I Know That You Have Heard It All Before

But thanks, in advance, for listening anyway...

Dear Kindergarten Teacher,

I just saw the list.  My baby, my first born, the one that sparkles and shines like no other, is in your class.

I would tell you about how special she is.  How loving, caring, and kind she is.  How she will absolutely give her life for anyone she remotely considers a friend.  How her heart is always out there.  How tender she is.  But, you've heard it from every other parent before.  She's different, and she's not.  But, you'll see that tomorrow.  She's never met a stranger.

I love her.  If I had to pick the aspect of me that she embodies, it's my heart.  She has held it since before she drew breath on this Earth.  Before my arms ever held her, she held my heart.

I know that you've heard this before, but please, be gentle with my heart.  I'm trusting you with it.  It's hard.  But I know that in order for her to thrive, I must trust you.  I trust that you'll take such good care of her, that she won't be afraid.  You'll encourage her.  You'll push her to her limits, and tell her how much further she can go.

But please, be gentle.  She's so sweet.  I know you will.  This mommy's heart is excited and breaking all at the same time.  I can't begin to tell you how proud I am of her.  She can conjugate verbs in several different tenses, She can do addition through +12, She can recite facts about animals that will blow your mind.  And, she and her sister can do a mean rendition of the "Shimmer and Shine" theme song (it's really super-cute).  She loves to dance...wow!  Does she love to dance.

She is magic.

Every ounce of my being is going to trust you with my heart.  I know, you've heard it all before.  I've heard excellent things about you.  I have heard that you are amazing.  Thank you, in advance, for that.  Those are things that I need to hear.  You see, it's my first time.  I'll try not to cry tonight, tomorrow, or Monday.  I can't promise that I won't, but I will do my absolute best to hold myself together in front of her, and you.

I know how special Kindergarten teachers are.  I have know some absolutely amazing ones in my life.  I am excited to add you to that list.

Thank you for being a part of my baby's life.  Her education, her next step.

She's leaving behind some amazingly wonderful teachers from her old school.  They were the ones who taught me that it's ok to trust other people with my heart.  They love her and are just excited for her future as we are.  And, they are also the ones helping to reassure me that she's going to be just fine.

I'll drop her off with you on Monday morning.  I'll head to the library and use three or four boxes of Kleenex on my own.  I'll pull myself together, because I have to be brave for my Soul and Breath (her little sister and brother).  I need for them to trust you, too.  (They can be hard nuts to crack).

Anywho...thank you.  I know that you've heard it all before, but thanks for listening anyway.

Sincerely,
First time Kindergarten Mommy

Soooo, I got a ticket

And, I'm not even going to say that I didn't deserve it.  It happened after swimming lessons, and on the way home.  The kids started yelling in the car.  It was loud.  I started yelling back, not even paying attention to my speed.

Then, I saw him.  He waved me over.

From the backseat, I hear, "Mommy, why are you pulling over?"  "Mommy, what's going on?"  "Mommy, why are you talking to that man?"

I pulled over, and let the window down.  My hands in plain sight, because.....well, because.

I tried to put the van in park, and I couldn't get the danged gear shift to move.  Hindsight being 20/20, I was probably pushing the wrong button, you know, the one that let's you go into D4, instead of the release lever.

Here's how the stop went down:

Officer:  Hi, there.  Do you know how fast you were going?

Me:  No, sir, I don't.  The kids were yelling, and I was yelling back, so I wasn't paying attention to my speed.  (I put my hands up in the air over the steering wheel) I am currently trying to put my vehicle in park, and I can't get the lever to move.

Officer:  Did you just get your nails done?

Me:  No.  I am trying to keep my hands in plain sight, so that there's no question as to what I'm doing.  Would you like to try and put in park for me?

Officer:  How about you take your foot off of the brake and try again.

Me:  I do not want there to be any confusion as to what I am doing.

Officer:  OK.  You're Ok, ma'am.  Can I see your license?

Me:  *looks around towards the back seat, very slowly*  I cannot reach my purse.  It is on floor behind my son's carseat.  *motions with my head towards the opposite side of the car*

Officer:  Can you reach it?

Me:  No, I cannot.

Officer:  Would you like for me to get it for you.

Me:  Yes.

Officer:  OK.  Can you open the door for me?

Me:  Yes.  I am going to reach down with my left hand to unlock the door and push the button.

Officer:  OK.  How many in the car with you?

Me:  Three kids.

Officer:  *reaches in and gets my purse*  Here you go.  (He also said hi to the kids, who, oddly enough, decided to be quiet)

Me:  I am going to reach back and get it from you, then put it on the center console and get my wallet out.  Thank you.

Officer:  OK.  You know, it's ok.  It's not necessary for you to keep your hands up.

Me:  Yes, it is.  I don't want there to be any confusion as to what I'm doing.  *hands officer license*

Officer:  *scans license, scans window sticker, asks me to sign in the yellow box*

Me:  I am reaching down to sign.

Officer:  OK.

I sign, officer starts walking to his car.

Officer:  When was the last time you got a ticket?

Me:  *momentary blank stare as I'm trying to do mental math*  I am not trying to be non-responsive or disrespectful, I'm trying to do the math.  It was 2007, I believe.

Officer:  So, it's been a while?

Me:  Yes.

Officer:  Ok. *he verifies the street that I live on and hands back my license, and the ticket*  Here you go.  Be safe.

Me:  Ok, thank you.  May I drive off now?

Officer:  Yes, you can.  Have a good evening.

Me:  Thank you.  You, too.

See, when I got pulled over, I wasn't worried about what my hubby would say.  I wasn't worried about our car insurance going up.

I was worried about getting out of a traffic stop alive, and with my children.  You see, at any given moment, I could have been considered a threat to the officer.  In that moment, he could have felt justified in pulling me out of my car, tazing me, handcuffing me, shooting me...in front of my kids.  The children that I'm trying to teach to trust the police.

Why could I have been considered a threat?

Look at me.

Look.  At.  Me.

Just by the nature of my skin color, some people think that I am a threat.  A beast who is out of control.  Able to snap at any given second and go on a killing spree.  It's true.  And if you don't think so, there's nothing that I can tell you.  I live in this skin, and there have been many times when people have assumed the worst of me without ever getting to know me.  It happens.  And, I was afraid that this officer could have been one of those people.

Now listen, I am by no means saying that all officers are like that.  In fact, I believe that it's only a few, but they are the ones who get the press.  Same with Black people.  Not all of us are militant, anti-police, fear-mongering animals.  We just have to be careful with who we trust, and how much.  You see, I narrated my every move, kept my hands up in plain sight, and moved slowly, because I didn't want to give anyone a reason to make me the next trending hashtag.

I had considered recording/live streaming the traffic stop, but I didn't.  Know why?  I was afraid that the officer would assume that I was reaching for a weapon to use against him.

And, it's a damned shame.  I should not have to feel like that.  I should not have to be in survival mode, as opposed to "treat the officer with respect" mode.  But, I have learned that sometimes, even that isn't enough.

I called hubby at work.  He didn't answer, so I texted him.  He asked me how I was.  I rattled it off, and ended with, "I was afraid that I was going to get shot in front of our children."

Why?  Why does that have to be a fear for me?

I messaged my girlfriends.  There was the really funny joke about how did I not mess with the radar gun, and that's why I got a ticket (seriously, have you seen what I can do to electronics?!)  They asked if I was OK.  I was.

I told them my deepest fear about the stop.

Let me tell you how to kill a conversation.

But, it's not their fault.  They don't move in the world that I move in.  For them, getting stopped most likely means that they may (or may not) get a ticket, take defensive driving, and it's done.  It's not that likely that any of them will be seen as a threat...not like I would.  Not like I could.

And I hated to shove that reality in their faces...to push them so far out of their comfort zones.  It was so unfair of me, but I know these ladies...they truly could not care less about my skin color.  These ladies always assume the best of the people that they meet, until they have reason to believe otherwise.  I can say, with much certainty, that it hurts them that people can be mean and hateful to me just because.

What do they say to that?  What CAN they say to that?

I know that, had anything untoward happened, they would have been right there with my family, standing up for justice.  Thankfully, they don't have to.

My hope is that it opens up conversations with their friends and families about how jack-ass stupid racism is.  How prejudice can kill potentially beautiful relationships before they even have a chance to start.  How it kills trust before it's even born.  (Please do NOT tell me that racism doesn't exist.  Please don't.)

So, let me wrap up with this:

If they ever say that I was combative, don't believe it.

If they say that I brandished a weapon, don't believe it.

If they say that I was high on drugs, don't believe it.

If they say that I was prostituting, don't believe it.

It's not so much that I fear for my life, it's that I fear for future of my children.  I don't want for them to see their mother killed.  I want for them to trust police officers.  I want for them to understand that 99% of them are out to keep communities safe, and to protect them from the real bad guys.  They must understand that it's the 1% that gets the press, and their ideas about people should never be tainted by THAT minority.

It's hard these days.  To keep that brave face for them.  To know that, because of where we live, they will most likely be seen as Black (and therefore, bad), not as the beautiful human beings that they are (you know, that 'One Drop Rule'?  It exists).  But, we'll keep fighting the good fight, hubby and me.  And with a little help from our friends, we'll make it.  And our kids will make the world better than it ever was.

For now, I'll wait the requisite 10 days, then request defensive driving.  I'll go in person to the sub-station up the road from our house.  I'll hold my breath when I walk in, but I'll do it.  And, I'll handle my business.

I'll report back on that.

Happy Friday!

What I want. What I need.

I shared some deeply personal stories on my blog the other day. Stuff that even my own mother didn't know about until she read it yesterday.

I have received some not too nice messages about what I shared. People telling me that I was being hateful, unforgiving. People telling me that I am trying to make white people feel guilty for what happened to me.

Let me set somethings straight.

Never once have I expected anyone, White, Black, Mexican, Blue, Purple, or Polka-dotted to feel guilty. Up until a couple of days ago, no one, except the people directly involved, knew. I have never demanded, nor expected an apology from anyone, and up until a couple of days ago, I had never gotten one.

If I took just that small number of experiences from my life and decided that all White people were out to get me, my life now would look a lot different. I wouldn't have my husband or my kids. I wouldn't have my father-in-law or my sister-in-law, niece and nephews. I wouldn't have some of my dearest friends. I wouldn't have the life that I have.

What I want people to understand is that race does exist as a social construct in this world. And, it can be devastating...if you let it. If I extrapolated those experiences to all White people, then I'd hate all White people. But I don't. I saw then, and still see now, those people as individuals. They made their individual choices. They have (I'm hoping) changed. Matured. If they ever thought about their role in what happened, they decided that they would never let it happen again.

I don't want apologies.

I don't want "White Guilt".

I’m not on standby with a mug, waiting to drink "White Tears".

I want understanding.

I want people to understand that the ability to be “colorblind” is not always, if ever, a two-way street.

I want people to understand that if I am required to see White people as individuals, then White people should be required to see Black people as individuals. 

I want people to understand that, in those moments, those people chose to be hateful and unforgiving to me.

I need people to understand that if I don’t talk about it, then it will never get the attention that it deserves, and it won’t change the future.

I need for you to understand that when those events happened to me, during my most formative years, that I learned that my Black Life mattered only as far as others, as White people,  told me it was allowed…to make fun of, to suppress, to oppress.  Just because it makes you uncomfortable does not mean that I am not allowed to talk about it.  That. Shit. Happened.

Telling me to “get over it and stop making people feel bad,“ is blaming the rape victim for getting raped.  "Well, she shouldn’t have ordered the lobster."  "She shouldn’t have worn that skirt."  "She shouldn’t have been drinking."

You’re telling me that I shouldn’t have been born Black.

You’re telling me that since I was born Black, then I just have to deal.

You’re telling me to “be a good Black”, and let it go.  Don’t offend anyone by bringing it up.

You’re victimizing me all over again.

You’re being part of the problem.

Stop it.

I do not speak for all Black people.  I speak for me.  I tell these stories so that people will read them, will understand that this stuff still happens.  Just because you ignore it does not mean that it doesn’t exist. 

If it bothers you, do something about it.  Stand with me to make it stop.  Call it out when you see it…but call it out for what it is.

Just because one Black person shoplifts, it doesn’t mean that ALL Black people shoplift.  They should be seen as an individual who made a bad choice. 

Just because one White police officer abuses his badge, it doesn’t mean that ALL White police officers abuse their badge.  They are a police officer  who made a bad choice.

In each case, the offender should absolutely be held accountable.  And they should be held accountable equally.  The law is supposed to colorblind, right?  Existing on logic and reason, free from emotion, right?  Do something to help make it happen.

Yes, I understand that a police officer doesn’t know what s/he may be walking into when they leave for work in the morning.  You know what?  Neither do I.  I should not have to live in fear that I will be gunned down by a cop because I had to run to the grocery store since I ran out of butter for a cake that I was making.  Because I “fit a description of an armed and dangerous suspect seen driving a black minivan”.  Cops should not have to live in fear, either.

No one should have to live in fear.

Help me dismantle this system that has been built on fear and distrust.  Help me.  Help me build a society that is better for my kids, for your kids.  Help prove that the life of every person on this planet matters.  I can't do it alone.

What Matters? Who Matters?

Tell me that #AllLivesMatter.

Tell me.

Let me tell you a few stories.

Did my life matter when, in middle school, the PE teacher decided that I looked exactly like Whoopie Goldberg and decided that she was going to start calling me “Whoopie”?  When I refused to respond, she said called me Whoopie, again.  Once again, I refused to respond.  In front of the class, she told me to come when she called.  I told her that when she called me by my name, I would.  Did it matter that she yelled that she was about to make an example of me and yanked me out of the gym by my arm…leaving marks on me, and drug me to the principal’s office?  She tried to get me suspended.  She told the principal that I was being highly insubordinate.  When the principal asked what I had done, the teacher told her.  The principal sent me back to class, but later called me back to tell me that if I had just played along, then it wouldn’t have happened.

Did my life matter when, again in middle school, my English class thought that it would be funny to throw me a surprise “Baby Shower/Mother’s Day Party” so that my baby would have everything that he or she needed?  You know, I was told because, “Well, you people tend to have lots of babies very early in life, with no fathers around.  We just want to make sure that you’re not too much of a burden on the welfare office or your family.”  It was a party.  There were snacks.  They shouted, “Happy Mother’s Day, Cerissa!” to me when I walked into the classroom.  At least two teachers were complicit in that event.  No one stopped them.  No one told them that what the ENTIRE class was doing was wrong.  I can’t be sure if these kids’ parents knew that they were doing this.  Even if they did, if they would have stopped them.  When I expressed to the teacher how hurt and humiliated I was, she told me, “Oh, God!  You need to have a sense of humor or you’re not going to get very far in life.  They were just having fun.”

The same teacher who asked me if I was straight from Africa because my skin is as black as coal, my nose is disproportionate to the rest of my face and my hair is so kinky.  The same teacher who asked me if I knew who my father was, and if my brother and I had the same one.

Did my life matter when, in high school, I was told that I couldn’t be a real part of the quiz bowl team because I wasn’t “representative” of my school?  When I was told that I would make an excellent mascot, or team sponsor support person because, you know, Blacks weren’t really into academics. 

Did my life matter when, as an adult, I was driving my now husband’s Mustang down Bay Area and I got pulled over by a police officer for the vehicle having no front plates?  When the officer pulled me out of the car, told me, “Get your fucking hands on the hood and keep them where I can see them!”  When he informed me that people “like me” love stealing cars like that.  He ran my license while threatening to arrest me for stealing a car and identity theft.

Did my life matter when a woman at an optometrist’s office lied on me, and told her boss that I stole a handful of $6 eyeglass chains?  When that doctor approached me and accused me, not questioned, not asked…ACCUSED me of stealing them.  When my parents showed up and another worker there told my mom that “she didn’t look like that kind”.

Did my life matter? 

Do you realize the one difference between me and my attackers at those times?

Do you?

Do I need to spell it out for you?

You might say, “But, they weren’t violent attacks.”

The hell you say.

I was 12 years old when teachers, classmates, and so-called friends violated my childhood.  My innocence.  My right to feel safe at school.  My right to go to a teacher or administrator and tell them that I had been wronged.  My right to trust the adults around me.  My right for justice.

That was pretty damned violent, if you ask me.

I don’t need one person to validate, or invalidate, the life that I have lived in the skin that I have.  In each and every instance, my life…my BLACK LIFE did not matter.

So, go somewhere with #AllLivesMatter, because clearly, they don’t.

So now you say, “But, that was in the past.  You should get over it.  You should forgive and forget.  People change.”

You know what?  Those people who have been murdered…those BLACK people who have been murdered…deserved at least that much.  They may, or may not, have had questionable pasts, but didn’t they deserve better than what they got?

Don’t tell me to “forgive and forget” if you aren’t willing to do the same.  I’ll tell you, honestly I’ve forgiven.  It takes too much to carry that hate.  It festers and makes you as hard-hearted and lifeless as those who are engaging in the wrongdoing. 

But, I haven’t forgotten.  I won’t.  I can’t.  It is part of my history.  You can’t make me, and you can’t shame me for it. 

If it bothers you, get up, get out, and do something about it.  Prove to me that #AllLivesMatter to you by helping to prove that #BlackLivesMatter.

Believe me, you can support #BlackLivesMatter AND #CopsLivesMatter at the same time.  It’s called #ActingLikeADecentHumanBeing.

Make me believe that #AllLivesMatter.