Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

House Hunting, LOLCat Style

Wow! It is the end of June already! This cannot be! Who knew that uprooting four lives and an existence of nine years and transplanting those lives to another state could be so all-concuming: of time, of energy, of money, of sanity. But here I am, with only days before I leave.

As it is Wednesday, why not make it a Laugh Out Loud Wednesday. This time my focus will be on house-hunting. We have been house-hunting off and on for over a year now, first here and more recently in Indianapolis. What a process! And what a time to be buying (and selling)! The only way to get through it is with laughter. And kitties. So here you go--with my very own LOLcat creations!

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

INbound Replay: Blue Eyes, Brown Eyes, and Freckled Faced Freaks

Well, I said here that my "formative years" were spent in Indiana. And so I suppose it is only fitting that one of the things that was formed in the state were my experiences around race and racism. Actually race and Indiana has been in the national news a lot recently, around the presidential primaries. In this NPR story residents of one Indiana town with "a troubled racial history" (and a Black population of, apparently, 11 folks) talk about wanting to move beyond that image. And in this NPR story, previously hush-hush bigotry faced by Obama campaign workers is discussed, highlighted by incidents in Indiana. (In Indiana's defense, though, please note that the voter who said "I'm not voting for no colored" in the intro was from West Virginia--not Indiana.) For my own development, as I detailed in the post below from a few years ago my first remembered experience with bias was in a simulation. Very appropriate given my current life as a researcher, yes? But many many of my real experiences with racism and bias also took place in the state. So now that we are moving back to there, I have been thinking a lot about the state and race relations. Will my kids now experience that different, bald kind of racism that they have largely escaped in the Twin Cities? Will they know how to handle such incidents? Will their father and I be up for the task of helping them navigate this new landscape without being too burdened by our own past experiences? I guess this issue remains one of our upcoming adventures that we will have to face with courage, love and humor.

I often tell people that my first remembered experience of discrimination was as a subject in an exercise when I was in the third grade. That usually takes people by surprise, seeing as how I am visibly an African American type person. Surely, people think, I did not need an experiment to experience first hand the sting of prejudice and discrimination.

But it is true.

When I was in the third grade, I attended a school--Morton Elementary--in a college town. Students from Purdue were always coming over to our school to use us pupils for some hands-on learning of one type or another. We were used to visitors from the University. We were used to the games. They were good for a change of pace, getting us out of class and our usual routine for a bit.

On this day, my teacher asked for volunteers. It may not come as a surprise to those of you who know me, but back then I was always the first student to raise my hand to answer a question, to volunteer to take a note to the office--that kind of thing. So, along with some other kids who also volunteered, I left the room and went to another area of the school with the college kids.

Once separated from the rest of the class, we volunteers were decorated with black eyeliner pencils, given "freckles" all over our cheeks and noses. I remember vividly: At this point we were still having fun, laughing, giggling.

But soon after, that laughter would turn to anger, tears, fear.

Once we were reunited with the rest of the class, we thought we would continue on with the day as usual. It seemed that way, anyway. Miss Foster, our teacher, began our regularly scheduled lesson. At first, the difference was barely noticeable. One of us volunteers would raise our hand to answer Miss Foster's question, but we would not be called on. Or we would be called on, but our correct answer would be discounted--often only to be praised when the same answer was given by one of the kids who had stayed behind in the classroom, one of the kids without the eyeliner-pencil drawn "freckles."

But soon the difference was apparent. The non-freckled kids were given a special treat; we were given nothing. The non-freckled kids--many who were our friends--best friends, even--started to ignore us, refusing to play with us. Eventually, they began calling us the name: "freckled-faced freaks."

Outside on the playground at recess, none of us FFFs were invited to join in any reindeer games. I remember vividly: We freaks were huddled together off to the side. Some of us had, by this time, wiped off the apparently-offending freckles. But it didn't matter. We were treated the same: by our friends, by our beloved Miss Foster. I remember some of us making plans right then and there to just leave the school--take off and walk home, never come back.

...Well, eventually, all us kids were "debriefed." We were told we had just participated in yet another "game" and the rest of the school day was back to normal.

