Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

A Gift Bag Full of Feminism

Today is my daughters' eighth birthday. We have already had their party--a raucus affair at Pump It Up! They've taken treats to school today to share with their classmates. This evening my husband and I will take them out to dinner and give them their gifts from us (watches with clock faces/hands and books 5 and 6 of the Harry Potter series) and from their relatives out of town.

But still, I am thinking that I should give them a gift that is more personal...more lasting and important. After thinking about this a lot--especially in light of recent current events--I think I know the perfect gift:

Feminism.

But no, not the used, second-hand feminism that I was given/took/stole, and/or re-fashioned. A new feminism.

This new feminism will not trade paternalism for maternalism, nor tokenism for exoticism.

This new feminism will see that sometimes "assertiveness" and "fiestiness" is really just the same old arrogance and rudeness, just spun and branded better.

This new feminism will not be silent in the face of 24/7 media coverage of the death of one blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman while coverage of brown and black young women who also are found dead is absent.

This new feminism will acknowledge that some fish might like bicycles.

This new feminism will involve neither "choice" nor competition among gender and race and income level and sexual orientation and age or any other aspect of personal and group identity.

This new feminism will not define different opinions as self-delusion.

This new feminism will be as concerned with rights to be mothers as with rights not to be.

This new feminism will embrace the struggles and triumphs of my brothers, fathers, grandfathers and uncles as part of its own.

This new feminism will be as concerned with the women changing some other women's children's dirty diapers, cleaning some other women's dirty toilets as it is with these other women's struggles bumping up against the glass ceiling.

This new feminism will continue to observe how the "personal is political," but will also acknowledge that sometimes your personal "ain't like mine."

This gift of new feminism definitely will not be one size fits all, and there will be no restrictions on exchanges or refunds. I give this gift openly and freely, and without expectations of a thank you card or some other repayment at some future time.

Happy birthday, girls. Hope you enjoy your day and all of your gifts.

A Four Tops Kinda Day

Another early morning here on the East Bank of campus. No matter how long I I have done this arriving-early-to-work-to-get- in-some-quality-time thing, I still can't manage to walk the quiet and empty halls to open my office in the dark of 6 o'clock winter morn without feeling a bit resentful, tired and ticked off. In an attempt to mellow myself out, I decided to go old school this A.M. and listen to some Four Tops. It did the trick, happily. Who can stay in a salty mood for long listening to this? So now I am sharing with you the Four Tops--along with some Al Green, Jackie Wilson, Supremes, Shirelles, Otis Redding, and Aretha Franklin thrown in for good measure.

Now if you feel that you can't go on
Because all your hope is gone
And your life is filled with confusion
And happiness is just an illusion
And your world around is tumblin' down
Darling, reach out
Reach out for me...

SITBB Vault: Thanks. Full.

This holiday weekend in 1999: What was I thankful for then? Perhaps I was relieved to have gone a few hours without the terrible morning (actually, "all day") sickness that had plagued me throughout the first half of my pregnancy. Or maybe I had been thankful for an "everything looks normal" verdict following the most recent ultrasound scan of my crowded and expanding uterus. I may have also been thankful for successfully navigating the first couple months of my PhD program.

But there is no doubt about what I was thankful for a few months after that Thanksgiving: These two little munchkins:

I remember walking through our front door for the first time with our daughters swinging from our arms in their car seat/carriers. It seemed strange to suddenly be back in my own home after an extended stay in a hospital room. It seemed familiar, yet somehow completely not. These two little infants all bundled up in their too-big newborn clothes (they were about a month early) seemed to actually warp the space around us as we toured the house with them. As we whispered to them, "here's your new house," "here's the crib where you'll sleep," "here's the kitchen," I sensed that this could not be quite right.

Was everything that these babies needed really here in this little two-bedroom townhouse? Yes, all the outlets were stoppered with clear plastic plug covers. Yes, their cream colored bedding was all tucked in place in their brand new matching cribs. Yes, the electric double breast pump had been delivered and was out of the box. But this place was no hospital.

