Post What? The Rant

The very idea that some people are trying to assert that we live in a post-racial nation is absurd. Just because we have a bi-racial POTUS means nothing, as they say, on the ground. Was it a triumphant moment when Barack Hussein Obama became the 44th leader of the United States? Yes, it was. Did my wife and I cry? Yes, we did. Did I let my (at the time) 8-month-old watch? Yep. History was made that night. But the entire event was historical spectacle— that moment did not trickle down to where you and I live.

Racism is getting worse. You have too many black folks thinking (and acting) like some sort of mission was accomplished and that it is now time to take a break from fighting for true equality. White folks were way too happy in their perceived liberalness: “I voted for the black guy! Aren’t I progressive?” I make mention of only black and white folks because, even though the racial argument is much more vast and colorful, this is the racial issue paradigm that one must start with in this country. On another note…did anyone really think that Obama was going to lose? What would you rather have, a working car or a bicycle with a rusted frame and no tires? Just the thought that it is a big deal that a bi-racial man is the President illustrates just how far we have to go as a society.

It shouldn’t matter if our president is black, Fijian, Chinese, a woman, gay, Tongan, African—as long as they want the job, have the interests of ALL people in mind, are competent and can engender trust internationally; these should be the only things that matter. But people make it out to be such an enormous thing that I’m kind of scared. The fight doesn’t stop with the election of Obama. In fact, people should be fighting twice as hard towards true equality.

We should all take notice and emulate Obama’s narrative trajectory. He inherited a country in the verge of severe disarray. The economy sucks, schools are closing—and if they aren’t closing, teachers and staff are being laid off. Tuition is being raised in colleges across the country—turning one of the only equalizers we have, education, into an elitist enterprise. Obama is tackling this all, head on. We need to do the same about race relations.

Racially motivated hate crimes are on the rise. We may have, what some folks may call, a “black president” but where is the black presence in our daily media? The only times that you even see black folks is if they’re in trouble, entertaining, or grimacing and grunting during an athletic contest. How many of you know who Dr. Mae C. Jemison is? What about Charles Bolden?

The Obama election throws a spanner in the works of parents of multi-racial (with one parent having immediate “black” ancestry) children. It is great that Obama is the 44th. He is arguably the most popular black man in the world (even more popular than Will Smith) but what do I tell my caramel skinned daughter when she starts to ask me questions about black women in the public sphere. Will I have to dip into the Oprah and Michelle Obama well over and over just to prove to her that black women can be successful without having to disrobe in music videos and movies? Do I tell her that she shouldn’t be concerned about this because we live in a post-racial society and we are all one people?

It is hard as hell trying to raise my multi-racial daughter. My wife and I try our best to expose her to as many things that portray women of color in a positive light as we can, but it is slim pickings out there. If it doesn’t have some Disney or Nickelodeon character plastered on it, it is a white character. This wouldn’t be so bad if there were other options. But there isn’t any. It is like “whiteness” is our cultural default setting and a post-racial society means that everything, but whiteness, is erased and/or subsumed.

Some (ignorant and reactionary) folks will try to scream that I’m a racist. Racism means that I have the power to oppress people of other races and the systems in place to back up my power. Nope. I’m not a racist, nor am I a bigot. What I am is an enemy of white supremacy and black complacency and acquiescence. Do I want a post-racial society? If a definition of this can be presented that in application doesn’t cause my stomach to turn—then, yes. But until then, I’ll be reading my daughter Octavia E. Butler at night, praying that the next president is a woman, and getting her ready to fight the good fight.

Keep It Alive

There is no reason that the romance (and sex) should stop just because you have a baby. While it may be a trying task, you have to make the effort to keep those particular fires burning. But to do so, some of us may have to take a 20th century idea and make it modern.

I hate to admit it, but the time of the mixtape (mix CD) and the radio dedication is now over. But all is not lost. Here is a good way to keep the romance alive. Let me break it down for you: Mixtape/Radio dedication for the twenty-first century.

1. Buy an iPod Shuffle. Under a hundred dollars from Apple.

2. Scour your (and your partner’s—do this discreetly) music collections and find music that appeals to the both of you (and that is reflective of your relationship). Whether or not you actually heard the music together is immaterial. Just be on point about the intersection of the music and your relationship.

3. Take some care and create a musical biography, up until the point you gift the iPod. Don’t shy away from the bad ish, either. Any good relationship will have jagged points—these help us to be able to identify the beautiful times. This biography should be thoughtful, dramatic, and most of all, honest. The music should reflect what is and was, not what you wanted it to be.