I still have in my possession a yellowed three-page document with a staple in the upper left hand corner. The print on these pages is faded purplelish typewriter font, familiar to folks of my age as copied from a "mimeograph" machine. (Ahhhh, remember that smell of freshly mimeo-ed sheets?....) On the first page are quotes from kids in the class, entitled "HOW I FELT AS A FRECKLED-FACED FREAK."

My quote is first. Uncharacteristically, I was brief: "I felt like kicking everyone. I felt left out. I felt like not coming to school anymore." Beth was a little more expansive: "I felt that it is not fun to be picked on and that I would not like to be a freckled-faced freak again. I felt like screaming at Miss Foster saying 'Miss Foster, you're the meanest teacher I ever had in my whole life.' I felt she was being unfair giving everybody a cookie except the freckled face freaks..."

Other (former) FFFs expressed similar feelings: feeling left out, "sad, mad, and lonely," embarrassed, "humiliated to bits," mixed-up.

More instructive, I think, are the comments on the next page from the non-FFFs entitled "HOW I FELT ABOUT THE FRECKLED-FACED FREAKS." Nancy "felt like a big shot...like a big, big star" and she "did not care about them being left out." Kathy said the freckled faced freaks "looked ugly." She continued "I did not like the looks of them. I thought it was fun to pick on them. I'm glad it was not me." Derrek, the only other Black kid in the class, said "I thought it was funny, but I hope they will not do it again!" A couple kids were more compassionate, saying they were sad, sorry for the FFFs, and were relieved that "it was a gag." Others felt guilty, like Crystal who said "I felt mad at myself. I felt sorry because I did something that I knew was wrong."

You may recognize this as a replication of the famous "Brown Eyes, Blue Eyes" exercise from the late 60's. A Frontline site explains:

On the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered in April 1968, Jane Elliott's third graders from the small, all-white town of Riceville, Iowa, came to class confused and upset. They recently had made King their "Hero of the Month," and they couldn't understand why someone would kill him. So Elliott decided to teach her class a daring lesson in the meaning of discrimination. She wanted to show her pupils what discrimination feels like, and what it can do to people.

Elliott divided her class by eye color -- those with blue eyes and those with brown. On the first day, the blue-eyed children were told they were smarter, nicer, neater, and better than those with brown eyes. Throughout the day, Elliott praised them and allowed them privileges such as a taking a longer recess and being first in the lunch line. In contrast, the brown-eyed children had to wear collars around their necks and their behavior and performance were criticized and ridiculed by Elliott. On the second day, the roles were reversed and the blue-eyed children were made to feel inferior while the brown eyes were designated the dominant group...

(Watch the entire program: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/divided/etc/view.html)

What to think of such simulations trying to get people to experience a walk in someone else's pair for a spell? What to say about efforts to get people to understand--on a gut level as well as a cognitive level--complex experiences like racism and racial discrimination? If you've explored this blog a little, you know that I, myself, attempted a similar exercise--What do you think of my effort?

This is something I think about a lot. As a former teacher of little kids, as a (hopefully) future teacher of college students, as a researcher. As an African American woman who frequently travels in circles lacking in African Americans. And, as someone who, over 32 years ago (!!!) in Miss Foster's 3rd grade classroom in room 202 of Morton Elementary, was a participant in such a simulation. Remember, my memory of this experience is as my first direct confrontation of discrimiation--not as an encounter with academic research. The experience and the feelings and the hurt were real, despite the FFF exercise being just "a gag."

Anyway. No answers today. Just reflections.

(I wonder what Derrek, Donna, Rini, Crystal, Miss Foster, and the rest are doing today...)

"When I think of home..."

As I hinted in a previous post, I will soon be moving with my family to Indiana. I should say "back" to Indiana. But that is kind of complicated.

Let me rewind.

For most of my life I have not known exactly how to answer the question, "Where are you from?" (Some people say "Where are you from originally?" and I really do not know how to answer that.)

