option. We struggled financially when our twins were babies – sometimes we didn’t have enough money left over to buy toilet paper for the month – but we didn’t have to make a choice to feed one child over the other, or to pay the heating bill instead of the food bill or the doctor bill. We had health insurance. We had family who stepped in when needed. I remember my in-laws handing us a few rolls of toilet paper or buying baby shoes. We had a support system in place. Not everyone does. Not every baby is conceived in a loving relationship with an extended family support system in place. Sometimes a baby is conceived out of impulse or because of rape, an act of violence, or because the electric bill had to be paid and birth control was too expensive. We don’t know every situation, we couldn’t, and we don’t have a right to impose our beliefs on anyone.

Does God abhor abortion? What about birth control pills or condoms? Does He abhor homosexuality or adultery? I used birth control, so that makes me a sinner by some accounts. But I cannot imagine God could abhor those things more than war or killing in His name, or hating with a Bible in hand and claiming it is He who dictates the hate, or turning one’s back on another who is needy, or ignoring the many children who go to bed hungry and who live in squalor.

We are all sinners according to the Bible – how do you legislate that, in this life and in this world? That’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? I think of Rush Limbaugh, on his fourth marriage, a recovering addict, calling Ms. Fluke a slut because she wants her health insurance to provide birth control and of Newt Gingrich, now married for the third time to the woman with whom he committed adultery against his second wife, taking the marriage vow on the campaign trail. Both claim to be part of the moral right, but both are sinners. How are they exempt from human fallibility in their worldview? And how can they claim moral superiority?

 People use their own fears, prejudices, sense of entitlement and privilege, and assign those beliefs to God. They don’t even know themselves.

Shame on you for pretending you know better than everyone else and that you are better than they are. Shame on you for abusing your power. Shame on you for using affected morality and religious bravado to divert attention away from the real problems we face: racism, sexism, ageism, homophobia, classicism, elitism, ethno-centrism, and religious zealotry. Shame on you for trying to make people feel less than because life is hard and complicated, not a one of us is perfect, and we all have difficult decisions to make. Shame on you for judging others because they are different from you.

You don’t even know them.

(Excerpt from Chapter 6: Being Black All by Myself, Shades of Tolerance: A Biracial Love Story)

Mackenzie, labeled Baby A, born at 10:53 a.m. on April 29, 1984, weighed 5 lbs. 15 oz., and was larger than Cara, Baby B, who was born seven minutes later at 11:00 a.m. and weighed 5 lbs. 3 oz. The nurse wheeled in one Isolette with both babies inside. She picked up each baby and put one in my left arm, the other in my right. Baby A’s hair was fine as kitten’s fur and just as soft and deep brown, nearly but not quite black. Her bangs were spiky over large brown eyes that took in the world and her face was a pie. Eskimo, I thought.

Ronald said, “Dad said she picked her head up and looked right at them.”  His parents had been to the nursery to see the girls, just hours after they were born.

Baby B already had a nickname, Squirrel, because she was so small. Her head was long and narrow from chin to nape and her nose spread across her tiny face.  “She got a cookie,” Ronald said, smiling and staring at her nose. Her hair was soft and dark, and though more than most babies, much less than the head of hair on Baby A. Ronald’s dad coined her Squirrel while watching her through the nursery window.

“Well,” began Ronald, “I thought we would name the big one Mackenzie and the little one Cara.”

“I like that,” I said. We had never settled on names. I called them Giuseppe and Giuseppina the whole time I was pregnant, convinced I was having a boy and a girl, even after the doctor suggested the heart rates indicated two girls. I had a list of names that I would hand over to Ronald to look at, and he would cross them out one at a time and state his reason why. Cara and Mackenzie were two names still on the list.

“And Sylvester suggested Mackenzie Marie and Cara Michelle,” Ronald continued.  Sylvester Jr. had shown up at the nursery window, too.

 “Okay, they sound nice.” I said of Sylvester’s suggestions. Never having settled on first names meant we had never gotten to discuss middle names.

His parents told me the next day when I was allowed visitors that Ronald had shown up at their house after the girls were born, his skin gray, and his eyes wide with anxiety. He told them it scared him to see me on the gurney in the recovery room, shivering and unconscious. I hardly believed them: he had been calm and reassuring during my labor, holding my hand, coaching my Lamaze breathing, feeding me ice chips, even arguing our case with the doctor-on-call when he suggested delivering Mackenzie then putting me under to perform a Cesarean section to deliver Cara. I woke up in the recovery room thinking I had had a C-section, but Ronald had convinced the doctor not to do it, and Cara was delivered breech after all. Ronald had been protective and watchful, even staying in the delivery room after the doctor told him he had to leave as they began to put me under.

On Wednesday, May 2, 1984, my regular OB-GYN recommended I go home and said, “Your blood pressure will never go down with all the noise here.” I was released.

Ronald brought tiny outfits, identical except one was pale yellow and the other pale turquoise, for Cara and Mackenzie. They were gifts from his sister Sylvia, but they were too big. I took little hands and fed them through sleeves, folded cuffs to shorten them a few inches, buttoned tiny buttons and tied tiny bows. When I finished, I left them in the center of the bed while I stood close by and dressed. A nurse, shaped like an appliance box, in a pressed uniform, rushed in scolding me, “Don’t leave them unattended! They could roll off the bed!”

I swallowed hard and scooped them into my arms. Will I mother the way Ma mothered me, I wondered.

Another nurse rolled me down to the car in a wheelchair, both babies in my arms. A nurse’s aide carried flowers, plants and balloons. The nurse helped Ronald strap the babies into their new infant car seats and then helped me into the car. “Best wishes!” she called as we drove off.

The chill of early spring still hung in the air that day. We stopped at work so Ronald could pick up my paycheck. Colleagues were out on break and peeked in the car window. “So tiny!” one colleague cooed. I wanted to be happy, but instead I felt scared.

Then Ronald drove to his parents’ house – the hospital, work, Ronald’s parents’ house and our apartment were all within a three-mile radius. His parents were both at work, but his grandmother Mama Mack was there with the home aide, and Ronald wanted to show her the babies. “Too little,” she said when Ronald asked her if she wanted to hold one.

The home aide, a large black woman with a tiny voice, took a look and said, “What beautiful babies.” She backed away and sat in a dining room chair, close enough to be at hand if needed, but far enough away not to interfere with a family moment. Ronald laid a pillow in Mama Mack’s lap and placed the babies, one at a time on the pillow: first Mackenzie, then Cara. Mama Mack’s large chest heaved with laughter. Her gnarled fingers clasped Cara’s tiny, long fingers. Ronald snapped a photograph. Mama Mack would pass away nine months later.

Just Say No to Racism, Misogyny, Classism, and Stupidity

Sometimes I just want to ignore the news, but I can’t do it for long. Dad used to read one or two newspapers from front to back on a daily basis and finish his evening by doing the crossword puzzle. He brought home copies of Time Magazine and Atlantic Monthly from his job in the mailroom at Williams Press. I got hooked on news (and crossword puzzles) at an early age.

That doesn’t stop me from feeling disbelief and disappointment every time I read the daily paper or peruse ABCNews.com, CNN.com and the online version of the New York Times.

My last two posts dealt with emotions, truth and lies.  Here they are if you’d like to read them.

Reality Check (http://aboutracewriter.blogspot.com/2012/02/reality-check.html) and

Facebook Sedition 2:  I Gotta D’Agata (http://aboutracewriter.blogspot.com/2012/02/facebook-sedition-2-i-gotta-dagata.html)

My obsessive brain is still ruminating on those topics and the news is fueling my internal debate.

Tell me why people can claim ignorance on certain topics and think they can get away with it. How could federal judge Richard Cebull claim he is not a racist and that he did not see the below joke as racist when he shared it with several colleagues?

"Normally I don't send or forward a lot of these, but even by my standards, it was a bit touching. I want all of my friends to feel what I felt when I read this. Hope it touches your heart like it did mine.

"A little boy said to his mother, 'Mommy, how come I'm black and you're white?'  His mother replied, 'Don't even go there Barack! From what I can remember about that party, you're lucky you don't bark!'"

Read more: http://billingsgazette.com/news/local/richard-cebull-says-he-sent-racist-obama-email/article_63df0eef-dd3a-549c-ba11-4729413d044a.html#ixzz1nu2LUr7L

I say remove him from the bench. He is in a position to ruin people’s lives, particularly if he lets his personal lens inform him about the people standing before him in his courtroom. We are all guilty of viewing the world through our own unique perspective, it’s the only lens we have, but if we aren’t aware of how that perspective filters information, we’d better not be in positions of power.

If you have to announce that you aren’t racist, you probably are.  Stop trying to convince yourself and fool others. I admit that I am a racist, simply because I am white and I have directly benefitted from being white in ways my husband and daughters will never experience in our lifetime, in our society. White people, admit that privilege, power, and entitlement exists because of your whiteness and stop blaming ethnic minorities for the problems they encounter by living among us. Then stop spreading racist jokes and emails. You are smart enough to know what they are and how hurtful they are, not just for the people they make fun of but for all of us. Acknowledging and accepting your role in this racist society is the only way to change the awful course we are on.

