My children are small. Very small. Small enough that outside of rules about recycling and energy conservation, stories about the holidays that cover just the basic "facts" and themes, news about the weather, and public interest stories about animals and the pool opening for summer, they are blissfully ignorant and detached from news of the world. I am thankful for that today. Though we talk casually about children in the world who are not as fortunate as they, who do not have the freedoms, rights, and more specifically (and frequently), toys and birthday parties that they have, their minds are not burdened with the state of the world. They will learn soon enough. I will lead them to a place of understanding, of compassion, and as important, what I think is often missing in the lessons that we parents offer our children, that none of us is more important or more valuable or more special than anyone else. Truly.
But this lesson is easily taught by me to my children. It was taught to me by my parents in as much what they did as what they said. And it was surely taught to them by their parents. When you are black in America, that message comes in loud and clear. We were taught that we had to be twice as good, told to mind our p's and q's, to watch and wait before entering a group, take the temperature, find out if the members of that group were amenable to our presence. Even if we knew that what we would bring to that group--talent, intelligence, humor, compassion, kindness--would greatly benefit, we entered with caution. We were, clichéd as it sounds, outsiders. Without being told this directly, I took it also to mean that I was never enough, didn't quite measure up, and probably never would.
My children know their gifts and know they are special to me. I try to instill it in them every day, but they surely do not believe that they deserve more in this world than anyone else. They are learning that we must lift each other up to rise, that we must all rise together, not climb on others' backs or blindly soar while others are pedaling or flapping their wings underfoot. The wind beneath their wings is my love and support, not a system that propels them to the top while others languish in the decks below. They know this because I am teaching this to them.
My parents, I can see it now, are insanely intelligent and exceptional people. They are both smart and funny and witty and caring and giving, having been raised by fierce, God-loving, trusting, good people. They are exceptional, but are not the exception. We knew so many other black families like ours. Saw success and drive, intelligence and creativity, humor and wit. When we were all together, everyone could breathe a little easier, relax into our true selves, let our spirits soar, because the defining character of ourselves outside that group, our race, could be ignored. We could be real, three-dimensional people with hopes and dreams and desires that could be acknowledged and considered. But outside of that group, of that safety net, we just weren't sure where we stood with people. We had so many wonderful friends from different backgrounds, people who shared themselves with us and allowed us to do the same. Who truly judged us and all minorities by the content of our character. But there were also others with whom we spent time at church or school or on sports teams or dance classes who wouldn't acknowledge us outside of our activities or used derogatory language about blacks and other minorities in our presence with the disclaimer, "but I don't mean you."
Oh, but you do. And they did even if they'd convinced themselves that there was a different place for this black face, this black person. They had a space for other and it was outside of their circle. Sure there are criminals flaunted on the local news daily. Those are people to be feared no matter their background (though a disproportionate number of those shown on local news are people of color as it helps to continue that narrative) but the rest of us are just normal citizens going about our daily lives. We want what's best for our children, want to shape them to be the kind of people we want to be, want to see them have greater opportunity and success than we've had. Verdicts like this one just handed down in the Trayvon Martin case remind us that we are still outside the circle.
My bleeding heart. My "excessive" sympathy can, at times, leave me speechless, immobile, frozen in an emotional coma where the feelings rage inside the cocoon but on the outside I stand in fear. I cannot do this and still take care of my children. I have to get up and prepare breakfast and make beds and plan the day. I still weep this morning for that young man being followed by a stranger in a neighborhood where he should have, like everyone else there, felt safe. There was, after all, a neighborhood watch. But the neighborhood watchman was watching him, checking for him, had written him outside the circle and pursued him, against police suggestion, and all of his hopes and dreams and desires died with him. We won't even know them.
None of us is more special, more important, more valuable than any other. And none of us is less so. In our spiritual core, in our hearts, in the part of us that is within our human selves but is not constrained by it, we know this. But in the part where we are but mere human beings, in the part where we jockey for self-importance and relevancy, we don't believe it. Can't. In our keeping-up-with-the-Joneses/Kardashians/1% culture, where racism and discrimination burden the pursuit of happiness, where the "going for mine" and "doin' me" mentality reigns, teaching compassion and love and empathy is a serious endeavor but one we must all attempt or risk an epic failure.
There is room enough for us all in the circle. God I hope so. And any loss suffered by any one of us should be felt by all. The girls woke me this morning with kicks to the knees and ribs as they jockeyed for prime snuggling position. They kissed my face even before I'd opened my eyes and whispered good morning before they knew whether I was asleep or awake. They didn't know I'd cried all night and wouldn't. It's not theirs to bear right now. It is mine. Though I stood up and was not able to clear the fog of the news of last night's verdict from my mind, my heart still fluttered for them. It raged. Their warm, little bodies jolted me back to my real life. The life where I care for them and raise them and teach them how we must love one another. My heart also bleeds for the mother who cannot hold her son, the mothers who cannot hold their children, cannot feel their warm bodies, be jolted out of bed by their promise, be comforted by the hope that their dreams and desires provide. It bleeds because if we are all part of the same circle, what's mine is yours and we are one and the same. And today I feel, again, that mother's emptiness.
RIP Trayvon Martin.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
This is excellent Stephanie, really moving and meaningful.
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