A logical explanation for my uncertainty is that I have lived in many different places in my life, moving many times even within any given city. As a result I find that I resist claiming any place as some place where I "am from." A logical explanation for my frequent moves as a child--and one that I often give because it is simple and easy for people to grasp--is that my father was in the Army. "Ohhhh, you're an Army brat," folks will say, nodding, and sometimes telling of their own experiences as a military dependent. But even though I was born in an Army hospital (Ft. Bliss, El Paso, Texas in the house!) most of my childhood moves happened after my father got out of the military.

Other times I will talk about my father being in the military, and then being in graduate school (Purdue University, West Lafayette, IN in the house!) to which some folks will say "Ohhhh, you were a grad school brat," nodding, and sometimes telling of their own experiences as such an offspring or (more often) as the parent of such offspring. But that does not totally explain my reluctance to admit to a "from" some place either.

Sometimes in answer to the whereareyoufrom question I will simply say "I was born in Texas, but spent most of my formative years in Indiana." That is easier, and the "formative" part seems to satisfy most folks--I guess because by that question people are trying to get a handle on what geographical environment shaped someone in childhood. Of course, though, in my own biography that explanation leaves out Miami, FL and Boston, MA and the Washington, D.C. area and Richmond, VA and Bamberg, Germany. It doesn't account for the fact that I have lived in my present city (St. Paul, MN in the house!) for longer than any other city--even from my "formative years." It doesn't account for the fact that the one experience that was most (trans)formative for me--becoming and being a parent--happened solely in my most current geographical location.

So now, regarding my upcoming move, how do I explain it? If I say "I am moving to Indiana" then folks start telling me about the place as they have experienced it or have heard about it. In that case, I often explain further, "Well, actually I am from there."

Ah. And there I am again. Saying that I am "from" someplace (Indiana). Often the next thing folks say is, "Ohhh, then you're moving back home!"

Home...

In The Wiz, Diana Ross (and Stephanie Mills in the stage musical) sings:

When I think of home

I think of a place

Where there's

Love overflowing

I wish I was home

I wish I was back there with the

Things I´ve been knowing...

This makes me think that "home" is not really a "place" at all. Instead, it is more an emotional state (as opposed to a state on a map) characterized by feelings of warmth and love and familiarity and longing. If home is just a "state of mind," then I should get to choose where I am from. As such, I guess I could rightly claim to be a citizen of the universe in answering whereareyoufrom or describing my move. You know, "Oh, well, I am moving to Indiana, but I am originally from the outter reaches of the cosmos." Or, I guess I could just make up a homeplace, some place that represents who I am now or who I am striving to become--and this place need not even be a "real" place on a map. Alternately, I could use the question as a race relations teaching moment, saying something like "I am moving to Indianapolis, known as the 'Crossroads of America,' but of course I am originally from Africa--'the Birthplace of Humankind'--as we all are..."

I am not sure such fanciful explanations would serve my needs, though. Nor would they likely be helpful in my interactions with others. I think questions about home, the answers I might provide, and the cognitive somersaults I make when thinking about both are indicative of something much more basic and core. Now. That statement should lead me to close out this post with an appropriately scholarly rumination on the literary, psychological, sociological, spiritual and philosophical viewpoints on "home" and its significance.

Instead, it leads me to a joke:

A little boy comes home from kindergarten and, with a serious look on his face, asks his father, "Daddy, where did I come from?" The father takes a deep breath, as he had known this day would come when he would have to address this issue. But he recovers, and launches into a detailed explanation of men and women, sexual intercourse, conception, gestation, and child birth. He even gets down from the closet special books and other age-appropriate visual aids that he had saved for just this occassion. After his lengthy explanation he looks at his son and said, "So, son, do you understand?" His son looks back at him and after a moment says haltingly, "Well, yes, but...it's just that Colin from my class said he came from California."

"INbound" Preview: Going Back to Indiana

I'm going back to Indiana
Back to where I started from
Going back to Indiana
Indiana here I come

I spent my weeks with greener pastures
I still aint found what I was after
I got the blues
And that is why I sing
I just wanna do my thing

I'm going back to Indiana
Indiana here I come
I'm going back to Indiana
Cause that's where my baby's from...

~The Jackson 5

Stay tuned...

In the meantime: