Double Take

If you've been here before, you're well aware that one of my biggest pet-peeves is silly questions about my kids. Well, finally, an amazing site called The Root gave me an opportunity to rant about what it means to have so-called "black and white" twins - and I've got to admit, it felt great.

The best part is that I'm now free to move on and be neurotic about other areas of my life, so stay tuned!

The Me Nobody Knows

It's almost been four years since Mr. J and I packed up our belongings and J-Jo (who was, at that time, the same age as the twins are now) and headed north to our current home in the Hudson Valley.

When we first got here, I was very conscious of the fact that I was the only black woman up here. For miles. You'd be more likely to see a wild turkey crossing the street than a sister at the supermarket (yes, we really do have wild turkeys up here).

It was a bit of a culture shock, to say the least. Even in the 'burbs I grew up in, there were other black people. But with time I learned to stop worrying about people's stares and just go about my business. Instead of worrying about how the lady at H & R Block began filing out as single (never mind the ring or the fact that I was seven months pregnant at the time), I got the terrific accountant we have now and never looked back. I ignored the stares at the supermarket. I even stopped caring if the old lady at the pump across from me just jumped in her car and locked the doors after seeing me get out of my Honda Odyssey (yeah, they say most muggers drive those).

I got over standing out. Or at least I thought I did.

Until yesterday, when I took a huge bag of clothes to donate to a local charity-based thrift store. For some reason, I felt the (odd) need to apologize while handing the bag to the lady over the counter, because nothing was ironed or on hangers or anything. She took one look at me and replied:

"As long as everything's clean."

Clean?

I tried to recall what I looked like when I left the house that morning. My hair was pulled back into a neat pony tail, I had on a black peasant top and jeans. And my favorite chandalier earrings (they weren't these or anything, but so what?). Sure, I'd been running around with the kids all morning, but we weren't rolling in the dirt. Of course my clothes were clean. Of course the huge bag of used clothes were clean, too. So why'd she have to go there?

I felt the sudden urge to write Barack Obama, something tells me he'd understand.

One of the biggest things that annoys me about race in this country is that just when you're going about your business just thinking you're a person, somebody has to point the finger at you and shout: "No! You're not a person, you're a BLACK (or whatever else that's not white) person!" As if that's all that matters. As if there's nothing else. As if I owe anybody an explanation, just for being me.

At least she didn't call me "inarticulate".

Coffee Break's Over

In the best of times, being black is absolutely beautiful (let the choir say "Amen!"). In the worst of times, it feels something like this:

Three men went to hell.

The devil said to them "You have come to hell, and you must now choose whether to spend eternity in room 1, 2 or 3"

He then opened the doors to the three rooms.

Room 1 was filled with men standing on their heads, on a hard wooden floor.

Room 2 was filled with men standing on the heads, on a cement floor.

Finally, room 3 had just a few men, standing in human feces up to their knees and drinking coffee.

The men thought for a while, and decided to go with room 3, as it was less crowded and they could drink coffee.

They entered the door to room 3 and just as it was closing behind them, the devil said "OK men, coffee break's over. Back on your heads."

Sometimes, all you can do is laugh. Because just when it looks like everything's cool, that no public figure has acted out in a while and offended black people, some modern-day Jimmy the Greek has to come out of their face with a racist insult. For no good reason at all (not that there ever is one). By now, just about everybody in the black blogosphere has weighed in on Don Imus' ignorant and offensive remarks about the Rutgers' Women's Baskeball Team. The comment that referred to the impressive athletes as "nappy headed hos" (for those who've been under the mommy - or daddy - rock for the couple of weeks).

I've read countless, incredibly astute reactions to the "shock jock's" remarks, but thought one of the most pointed came from Deborah Dickerson's The Last Plantation: "You never see the racism coming. You're minding your own business, say, playing basketball or buying groceries or eating at Krispy Kreme when an Imus comes along and forces you to be 'black' so he can be 'white'." As a woman who deeply despises misogynistic language and has has proudly worn just about every natural style known to 125th Street, all I could think was, (to quote The Millionaire's Wife from Gilligan's Island): "Well (snif). I've never!"

Oh, wait a minute. Yes I have.

Like my friend Field Negro so eloquently alluded to, this Imus business is par for the course for those of us LWB (Living While Black). I don't like it, I don't condone it, but do I expect it? Sadly, yes. Because, just in case anybody is late coming to the party, there are a lot of ignorant people in the house. To narrow the group even further, there are a lot of ignorant racists dancing poorly, to their own rhythm. And to whittle it down even one degree further, there are a lot of ignorant racists throwing their hands in the air like they just don't care, 'cause they really don't think they're racists. I'm fairly certain Don Imus is one of those clueless types. The type that thinks that having a couple of black drinking buddies gives them free reign to say whatever and end up getting left at the bar (or in the studio) wondering "Hey...where did everybody go??"

I say this for one reason only: the term "hos" is one highly offensive thing, but how many white guys do you know actually even know the word "nappy"...until now? Hugh Grant thinks it means diaper. So does Paul McCartney. Of course they do, they're English. But what about white American guys (the ones that aren't married to black women)? Sure, terms like "diss" began popping up on sitcoms back in the early nineties and "bling" crossed quite seamlessly, thanks to people like Puffy (who I blame for many things). "Hos" I could see (rappers throw that one around all the time which is a seperate post altogether), but "nappy"? Where'd he get that one from, BET's Comicview?

All I can assume is that, much like the old anti-drug commercial, where the hysterical dad confronts his adolescent son when he finds weed in his room ("I learned it from watching you, Dad!"), Don Imus learned the word "nappy" by watching black people (not that I, nor my fellow ethnicists are personally to blame for any of this nonsense). Whether it was through listening to hip hop, watching School Daze, or hanging out with Robin Quivers, somewhere along the way, Imus caught on to another N-word and assumed the word was fair game. Or maybe he caught somebody proudly sporting one of those old school "Happy to Be Nappy" t-shirts I picked up junior year of high school at The Greek Picnic. I don't know.

What I do know is that there are words that are okay for black folks to say in present company that other people just can't use (sorry). Is it a double-standard? Yes. Is it a rusty, jagged, double-edged sword? Sure. Is it fair? Hell, yeah. It's called code-switching people, and it's high time black folks get back to that. If every word that is a part of African American vernacular is pumped into the mainstream, a critical part of the culture will be lost. I'm not saying we should go around speaking Gullah, but I do think there's a certain power to the A-B conversation. If for no other reason, then to prevent racist jerks from appropriating African American terminology and then using it to insult people.

Maybe there should be a Negro Lexicon of sorts, for words that are an historical part of the vernacular, meant only to be used in certain company. That way, they'll never be used incorrectly and nobody's feelings could get hurt. Everybody with some African ancestry would receive the book; it would be sort of like the National Do Not Call Registry. But for black people. I'm not talking about words like "pimps", "playas" or garden tools (which the Rutgers Women's Team is far from by the way, and I resent that, too). I'm talking about the words your Nana used to say when she was doing your hair in the kitchen Saturday night before church. Does Don Imus know what "baby hair" is? What "edges" are? Dear Lord, let's hope not.

It seems like every time I think the coast is clear, somebody has to slip up and say something stupid to inform me that they really think I need to forget the college degree and go scrub dirty toilets for a living. In this particular instance, what we can take from Don Imus' comments is that to some, hardworking, talented and college educated young black women will never be seen as anything more than hypersexual chicken heads. Those young ladies deserve better than that. We all do. Right now, OK Go's "Here It Goes Again" (and that mesmerizing video on the treadmills) is stuck on continuous play in my brain. Here it goes. Again.

Okay black people, coffee break's over. Back on our (nappy?) heads.

Rock the Vote

A few months ago, I posted a powerful short film directed by seventeen-year-old named, Kiri Davis. She's received widespread critical acclaim for "A Girl Like Me", her gut-wrenching exploration of how race impacts our perception of beauty. Now, she's up for a $10,000 CosmoGirl Film Contest Award! Anyone who's seen the short knows that this young lady doesn't play, so let's spread the word and hook a sister up.

To watch "A Girl Like Me", click here. To vote for it, click here.

Million Dollar Baby

At one time in my life, a trip to the supermarket meant picking up a few things from Fairway on my way home from work. Within a few minutes, I could be in and out, without answering anything beyond "credit or debit?". Today, a trip to my small town grocery store is a major life event. As if toting my three under six isn't challenging enough, I never manage to get past aisle six without answering a truck load of questions about them. As if it's any of their business, strangers want to know how it's possible that my kids share can the same brown eyes, but skin tones that range from basic beige to caramel brown. How I gave birth to a Whitman's Sampler and they all have the same biracial dad.

These questions at the supermarket are typical for many women whose children don't resemble The Von Trapp Family Singers. One would think that in an era when celebrites adopt babies of different races as if they're shopping for Jimmy Choos, mainstream Americans would get used to seeing families that don't "match". With time, I've learned to answer these questions politely before letting them roll off my back. If my kids are within earshot (and not begging for Pop Tarts), I want them to hear a response that validates who they are, instead of something that sounds like an apology. In doing so, I let them know that even though America calls us "black people", they themselves are technically shades of almond, butterscotch and caramel. That African American families come in all colors, it's part of the beauty of being black. I do this not for the strangers' benefit, but because I want my kids to be proud of who they are.

I hope that Nancy Andrews, the Long Island mother who is suing a Manhattan fertility clinic for impregnating her with a "black baby" will do the same. Upon discovering that their daughter Jessica was born several shades darker than she is, Mrs. Andrews (who identifies as "white" despite the fact that she's Dominican and looks a whole lot more like Halle Berry than Nicole Kidman) and her husband, who happens to be white, had DNA testing done to find out if the baby was actually theirs. As it turned out, the results proved that the Park Avenue clinic had erroneously implanted the donated sperm of a black man (gasp!) into Mrs. Andrew's womb. The result was a beautiful, Afro-Hispanic baby they named Jessica. The couple is currently in the process of filing suit, claiming that Jessica "looks nothing like them" and that she will always be a reminder of a terrible mistake. As if Jessica won't have enough to contend with growing up.

One can only imagine what it must be like for a woman who desperately wants a child (in this case, a second child) to endure the emotional trials of infertility, the miracles of modern science, the inconvenience of morning-sickness, leg cramps, insomnia and who-knows-what-else during pregnancy only to find that her dream baby has been fathered by a complete stranger. I'd like to think that the race of the donor or appearance of the child would be of little importance in a case of gross negligence such as this. Based on the couple's claims, however, I'm not fully certain that they'd have had the same reactions if Jessica had been born blue-eyed and blonde. Regardless of the clinic's error, the shade of her skin, the kink of her hair, Jessica Andrews is absolutely Nancy Andrew's biological daughter. While her mother may never appreciate the African genes in her own bloodline, I hope she'll do her best to accept Jessica with open arms and that her husband will also learn to accept the child as his own.

And that with time, the Andrews will find ways to answer strangers' questions in the supermarket that will assure their youngest daughter she's 100% loved.

On Friday my posts also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids. Visit them at Time Out New York Kids for more city-specific parenting tips and diversions. The regular column will be called Not the Nanny, which pretty much answers the crazy looks I sometimes receive when I'm out and about with my rosy-cheeked son.

Otubenga Jones & Associates is Not a Hip Hop Law Firm

These four brothers make up Otubenga Jones & Associates. And they're about to blow up.

The prolific collective, who met in drawing class at historically black Texas Southern U. back in 1994, are on the verge of taking the contemporary art world by storm. They take their group name from Ota Benga, who was a Pygmy brought to the United States in 1904, put on display in the Bronx Zoo and later commited suicide in 1916 (think depression might have had something to do with it?). Not without irreverence, the art of the Houston-based artists (Dawolu Jabari Anderson, Jamal Cyrus, Kenya Evans and Robert A. Pruitt) takes jabs at ideas about race, the art world and life in America. Their work in the prestigious Whitney Biennial allowed observers to peek into a miniature landscape, diorama-like, with a host of heads, called “Exploring the Outer Reaches of the Garden of Pro-Black Sanctuary.”

A lot of brothers can write fresh lyrics, but how many are doing this?

Enhance your black history month by checking out their recent press.

Another M.L.K. Day

In 1988, I took part in the Freedom Ride – an opportunity of a lifetime where teens from Philadelphia boarded an Amtrak train to make a pilgrimmage through the deep south. We spent a week visiting landmarks of the civil rights movement, such as the home of Rosa Parks and ended the journey in Atlanta at the Martin Luther King Center for Non-Violence. We spent the next week at the King Center, taking workshops on non-violence taught by one of Dr. King's four little children who was, by that time, a grown up.

In 1989, I was so transformed by the experience and so upset I had to go to school on M.L.K.'s birthday, that I went to my high school principal and asked (okay, begged) him to make it mandatory that all students watch Eyes on the Prize. He said no, but let me set up video monitors to air the documentary in the cafeteria during lunch. I tried not to blink back tears as my lunch period went on as usual. Students – both black and white – ate hoagies and chips as they acted a fool. Even during the part with the attack dogs. And hoses.

In 2007, there were no special events in honor of Dr. King within a forty mile radius of my home. The day started out like any other lazy Monday (except for the freezing rain outside). I proceeded to make oatmeal with vanilla soy milk and brown sugar as my three small children proceeded to tear the house apart. After they took their morning naps (at least two of them, anyway) I read them a story about Dr. King before turning on the television. The Disney Channel was airing a 12 hour That's So Raven! Marathon.

Huh?

I wonder when people will stop considering this American hero's birthday a "black" holiday. Or an excuse to catch a sale at the mall. Then again, I also wonder if just the fact that a show about a witty African American girl was on the Disney Channel for 12 hours straight would be enough to make the late Dr. King proud. Would he think the fact that we're now called African American (instead of colored) and can live in integrated neighborhoods is sufficient progress in itself?

I don't remember my mom mentioning any "colored" Mousketeers – so I guess it depends on who you're talking to and the generation they're a part of.

And if they had to go to school on what should have really been a national holiday.

Happy Birthday, Dr. King. We're still working on things here, but the world is a much better place for having known you.

The Nanny Wars

It was ninety-six degrees in the shade but I was way past the point of feeling cute in that Liz Lange swimsuit at our local pool (some maternity clothes just aren't designed for the third trimester). So while my oldest was at daycamp, I parked my pregnant self on the couch with my laptop propped upon my belly, ate watermelon – thanks to my doctor's suggestion that it reduced water retention – and browsed Craig's List for a nanny. I didn't need permanent live-in help, nor could I afford it, just someone who could help me survive the first weeks of life with our impending twins and our three year old. I needed a helper who could relate to our family both culturally and emotionally.

I hoped to find a caregiver who was experienced, reliable and if she happened to look like she could be a family member, that was all the better. I wanted someone who wouldn't make assumptions about us based on race and already knew how to do J-Jo's hair, especially when my hands were too full to make a straight part. And then I saw her: Westchester Baby Nurse. She had the kind of eyes that made her appear wiser than her presumably 50+ years. I looked at her sitting there in her white uniform, holding twins and I imagined what she'd look like holding mine. Perfect. Westchester Baby Nurse's credentials looked impressive, she had extensive amounts of experience caring for multiples and all of the things that came with it, so I decided to give her a call.

Over the phone, she seemed every bit as professional as she appeared on her website. The conversation was pleasant and cheerful as we tried to get an accurate impression of one another. We spoke two or three times at length within the next few days before setting up an afternoon to meet in person at a central location in New York City. She told me I could recognize her by her grey trenchcoat and that her hair would be in a bun. But I never got to tell her what color Mimi Maternity tank top I'd be wearing, because as soon as I began describing myself as black, she screamed "FIRE!" and hung up the phone. Okay, not exactly "FIRE!" But she hung up quickly and never called me back. Several weeks later, the nanny I thought was mine left a message on my voice mail saying she was busy with another family, and that if I still needed help, to give her agency a call. I'd been dissed by Jamaican Mary Poppins.

In the end, we went with Julie, a local, white American homemaker who was actually a concert violinist, but cared for post-partum mothers on the side. She came highly reccomended by a mommy friend of mine. Everything was fine with Julie until Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and I spent the first two days cradling babies and watching CNN, worried sick for the people who were stuck there as they screamed at the cameras for help. Julie's response: "Oh, I'm sure they'll be fine." (in a tone that said, "our good President knows exactly what he's doing."). And the next day, she tried to reprimand us for letting J-Jo watch parts of the coverage on tv.

One of the reasons I wanted a nanny of color in the first place was because I didn't want to have to deal with the politics of race under my own roof. Especially not right after delivering twins by cesarean and instantly expanding my family from three to five. I gave Julie a few more days, but the tension was too real. Rather than echoing Kanye West's famous words that befuddled Mike Myers, Mr. J and I decided to make a change: Julie didn't have to go home, but she couldn't stay here.

In the weeks that followed, we braved caring for our newborn tag team alone. Sometimes we'd wonder how we were supposed to survive. Of course we were still in love with eachother and profoundly in love with our new babies, but the bootcamp they put us through was nothing short of brutal. The only thing that kept us from strangling one another on those late nights, was the fear that one of us would be left alone and outnumbered by the tiny creatures. In the wee hours of the night, between tandem feedings and unrelenting diaper changes, I couldn't help but wonder how things would be different if Westchester Baby Nurse had looked past skin color long enough to call me back.

Eventually, the fog lifted and those early days of twinfancy finally came to a halt. Maybe it was selective memory, but I never gave any further thought to it once that period ended, until a friend of mine sent me this article about the difficulty many black families have finding nannies for their children. I found the story fascinating, especially considering African American women's history as domestic workers, particularly nannies, in this country. Families retold experiences of interviewing black nannies who refused to work for them because they were African American.

According to the New York Times, black nannies complained to their placement agencies that African American families expected more from them while paying less. Several families from areas such as Prince George's County, Maryland, were refused service by well-respected Washington DC-based nanny agencies on the grounds that the agencies do not serve their predominantly black (and affluent) area. By and large, the story provides a very revealing snapshot of race, class, gender and the modern dilemmas of raising children today.

Like some of the parents interviewed, my family does not have extended relatives who are able to help us (or even live close enough) to help us out with our childcare needs. In those early weeks after the babies were born, we were fortunate to have loving friends and family members who were willing to travel here and help us out for a few weekends in a row. Emotionally, they offered us more than a paid helper ever could have. There's no adequate wage for someone who unconditionally loves your older child whose life has just been derailed because mommy and daddy just brought two new kids home from the hospital.

You can't adequately compensate another person outside of family and close friends to adore your children because love just doesn't work that way. When all was said and done, our loved ones went back to their own lives, leaving us here in our rightful place as sole care providers for our offspring. As well they should have – but in the middle of another sleepless night, I would have gladly paid for an extra pair of hands. Twice as much for a compassionate soul who could relate to where we're coming from.