What Will Her Baby "Be"?

I keep thinking about a conversation I had on Wednesday with a dear friend who's pregnant. This is the friend I'm going to knit the baby blanket for, but to preserve her anonymity, I'll call her... Martha. How's that for a nice, anonymous name?

Martha is like me. She's also half black and half Irish, and, like me, identifies as being both black and biracial. Despite both being told at various times in our lives that we talk "white" or act "white", neither of us have ever identified as white. We like being black and neither of us is totally crazy.

No wait, that's not true! A dozen years ago on an American Airlines flight out of Birmingham, Alabama, I told my seat mate that I was white. He was an older white gentleman who chose to try to strike up the, "I'll bet your people are just so proud of that Barack Obama Tiger Woods, aren't ya?" conversation.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"Y'know. 'Cause he's a black fella playing golf. Not to many of y'all black folks playing golf, now are there?" I remember he laughed and slapped his knee.

That's when my 23 year-old sort-of-crazy self decided to say, "Yeah... Tiger's great. As a white woman, I admire everything he's accomplished. It's amazing."

You can imagine how that stopped the laughter. "Whadda ya mean? You're not a white woman! Just look at yerself!"

I gave him my best, OMG, how could you say that I'm not white, I'm sooo shocked look, and said to the man, "Well, my daddy's white and you know, according to the old European patrilineal descent laws, that means I'm white." Then I calmly gave him my dazzling "How ya like me now!" smile.

He pushed the flight attendant button and asked to have his seat changed.

And that's the only time I've ever told someone that I'm white. Doing so in this country is completely unacceptable. We like our one drop rule here and it keeps us comfortable because that's the way it's always been. Black is black, as folks like to say.

In case someone takes me bringing all this up as a sign that I want to be white because of deeply ingrained self-hate, nooo, that's not the case. I just find how we rub along with these man-made racial definitions pretty fascinating and sometimes I like to push buttons just to see what happens. Plus, I've never "bought" that acknowledging and loving my Irish heritage means that I don't want to be black. Gosh, we're brainwashed, aren't we?

Anyway, my girlfriend, Martha, got married late last year to an awesome guy who's also Irish. They came out from NYC for a quick visit this week and of course we got to talking about the baby. She started telling me how she's thinking a whole lot lately about what the baby's going to look like and of course, this led to a conversation about race and what's the baby going to be identified as. "Be", as in, what race the baby is going to be.

Some people might think it's a silly thing to think about because a pregnant woman should just be thinking about delivering a healthy baby, but, again, this is America. We have race on the brain all the time, as evidenced by the fact that we're once more living in the days of the never ending discussion about whether or not Obama's actually black, even though he self-identifies as black.

Martha's going to have a baby that's essentially 3/4 Irish and 1/4 Grenadian. Clearly the baby's going to navigate it's own identity, but what does Martha do as a mother when she'll be required to "assign" an identity to her child? Or when other folks try to assign that identity? Does she adhere to the one drop rule which says that one drop of black blood equals black? Does she go old-school and say that her baby is a quadroon? Does she say that the baby is bi-racial, or does she say that her baby is white?

I think Martha's leaning toward seeing her baby as being black. And indeed, to claim blackness is something to be proud of, even if, sadly enough, it really isn't seen as something desirable in our culture. But, Martha was also talking about how, depending on what the baby looks like, she can see it going around saying, "I'm black!" and getting some crazy stares. We both know folks who have experienced this, folks who strongly identify as black, despite looking "white". Yeah, those are the folks who usually get told fun stuff like that they only claimed to be black so they could get an admissions edge at college.

Thinking about all this feels like trying to make sense out of system that's insane. I told Martha how the baby will have to find its own way, carve out its own identity, but that ultimately, the baby's "race" is going to be the least important thing about it when it's born. It's going to be a beautiful baby because it'll be loved and cherished.

But really, I don't have any easy answers for all this. Do you? What do you think?

The Myth of "Pure" Whiteness

Have you ever thought you might not be who you think you are?

For example, maybe your curly hair isn't from a "Jewish" grandmother? Or maybe your skin that tans so easily isn't really from Sicilian heritage? Could it be that you're really not related to some Spanish Moors despite what your mama done told ya? Could it be that you actually have some, God forbid, African ancestry?

Go look in the mirror. Look at your lips, at your nose, at your hair. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? 'Cause I'm thinking you're part black!

To confirm this, maybe we should do a little digging into your storied ancestral past.

Oh my goodness! It seems that some folks back in the day suspected your granny was maybe part Negro!

Yes, America, if we dig up even ONE black relative, whether that's your grandma, grandpa, a great-grandpa, or even great-great-great-great grandma, guess what, party people, you're black! It doesn't matter if you've been living your entire life wearing Peggy McIntosh's invisible knapsack of white privilege. Nope, now we've got you! You're black and you'd better acknowledge your blackness or else we're going to stone you in Ebony and Jet like we did Mariah Carey back in the early '90s when she went around claiming she was Venezuelan, Irish and a bunch of other stuff, instead of just saying she was black.

Get used to the idea that you are going to have to check all those other ethnicities that make up your DNA at the door. Who cares if identity is a fluid construct! That one drop of black blood is mighty powerful! It's so strong that it's going to trump everything else.

In case you're worried about what this means for you, we have some new perks coming your way. Your "I'm Black So Racial Profile Me" card is arriving in your mailbox tomorrow. Dancing lessons are on their way to you so that you can learn how to get crunk -- because you know every "real" black person knows how to dance, right?

We can also get you in touch with the Holy Ghost at a black church this Sunday so that you're getting the "real" black religious experience. Oh, you've also been signed up for soul food cooking class because all "real" black folks make greens and cornbread for dinner every Sunday after church.

Okay, okay. I can see you're crying now. You'd better stop that or else I might have to also label you as a tragic mulatto. You definitely don't want that to happen because now that you're black, you should know one thing about black people: they don't like tragic mulattoes.

Sure, keep on insisting you're a half Russian Jew like Dinah Shore. Whatever. I'm not buying your lies anymore. In fact, I think the real reason Dog Chapman didn't want his son hooking up with a black woman is that Dog's actually secretly black.

What? You thought that was just a really dark tan or really extensive sun damage on Dog Chapman? Puh-leeze! He should have come clean and told the media he's black because then he could have gotten a pass on using the n-word in reference to the woman.

Blame a woman named Bliss Broyard for my eyes being opened about how white folks aren't as pure white as they claim. Yes, thanks to her, I'm now looking at everyone as suspect.

Even George Bush could be a possible "You're Really Black" candidate. And you thought he just got Condi and Colin Powell into those roles because they were the most qualified. Hah! Bush was merely doing what black people do: hooking up his people!

Now that white America's big secret was exposed by Bliss on the Today Show this past Monday when she was talking about her book, "One Drop", our racial classification system has been turned on it's ear. Bliss wrote about her family and her father, Anatole Broyard. Yes, you guessed it. Bliss didn't know that her daddy was part black. It seems that Pops was passin' for white! He had tons of relatives that were of French and Spanish descent. But, he also had relatives that were of African descent. And, oops, he conveniently forgot about them so he could get ahead in his literary career in New York City.

Turns out, her Scandinavian mother knew about her husband's black heritage, but only revealed this secret to Bliss right before her father passed away. And, as Bliss explains here, her mom went and consulted a priest when she first found out she was married to a man with black ancestry. Wowzer.



All sarcasm aside, I'm sure this sort of thing is more common than we all realize. It's sad that her father felt that he had to abandon his relatives in order to make it in America. Why'd he do that? Hmm....could it be that he didn't want to feel racism anymore? I mean, gosh, Arthur Ashe died of AIDS but he still said, "Race has always been my biggest burden."

Maybe her dad wanted to get away from that. Besides, what if her father was actually genetically more French instead African? Could he have then said that he was French? And is that the point anyway, to create some sort of system that operates on percentages? Oh wait, that's sort of what the one drop rule is, right? Except that it's if you have any percentage of black blood, you're black.

Let's face it, most black people in America have white ancestry. We're all "mixed". So, logically, we'd have to be idiots to assume most white people are just "pure white" (whatever that means) without even one drop of "black blood".

To be crystal clear, I think being black is a wonderful thing. It's not something to be ashamed off. But the rest of the world clearly doesn't agree. It was SO telling how when Bliss was on the Today Show, Natalie Morales actually said about Bliss finding out about her father's heritage, "Was it just a complete blow to your identity?"


Her father hid his black heritage

If you're not black, would it be a complete blow to your identity if you found out that one of your ancestors was black? And if you did find this out, would you then start telling people that you are black?

Why do we insist on believing there's such a thing as being pure white? And why do we cling to this idea of one drop of black blood makes a person black?

Dear Miss USA: Getting Up IS Hard To Do

Dear Miss USA,

Aren't you glad the Miss Universe pageant is over? After your ordeal of falling on stage on Monday night, in front of a TV audience of a billion people, how are you doing?

Tell me what happened. Were your heels too high? Did you step on your dress? Was it the music? Personally, I love that Sean Paul/Keyshia Cole song, don't you? I thought it was great that you all got to strut your stuff to it during the evening gown competition. But, I wouldn't blame you if you suddenly started thinking of Sean Paul and just lost your balance, because, well, he's pretty fly.

I'm sorry, don't cry. I know, I'm bringing up painful memories. And folks are definitely making some mean and unnecessary comments about you. Who knew that the footage of your falling would be such a hit on YouTube? But, don't worry. In case it feels like the end, I am proof that you can fall on stage and still be a success in life.

In fourth grade, I was in a play called "A Keg of Gunpowder". I wasn't the leading lady or even in a supporting role of that amazing, revolutionary war tale. In fact, I might have only had two or three lines. But, I had to dance on stage. While I was dancing, I stepped on my floor-length costume and BAM! Down I went.

I know, a billion people weren't watching me do it. And I wasn't getting stared at by Nina Garcia and the other "judges". But I did have a very stern nun named Sister Paula hissing at me from the side of the stage, "Get up! Get up! NOW!"

What she meant was, "Get up before I kill you because you're ruining the play!" Yes, Sister Paula was a fierce woman, one of those old-school teachers who believed that humiliation helps the soul grow character. I think she liked to make kids cry just so she could spit out her famously stinging setdown, "Stop crying those baby alligator tears."

The third day of school in her class, we had a written assignment due. She held mine up in front of the class. "Do you know how to write?"

From her tone, I knew something was wrong. I was scared to death, but I answered, "Yes,". Not a pop-my-neck-with-sass kind of yes. Not a bored sighing kind of yes. It was definitely a meek mouse yes.

She pounced immediately. "No, you do not. This," she shook my paper in my face, "is not cursive. This is printing. Printing is not writing." She then proceeded to rip my paper up and throw it in the trash, promising that if I didn't learn how to properly write in cursive, I wouldn't make it out of the fourth grade.

So you can imagine how well my tripping on the long skirt of my costume went over with Sister Paula. You can imagine how, when I tumbled forward into the props, knocking them all over the place, I was convinced she was going to emerge from the eaves to box my ears.

At least you had the presence of mind to get right back up, strut your stuff and smile, despite the boos from that rude crowd. I don't even think there was a Sister Paula type there to yell at you and tell you to get up! Given your backbone, I'm sure you'll go on to be a success in the world and no one will even remember this little incident after the next pop-culture "news" story hits the Internet.

In fact, since your little mishap seems to have brought out quite a few antagonistic comments (see the comments on the YouTube footage) between Mexicans and Americans, maybe you can add some Mexican/American unity efforts to your Miss USA platform. See, some good could come out of this after all.

If you need a shoulder to cry on, just let me know.

Warmly,

Los Angelista