4. Using those cute/ugly little ear buds (or, if you have the capability, plug the iPod into a set of external speakers) listen to the music with your partner. Disclaimer: There are bound to be some choices that your partner may say ‘What the hell is this?’ But that’s okay—at least you are having a conversation about your relationship, instead of it just happening without your full participation.

5. After you’ve listened to the whole thing, explain why you did it.

6. Get to being freaky. Trust me, it will be mind-blowing.

From me to you.

No Smoking, Please...

First off, let me put my biases out there: I hate smoking. I can’t think of a more arrogant habit than polluting public space with a toxic substance that is in no way necessary.

Just over a year ago, I was pushing my three-month-old baby in a stroller; stuck right behind a guy who was smoking and taking up most of the sidewalk. His smoke was blowing in my baby’s face, and his girth almost eclipsed the sun, so I asked him if he could either put the cigarette out, or move to the side and let us pass. He turned to look at me and said, “F^*k you. This is a free country.” Wow.

Before my (relatively) recent socio/cosmic epiphany, I would have slapped the ish out of him for a) stealing my joy, and/or b) disrespecting me and my baby. But I’m a changed man, so I looked at him and said, “How can you even talk about freedom when you are an addict? You know that what you’re doing has the potential to kill you and those you love, yet you do it anyway. You don’t know what freedom is.”

If I had a camera, I would have snapped a shot and emailed the photo to everyone I knew. It was so funny. He got really red, his jowls trembled, and his face scrunched up like he just sucked six lemons. He made a threatening step towards me, so I stood in front of the stroller. I warned him that I actually enjoyed a decent fistfight and that I was more than capable of giving him a run for his money. He thought about it, and since he was who he was, he resorted to, “F^*k you, nigger.” Like I haven’t heard that before.

I let him know that he crossed the line and that it was my duty to protect my baby from idiots, like himself. And that if he took another step closer, I’d have to cave his chest in. You have to understand, my old self would have choked him out for disrespecting me the first time. But I am trying to honor the experience that I had—mentioned earlier in this post (more on that experience at a later time)—so I’m making attempts to walk a more righteous route. I gave him an out: Get out of the way or I’m going to hurt you.

I’m blessed with quickness so I snatched the cigarette out of his hand and crushed it. It was worth the pain of the cherry burning my palm to see true fear in his eyes. Then, I just stared at him—not blinking for even a millisecond. He eventually moved to the side, making the choice not to look me in the face. As I walked past him, I thanked him for letting us pass. He didn’t respond.

My baby slept through the entire incident.

The Fine art of Wandering: Wheels, Arms, or Carrier?

I am a flaneur by nature. I love to wander through the city with no purpose, other than to explore and discover things that I would miss if I drove through the same area. There is something amazing about having no clear purpose or mission—just treating the city like a playground—traveling all on foot. When my daughter was born, I thought that part of my life was over.

It is so easy to get caught up in the “the baby has a schedule” or “there is too much stuff to gather and then carry” internal monologue. While the previous may be true, they should not be limiting ideas. You may now have a baby, but there is no reason that you should completely eliminate the things that make you happy. In my case, one of the things that make me happiest is strolling directionless through the city. And I was damned if I was going to give that up. But there were logistical challenges.

First and foremost, the baby had to be safe. I had to check the outside temperature to make sure that she had the proper clothes on and then pack a host of appropriate clothing in the baby bag, just in case the weather shifted unexpectedly (I live in the Bay Area of California). Diapers? Check. Wipes and cream? Check. Food? Check. Bib? Check. Nook? Check. Baby was all taken care of. But how would I carry her? There were three options.

Stroller: These can be great. They have wheels and you can strap things to them, reducing the amount of baby stuff that you have to physically carry. The baby is safe and secure and pushing a stroller takes minimal effort. But strollers take up a lot of room and are hard to maneuver if you decide to take a walk off paved roads. Also, if you want to stop in a restaurant or café, trying to stow the stroller is quite difficult. And depending on the age of your baby, you might not be able to set her down to fold up the stroller.

Arms: You could carry the baby, but you can get tired out very quickly. Also, it is so much more dangerous to carry a baby. You could trip and fall. That’d be a real bad look. Someone could bump into you, then you’d get angry and the situation could escalate to very dangerous levels. And if you are carrying your baby, it is going to be hard for you to carry other things: i.e. the baby bag, camera, water, etc. If the baby is old enough, you could put her on your shoulders, but that’s not a sustainable mode of locomotion, as there are other dangers and limitations.

