10 February 2007

Identity



NPR reports this morning that support for Obama's presidential bid is lukewarm among African Americans. It seems that for Obama, as for me and ST in her day, his "blackness" is suspect. He is not black enough or not black in the right way.

Or something.

For one thing, Obama has a "white" parent and a "black" parent. Historically, skin color has been an issue--among "blacks" as well as "whites." Think of the tragic mulatto in films and literature, ostracized and cast out by "pure" blacks. Or, unable to withstand the skin-deep conflict of looking "white" but being "black", finally making the agonizing choice to "pass" in society and live a lie and hold a secret unto death.

And then there's the opposite "problem" -- being too dark. I remember the gangs of milk-chocolate-colored children yelling "Blackie! Blackie! She so black!" as I passed by on my way to and from school. Intriguing, really, to consider: What fueled their exuberant and persistent harassment? (It went on for years...) And what psychology led me to perceive being called "blackie" as a mortifying insult?

I typed "racial identity" into the Google Image search engine and found the picture above and this one, among others. I didn't read the articles accompanying the pics. For now I'm just looking at them through the same lens as the search engine. Racial Identity. What do these pictures have to do with "racial identity"?

The NPR reporters do not question Obama's blackness. They take it for granted. It made me dizzy again this morning listening to the report as it always makes me dizzy when someone makes reference to the "mixed parentage" of a "black" person. Is he "black" or is he "mixed"? The designation rests on the old-time notion that a drop of "black" blood is "enough" to make one black for legal purposes in the U.S. Doesn't matter the ingredients in the mix: black+Asian, black+Indian, black+anything. The result is always black.

I raised my bi-racial son to acknowledge his heritage in total. I wrote in "mixed" or "human" on any forms requiring a choice of "race" for him. In retrospect, I might have done the same for myself. Aren't we all "mixed"? It creeps me out really--the universal acceptance of this queer, unspoken assumption. The way it persists over time despite its obvious illogical premise and possibly slimy underpinnings.

Obama's admirers are mostly white and Sojourner's primary audience was always white. The feminists were also especially fond of her. Her acceptance among blacks was never widespread or numerically significant. My history is similar. Sojourner and Harriet Beecher Stowe were contemporaries and acquaintances so the term "Uncle Tom" probably did not exist in ST's day but perhaps the concept existed under a different name. I've worn the label; I wonder if Obama has ever been called one?

I earned it primarily due to academic prowess. Working hard and excelling academically was almost always grounds for being labelled "Uncle Tom." Obama attended Harvard and was president of the Harvard Law Review. I'll bet he's been called "Uncle Tom."

Education can also result in a horrible condition called "talking White." A linguistic as well as stylistic affliction, the sufferer's racial identity is undetectable on the telephone or through other vocal media. There is an equivalent condition among whites--"Talking Black." With the widespread popularity of rap music, I suspect there's a lot of this going around these days.

There seems to be a good deal of overlap here, in the South, though. Blacks and whites often sound alike to my ear. Why should that be?

Over time, I've lost interest in honoring the expected or socially acceptable speech pattern or style of dress or sexual/religious orientation or set of personal interests or erotic/musical tastes for a "black" woman. I am no longer wounded by ridicule or disapproval of the way I talk or what I talk about or who I sleep with or the obviously high levels of melanin in my skin.

The whole topic of race is tiresome in many respects (hence the preponderance of quotation marks in the opening statements of the current blog). What are "black" and "white"? (I looked up "black people on Wikipedia and found an entry for "black people" that includes a photo of a tribesman of Obama's father.]) And of what value are their meanings at this late date in human development?

I am
woman
talker
black
free
artist
dreamer
firebrand
american
mother
lover
smart-ass
soul
singer
prude
confidante
student
singer
teacher

sojourner.

Sometimes I know who I am... Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I wonder.

08 February 2007

Mardi Gras

Monday Derrick said he doesn't care a thing about Mardi Gras. He had a birthday a few weeks ago and said he doesn't care a thing about birthdays either.

Here's how my mind worked:

First thought (after the birthday comment): I don't believe him. He's just saying that for shock effect.

Second thought: God, what happened on which birthday to spoil birthdays for him forever?

Third thought: Must be the radical, 60's throwback, unrealized Black Panther yearning talking. Can't be a revolutionary visionary and get all giddy about birthdays...

Then I closed the book. The Mardi Gras comment opened the book again.

Fourth thought: There's a private story behind this, a psychological thriller that plays on the private backstage screen of his own mind. Nobody can touch it. He can't explain it.

Then, tonight, I'm washing my face and

Fifth thought: Reminds me of my old thing about not attending funerals. I can't even remember exactly how the back story ran but I was adamant and always felt really bright and edgy when I had the chance to wind it up and spin it out again for someone. Ooooooh! Another sacred cow speared on the marvelous head of my unique iconoclastic brilliance.

Sixth thought (and this one nearly broke my heart...I was drying my face by now and buried my face in the towel for a minute of hot tears): I'll bet he only knows pre-Katrina Mardi Gras. I only know first-Mardi-Gras-post-Katrina. Those first pictures of Mardi Gras that I saw as a shy, awkward teenager growing up in Indiana scared me--the exuberance, extravagance, indulgence of the festival scared the breath out of me. Nothing and no one in my experience danced so wildly, laughed so heartily, celebrated existence with such abandon.

When Carnival season came last year, I'd been living in New Orleans for about three months and I was in love with the place. The Survivor Story of the place was etched on my heart by then. And I'd seen enough post-flood aftermath and heard enough sagas and watched people climbing out of rubble, rebuilding their lives, with tears in their eyes who still, without missing a beat, summoned sufficient goodwill, energy and joie de vivre to reach over and help someone else out of their hole...and then get a pot of something wonderful started on the stove...fill the air with music and aroma and laughter...

And so Mardi Gras, my first and only Mardi Gras was more than a day (or two or three or four) of parades and food and drink. It was something that was growing in the people from the day I arrived though I didn't notice much until 6 January when signs of Carnival spirit began to pop out here and there---the music on OZ and the King Cakes and purple/gold/green banners, pendants, clothing... It felt like the breath of the city quickened with every week.

I was there. What a gift! I got to experience Mardi Gras as a thing that grew in and among the people and then erupted, inevitable and joyous and free.

New Orleans,
after seducing me into weak-kneed, grinning-like-a-fool enchantment
after petting me and pampering me and softening me in every way
after getting me loose enough to trust my heart and shake my ass again
Miz NoLa offered one more gift: a lesson in love
Beat up by storm and flood, spurned and neglected by those who had been gluttons for her sweet, saucy, sexiness before
New Orleans got dressed up and threw a party and invited the World.

Probably there'll never be another Mardi Gras like my first one. And certainly I've only kissed the rim of the cup--what do I know about Mardi Gras?

But I'll be there this year. I have so much more to learn about love.