Speaking of power, what of Rush Limbaugh’s charge that Sandra Fluke is a slut because she wants her insurance to cover contraception and not make moral judgments on her behalf because she is a student at a religiously affiliated law school? Rush is on wife number four and he is a recovering Oxycontin addict. Should he really be judging other people’s morals and actions? Powerful, rich, white men, stop trying to tell us how to act and worry about your own actions and intentions to gain power and wealth at the expense of others. Admit your own moral weaknesses and stop thinking your wealth and position make you better than others.

For all men, women are not sluts because they want to use birth control.  They are being responsible. They are not morally corrupt if they choose abortion. Even if you cannot imagine making that choice, sometimes it is the only option, and if you haven’t walked in that woman’s shoes, don’t suppose you know better than she. Your misogyny has trapped us in a corner. Instead be responsible partners who care about our health and welfare. Participate in such decisions as an equal partner, be truthful about other partners and sexual behaviors, be good fathers even when you are no longer our partners, and be accountable for your intentions. Treat us as equals, true partners and companions, and not as objects. Don’t turn our need for emotional intimacy and our desire to please you against us, as if it is a sign of weakness. It is our strength and it contributes to your strength. Let our differences complement and enrich one another. Men, admit your own imperfections and stop pretending you have all the answers or that you can answer for us.

For all people, there are no single truths on this earth. Our world is awash in ambiguity, bad and misdirected intent, and human imperfection. The continuum of human experience is long and extreme. How dare any person thinks he or she can impose belief or will on another person. Hasn’t history proven the fallacy of that over and over again?

But we can act in concert, as a community, by treating all people as equals, giving each person voice, even when that voice is different from our own, and by accepting that just because we are different doesn’t mean we cannot find common ground. That is true community, the acceptance of all that we are and the hard work of finding ways to live in harmony. Our diversity makes us stronger.

Question your intentions at all times. If they are driven by self-righteousness, personal gain, paternalism, racism, misogyny, classism, or egotism, they are probably bad, misdirected, or stupid. Just say no.

(Excerpt from Chapter 6: Being Black All by Myself, Shades of Tolerance: A Biracial Love Story  - any feedback on the title is appreciated)

In January 1978 Ronald handed me a small box. I slowly opened it, and there was a ring inside. It was sterling silver with a blue lapis stone.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said, “Does this mean we are engaged?”

“Let’s call it a pre-engagement ring,” he said, smiling at my forwardness. “I wanted something that wouldn’t overpower your hand. It’s perfect,” he continued, holding and admiring my hand, his strong aesthetic sense for color and shape molding his choice.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

I showed it to Ray and Brenda when I stopped by to drop new tapes off to them. They lived in a single room together against campus policy.  The room was a disaster: dirty clothes, tapes, textbooks, pizza boxes and empty soda cans strewn on every surface including the floor. I wondered how they navigated the room without hurting themselves, as I carefully stepped through the mess.

            Brenda, who lost her vision at age nine when she fell down a flight of concrete stairs, ran her fingers over the surface of the ring.

            “So pretty,” she said.

            “Let me see,” said Ray, and we laughed. I pushed the ring close to his “good” right eye through which he could see shadow and a bit of color. He had been a “premie” and spent time in an incubator. The oxygen levels had robbed him of sight.

            “Are you going to get married?” Brenda asked.

            “It’s a pre-engagement ring. I want to,” I said, thinking they would probably get married, too, one day. They were inseparable. But they broke up that summer, the pressure of their families’ displeasure over the interracial relationship finally taking the ultimate toll.

The summer Ma accused me of causing Dad’s heart attack, Sylvester Jr. and his wife had a baby boy. Ronald called me at my summer job to tell me baby Yancy had been born and weighed more than twelve pounds. I began to cry.

            “Why are you crying?” he asked.

            “I want that to be us,” I said.

            “We’re still in school,” he said, “We couldn’t live like that.”

            “I can get work,” I said, “I’m tired of school anyway.”

            “Nope, don’t do that,” he said.

            One day during the spring of 1978, Ronald and I had our first bad argument. I was on birth control pills and concerned about the long-term side effects. There was a meeting in the lounge of the dorm floor on birth control methods, and I wanted us both to go so we could decide together what I might change to.

            “I don’t want to go,” he said.

            “Don’t you care about my health?” I asked.

            “If you end up getting pregnant, you’re gonna be an unwed mama,” he said.

            “Why would you say that?” I asked, my eyes stinging, remembering his ex-girlfriend had a baby that she had given up for adoption.

            “What you’re on is fine. It works, why change?”

            “You don’t care if I have a stroke or get breast cancer?”

            “That’s not what we are talking about.”

            “Just come to the meeting and see,” I said.

            “You go,” he said.

            I took my ring off and threw it at him.

            “You don’t care about me,” I said, “If you did, you would go with me and be part of the decision.”

            “Is that what you think?” he asked.

            But he walked down the hall with me to the lounge packed with students. I realized later that Ronald was embarrassed to sit in a room full of people and listen to a lecture about something he thought was personal.

The resident advisors passed around condoms, IUDs and diaphragms. They explained how each worked and how effective it was. They talked about preventing pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases – no one had heard of AIDS in 1978.

Someone passed a diaphragm to me, and I turned it around in my hands. Then I handed it to Ronald and looked at the side of his face. He cradled it in one hand then passed it on.

I only got pregnant once, even though my diaphragm lay unused in the medicine cabinet for the twenty-eight years I needed birth control. Neither one of us liked its inconvenience. I always swore I got pregnant the day we got married. At three months we learned we were having twins. Ronald did not speak for several days as he digested the news.

I remember the first time I felt them move, soon after we learned we were having twins. I was sitting on the sofa and I felt a tickle deep inside. I called Ronald to come sit next to me, and he placed his hand over my tummy. He laughed and said, “I think it’s just indigestion.” But we both knew it was two little babies, growing, moving in rhythmic synchronicity.

For the next five months Ronald went to each appointment at the doctor’s office, oftentimes the only male sitting in a waiting room filled with pregnant women who stole glances at him because his presence must have made them wonder why their husbands were not seated beside them. The doctor, a petite, ageless, German-born woman who worked quickly and efficiently, teased Ronald, asking him if he questioned her competence. She often gave him instructions: “Buy her some ice cream. She isn’t gaining enough weight” or “Don’t let her walk to work anymore. Twin pregnancies are high risk and the babies’ well-being is more important than staying in shape” or “Take those pregnancy manuals away from her. She doesn’t need to be scaring herself” or “Sleep on the couch if she is too restless. And don’t you get angry, Dianne. He needs his rest, too.”

Ronald bought me a handmade black Cabbage Patch doll for Valentine’s Day. She wore a yellow baby’s dress and white leather shoes, and her hair was black yarn. I named her Amelia. Ronald shaved my legs on the weekend and pulled my support stockings on each morning, sitting behind me, his legs on either side. My tummy had gotten too big to reach my legs and feet. He patiently waited while I threw up each morning before he drove me to work. On a particularly icy day, he pulled his car up to the curb to pick me up from work. He jumped out and held up his hand, signaling me to wait for him. When he reached me, he picked me up; my arm slung around his neck, and he carried me from the library door to the car so I would not fall. I giggled the whole way, asking him, “So what does it feel like to carry a whale?” When the weight of my tummy made it difficult to climb the stairs to our apartment, he helped me, his arm around my waist, hoisting me up each stair. He ran out and bought Steak’ums with Cheese, something I had never eaten before or since, but for which I suddenly had a craving. He told me that pregnancy made me even more beautiful, my skin glowing.

At Bird Library many of my colleagues were excited about the prospect of twins. They remembered when Ronald and I met freshman year of college in Copy Services. They had watched our relationship mature over the years, held their breath waiting for us to marry, and now they were getting to experience our pregnancy. Technical Services staff good-naturedly placed bets on what day I would deliver, and many came to a baby shower thrown by one of the librarians. But one woman always looked dour when I walked by her desk to go to the restroom or the staff lounge. One day she stopped me and said she had something to say.

“You know I’m interracially married, too,” she said. She was a small black woman, maybe in her mid-thirties, quiet, not unfriendly, but not social. She just came to work and did her job. I had heard her husband was white, but I had never seen him.

“Yes, I know,” I said, wondering what she was getting at.

“We decided not to have children,” she said, looking down at my belly. “It’s irresponsible to bring interracial children into this world.”

I was stunned silent, my face feeling warm, but I shook off my surprise. I thought, what made her feel she could say this to me, when I am this far along in my pregnancy, unable to do a thing about it? What is her intent? Then I wondered if she felt she had sacrificed her right to have children for her right to love a man of a different race. “We don’t feel that way,” I said. “We think if you have loving parents it doesn’t matter what race you are.”

She looked at the floor and I turned and walked away.