Carrier: Whether it is the Baby Bjorn, Maya Wrap, sling, Ergo Carrier or some other knock off of how indigenous people transport their babies, carriers can be a great compromise between the stroller and toting a baby in your arms (or up on your shoulders). Some of the benefits are that your hands are free to carry other things, protect the baby, cover the baby’s face when some idiot is blowing smoke, or you can push people out of the way because the idea that babies are fragile and vulnerable have escaped the minds of the general populace and some folks even resent the fact that there is a baby in their presence and will not move out of the way, even when asked politely (like I said, I live in the Bay Area of California).

When I wander, I like to use the carrier. If your kid is old enough to be aware of her surroundings, she will have a sensory treat. My daughter (at sixteen months) is a huge wanderer. Watching her watch the world, reaffirms that wonder and awe still exist. She points, and tries to name things—truly interacting with her environment. When it is safe, I take her out of the carrier and watch her run around and pick things up (leaves and sticks are her favorite found objects)—just watch her play and join in.

There is no reason that the pleasure in your life should stop because you have a baby. I’d argue that the things that you used to take pleasure in before your baby was born—unless you were into some foul ish—will be twice as pleasurable now that you have someone to teach it to.

Keep wandering.

My daughter has no grandparents.

My daughter doesn’t have grandparents. My wife lost her parents while she was still in her teens, and I never really knew my father, and he died a decade ago. My mother is a distant memory. I have never met anyone who didn’t have their grandparent for some portion of their lives. Even though we can do nothing about it, I still feel as if our child is (somehow) going to be shortchanged.

I have fond memories of being shipped off to Jamaica as a child to spend the summer with my mother’s family. Flying on the plane, all alone, made me feel like I had superpowers. As the world (which was big to me then and enormous to me now) moved below me, the flight attendants gave me food (this is back when they still had food on planes), made sure that I had a blanket and a pillow, and spent more time with me than any of the other passengers. When I landed, I knew that I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.

The colors were bigger, louder, more visible. My mother’s and aunt’s accents were nothing compared to the “waterfall talk” of my cousins. And there was my grandmother. Don’t get me wrong, my grandfather was an amazing man. Over 6’4”, strong as anything; hands so big that when he spanked me, his fingertips would wrap around to the side of my butt. He always had a kind word for every person he came into contact with, and forced me and my uncle (who was only three years my senior) to do the same thing. My uncle learned this lesson better than I did. Despite all this, grandma was magick.

With little effort, there was food everywhere. Ox tails, chicken, goat, pones would appear at every meal—meat was a rarity to some of the rural folk. They were broke (me and my mom were broke, but we at least had TV and an indoor toilet) but no one ever went hungry. Not even the neighbors, if grandma was cooking.

Me and my mom—and there was just the two of us—fought incessantly (even when I was only five)—but my people (eleven lived in the same yard) on the island raised their voices in joy as well as anger. And nobody carried anger to bed with them.

I always cried when summer ended. For just over two months, I knew where I came from and that my life did not have to only be dust-head Viet Nam veterans, sub-standard high-rise projects living, or ‘get home before the streetlights come on.’ While I was in Jamaica, I was loved. There was absolutely no question about this. My mother did not have the capacity to do so—she tolerated, not loved me.

My wife and I love our daughter with everything we are—but I wonder if that is enough. There is something about grandparents—and their histories—that is special. We’ve tried to build a small network of elders for our girl to be around. Aubuelos and Abuelitas, Lolas and Lolos, Titos and Titas, and Ninangs fill the void somewhat, but our baby has no blood grandparents.

Maybe I’m making too big a deal about this. We are great parents and are doing everything that we can to have her surrounded by the best people possible. But will it be enough? We can take her to Jamaica (I still have a few cousins there) and my grandmother is still alive (but cancer and blindness have robbed her of her light), but she now lives in the States. Ancestry is very important to me and my wife.

We are links in a long lineage and it feels good to know that we are a part of something that spills pack in into history, with potential to continue into the future. We come from somewhere. And I want my daughter to know this.

I was never much of a photographer, so I have very few pictures of my growing up and visiting the island. But what I do have is a sharp mind and a gift for storytelling. My baby girl will know about every meal that her great-grandmother cooked for me, every time her great-grandfather scared me; the hugs that my grandmother gave me—she hugged me so hard that I became trapped between her boobs. She will know how I used to sneak around at night to watch my grandparents hold hands, touch and kiss.

But most of all, she will know what love feels like because, in the end, this is my greatest memory of my grandparents.