And who the heck was I?

I recall feeling in those first couple of days that at any moment we would receive a call from the hospital: "We have made a terrible mistake. We are sorry for any inconvenience. But you must bring the children back here. Immediately."

Of course that call never came. Nope. These babies were ours, free and clear. And very soon any such insecurities about my new role as "parent"' evaporated in a hazy cycle of cleaning and nursing, bathing and napping, cuddling and soothing.

Yes. I know I must have been heart-overflowing with thanks for our daughters during those first few weeks--just as I have been ever since. But in a sense these babies were not just a gift to me, my husband, and our family. They were also a gift to the world from us. And so, as the world embraces these now five year old girls and whispers to us this weekend "Thank you" I whisper back, "You are welcome."

SITBB Vault: An African Princess and a Magic Turtle...

That's what my daughters were this Halloween.

You may recall my angst from last year around such Halloween issues as (the outward appearance of) maternal devotion, craftiness and cleverness, and authenticity and racial pride.

Nothing quite so heavy this year. Regarding the devotion part, I have accepted that I, as a parent (especially, specifically, as a mother) will always be judged by others--including by other parents. There is currently no social role that is more judged than parenthood, in my opinion. I have decided that I can either run the gauntlet of parental fitness, or just decide to guage my success or failure by my own internal meters. And even then, to re-set the measurement every evening at about 8 p.m. Every day, thus, becomes another opportunity to excel in parenting, or at least to make the most of parenting given the day's other demands.

As for the craftiness and cleverness, this year my husband and I split the costume-making duties. He was in charge of the magic turtle and I was in charge of the African princess. And then we still helped each other out with our self-assigned tasks. And the girls are at an age this year where they could help, too. It was truly a group effort, making the final products that much more special. No matter their outward appearance. (Which I think was still mah-valous!)

Finally, the "authenticity" and racial pride aspects. Well, I still had some personal issues and sadness around my daughters not being able to have the neighborhood trick-or-treating experiences I had as a child. But maybe we can find such a neighborhood for them when we move next (whenever and wherever that may be). My being finished with my PhD program makes such an eventual move more realistic and concrete than in years past.

And we almost hit a snag in the positive racial socialization arena. This year saw a return in interest in the whole Disney princess terrorism, er, I mean franchise. Here I think I was very clever: When they said they wanted to be princesses, I nodded but then exclaimed, "I know! What about African princesses?!" Well, despite my cleverness, neither girl was too interested in that moment. In fact, one abandoned the princess theme altogether (hence the magic turtle). But then once the costume was done, my daughter who had gone along with it was thrilled. She was also thrilled at the reactions of her peers and teachers at school.

So, all in all, good outcomes all around.

We Do Need Another Hero

I've mentioned before how I am not one of those academics who does not (or claims to not) watch television. I only watch a handful of shows regularly, but definitely one of my favorites is Heroes.

The new season started a couple of weeks ago and I am finally caught up on the episodes. I must say--Even though the series has one of the most diverse casts in current TV-land, I started to fear last season as many of the folks of color seemed to be dropping faster than Black men in horror films. I should not have feared, though, as this season there are new heroes to get to know--including heroes of color. I share the opinion of Racialicious guest blogger, Elton, who writes:

The character I’m most excited about this season is Monica Dawson, the black New Orleanian girl. She’s a cousin of Micah, the boy genius and technopath, who is starting to discover a talent of her own. Being a native Southerner myself, I appreciate seeing the South on Heroes, even if it’s not completely accurate (especially the horrible, atrocious accents). The South has a long and racially charged history of poverty, hardship, and tragedy, from slavery to the Trail of Tears to the Civil War to the Civil Rights Movement. These issues are part of every American’s history, but Southerners have to live most directly with the consequences.

Monica is being played by Dana Davis. Her Heroes bio describes her as a classically trained musician (viola) who has also sung with Peabo Bryson, Roberta Flack, and Barbra Streisand. Bravo, Monica/Dana! Let's see what you've got!

Meanwhile, casting from the Star Trek well continues. In a postscript to the Racialicious blog post, Elton mentions anticipating whether or not "Nana Dawson"--played by Nichelle "Uhuru" Nichols--has powers and what they may be. I also assume she will be revealed to have powers of some sort, as these abilities appear to have a genetic component. (Oh, how I pray that she does not turn out to be a stereotypical voodoo lady...) My hope is that George "Sulu" Takei will return despite being killed off--perhaps in flashbacks or prior time sequences. The show also features another ST alum in a minor role: Dominic Keating, who played Lieutenant Malcolm Reed on ST: Enterprise.

At any rate, hopefully we'll see more of Monica, Nana, and some of the other new Heroes this season. Happy viewing!

"Baby, what's your phone number?"

This weekend while doing hair I was treated to the phenomenon of Disney's High School Musical on DVD. This blog post is not a review or anything. Instead, I just want to talk about a few random thoughts this movie inspired. Via this movie I was able to witness a mating ritual that, because of my age and present circumstances (i.e., married), has passed me over. See, at one point in the movie boy meets girl and before they part they agree to exchange telephone numbers. What they did next was something I had only heard of: they gave each other their cell phones, snapped their own photo, and texted-in their cell phone numbers before giving the cell phones back.

What a far cry from my days at a teen at parties and under-21 dance clubs and whatnot. I flashbacked to that final announcement by the DJ (e.g., "You don't hafta go home, butcha gotta get the hell outta here...") The young man I've been dancing with has worked up the nerve to ask me for my telephone number. Assuming I agree, his next move is crucial. He can then search and ask around for a writing implement and scrap paper. Or, he can pull a nice pen and little note book of some sort from his pocket, ready to receive dictation.

Actually, from what I can remember, a young man could be doomed either way. The former move could get awkward and annoying. Plus it often made a big show out of the whole transaction--not good, assuming one didn't want to appear the type of young lady who gave up her number easily. The latter move, though smoother and perhaps indicating superior organizational skills, could mark a young man as a "player." Who wanted to be yet another entry in some boy's little black book?

Somehow, though, we all managed. Well. Except for those few months in high school when my father discontinued our telephone service because he was so frustrated at never being able to use it, a la one of my favorite Brady Bunch episodes (except without the installation of a pay phone--we simply had no phone period). But that is a trauma I do not care to re-live.

I can still sometimes remember one of my old telephone numbers from years ago. It comes to me at odd moments, likely a sure sign of some organic brain disturbance. Paradoxically, however, of the people I call on a regular basis currently, I barely know anyone's telephone number at all. Not "don't remember." Don't know. Of course that is because these numbers are programmed into my land line and cell phone memories--I have never had to memorize them. If I were ever stranded somewhere without my cell phone and needed to call someone to come get me...well, I'd likely just remain stranded.

Which made me think of this test of what I will call your musical genre cultural identification. Which of these telephone numbers from songs could you complete if I began singing them: (a) 867-____, (b) 777-____, (c) both, (d) neither?

If you could finish the first one (...fivethree-oh-niiiine) you are rock-identified. If you could complete the second telephone number (...ninetythree-eeeeleven) you identify firmly with the funk. Both? Congratulations, you are musically bi-cultural. Neither? Possibly you are much younger or much older than me, or you do not listen to nearly enough American popular music.

Which makes me wonder: Do folks still record phone number songs? The only one I can think of recently was something about "having ho's in every area code."

Hmmm. And to think I used to find it rude when a young man would demand, "Yo, baby, you gonna give me those digits or what?"

Four and a Half Days

...That is how long I could listen to all the music loaded on my iPod if I played it continuously. (Add another five days if I listened to all of my audiobooks back to back.) I was trying to calculate the other day if this amount of music was more or less than my music collections in previous formats. Certainly I had more hours of music in my previous album and 45 collection. Maybe not my cassette tape collection. But again, definitely my CD collection--particularly after I wed and my collection doubled.

My conclusion from all this? I need to beef up my iTunes library! But surely, you may think, 4.5 days of music and 5 days of books is enough for one person! Surely!

But actually: No. No, not hardly. I know of folks with twice this amount--three times as much. And there is still music I want. For example, a few weeks back after reading several stories about the "Summer of Soul" 40 years ago, I had a hankering to listen to Aretha Franklin's album "Young, Gifted and Black" (which I have previously owned in album form). Unfortunately, the iTunes store only has a partial album of this great work. (Probably due to rights clearance stuff--though I see that Rhapsody does have the complete album available.) I did not buy this...this travesty, this mutant album. My digital music collection suffers for the absence of the full masterpiece.

Then one day I was listening to John Coltrane play "'Round Midnight" on the local jazz station and remembered a cassette I created as a teenager of all the versions of this song I could find. I titled the resulting creation "12:01 am" and wrote stunning "liner notes" that likely were only read by me and maybe my parents. A quick search of iTunes revealed over 100 different versions! I immediately began doing calculations in my head:...assuming the number of versions I could humanly stand is around 12...at 99 cents a pop...but the Wes Montgomery and Chick Corea versions only available by purchasing the whole album at $9.99 each...carry the 2...

Yes, my digital music collection is lacking.

Even if I bought only the old stuff I used to have, my collection would likely swell to a full two weeks worth of music. And that still wouldn't be "enough." Someday I may be stranded on an island for weeks or months. One day I may lose my sight and find solace in a lifetime of listening to music. Besides the listening, there is joy in just the having.

Yup. Time to beef up my collection.

The Sun Also Rouses

Sometimes, during our long and cold Minnesota winters, I play a trick on myself. I go out to my sunporch--a small, enclosed, window-filled space that heats quickly if the sun is shining, no matter how low the outside temperature. There I sit on my porch swing, close my eyes, and pretend that the warmth I feel is the warmth from a distant island. I am far, far away from here (I tell myself)...The waves are mere steps from me, and palm trees are swaying languidly overhead, cool breezes carress my skin (I continue in reverie). After some moments of this, I open my eyes. Only then am I fully aware that I am not on some palm-dotted, sun drenched isle, but in the frozen tundra of the northern USA.

This moment of realization always fills me with an oppressive sense of sadness and regret. I tamp down this sense only because I have so much to do--bills to pay, journal articles to draft, children to drop off or pick up. And I figure that at least for the few moments that I was self-fooled, I may have soaked up enough vitamin D to ward off any unpleasant ailments for another few weeks.

A couple weeks ago I was actually sitting on an island in the middle of the sea with the waves and palms and all that. I was vacationing with my family in Hawaii, on the island of Ohau. At one point on the beach, I closed my eyes and pretended I was back home in my sunporch instead, only pretending to sit on a beach. I needed to ensure that I captured any additional sense-details that I could carry with me to use this coming winter.

The first sense I attempt to nail down is the breeze. I conclude that "cool breeze" is different qualitatively and not just quantitatively from either a "hot wind" or "cold gale." In other words, it is not just a wind midway between these two. For example, a cold wind is so unique that I often refer to it with its own folk name, one that--if you do not already use it--is difficult to explain without you just experiencing it first hand: "the hawk." There are also phrases, metaphors and such for the cold. "Cold as a witch's left...um...breast." (Insert other folk name--slur?--for breast.) I am not sure of the origin of this comparison. But somehow it fits, no matter how nonsensical or misogynistic such a statement may be.

There are similar comparison's for heat: "Hot as hell," for example, simply and concisely sums things up. I can think of no such sayings, however, for the cool breezes I experienced sitting on the beach in the city of Ko Olina. But together with the warm sun, such breezes constituted an almost living system-- the sun-breeze continuum, call it--interacting to both calm and excite, keeping me in a perpetual state of intentional, but moderate motion.

Then there were smells...

Over the summer I have gotten in the habit of buying fresh flowers for our home every 2 weeks or so. I was surprised to find how happy seeing these splashes of beauty made me, and I have vowed to continue this habit. But I have also been surprised at how smell-less most of these flowers have been. Perhaps they put something on the flowers to make them last longer (they do stay beautiful a surprisingly long time) that interferes with their scent? Perhaps I am just too spoiled by super strong fake scents that squirt out of a can or waft from a wall plug that I can no longer appreciate the subtlety of "real" flower scents? I do not know. But many times I have been taken by the beauty in my vase, then walk over to bask my face in their scent only to smell only the slightest hint of aroma--or nothing at all.

This lack of smell, however, is not an issue on the island. There the scents are confident...arrogant, even. They will not be ignored. Together with the equally bold colors--and combined with the sun and the breeze--these smells create another active entity enlivening the atmosphere and influencing my actions within it. (The sun-scent-color-breeze continuum...)

And what about those waves? I have read of waves being "gentle" or "carressing," of waves "lapping" at folks' feet, even of ocean water feeling as if it is "baptizing" someone. Well, I think any one of these characterizations alone is not quite correct. The water and waves have a much more complex personality than this. At the point where the waves wash up against the sand they are, indeed, fairly gentle--playful, even. Waves taunt my daughters by--yes--lapping and licking at their toes. Their trickster nature makes them flow over the girls' sand castles, removing from them their form and detail. Yet the waves' builder character enables them to create their own art using sand as medium: cooling hot sand, compacting and smoothing loose sand, even inserting small shell fragments as if adding objects to a sculpture.

A little farther out the water is warm, the waves still gentle--carressing feet, ankles, lower shin. But move still farther out. Now the water is deep and cool--suddenly, as if an absolute dividing line has been passed. The waves are stronger here. They are more insistent, effortlessly moving my whole body with their strength. Schools of thin little fish call this depth their home. They will swim past me, brushing against my thighs with no fear of capture. Farther out still and the waves, cooler still, are king. I do not go out this far, as my swimming skills are not that great. Here, I know, an unexpected tide can carry a person far out to sea. Here is where people who like to court and tame wild waves paddle out on big boards in an attempt to walk on water.

The multifaceted waves add yet another package of senses--combining temperature, personality, tactility and adding them to my complex continuum of sun, scent, color, and breeze. The continuum is almost complete.

The final sense is one that I think will be the most difficult to capture while sitting on my sunporch. Standing at the edge of land and ocean, feeling the sun and breeze and smelling the smells and looking over the water and all of that, makes me feel very small in a very big universe.

Here, the world goes on forever without end, farther than my eyes can see. Water meets sky at the horizon. I see few people, but have the abstract knowledge that at that moment billions are born and living and dying. I see no stars (except our sun) in the daylight, but have the abstract knowledge that they, too, are coming into being, sending their light across space and time, and snuffing out. My concerns--of bills to pay, jobs to progress in, children to care for, tourist attractions to visit, and all manner of other thoughts--seem very small. There seems to be ample time to breathe deeply, to just sit in the warm sun and feel the cool wind tickle the small hairs on my face. There seems to be ample motivation to then stand and move on to the next thing, neither dimimished nor depressed by the transition from my prior state of calm, but instead roused and energized by it.

I can't wait for my sunporch in December.

Ode to Summers Lost

I was walking around one of our many lakes the other evening. The approaching night had cooled our 90 degree day to a more bearable 85, and the sun was turning the lower sky and upper water a mix of orange, purple and gold. On my walk I passed other walkers, babes in strollers, runners, bikers, rollerbladers, kids running ahead of their caretakers. And people walking their dogs.

All dogs were leashed. All owners were carrying bags of...poop. The Twin Cities' "pooper scooper" laws must be very strict. At any case, people walking their dogs around the lakes are religious about picking up their pets' droppings from sidewalk and lawn. Of this, I am grateful. I do not have to worry, when passing an adoprable elderly couple strolling arm in arm by cutting across the grass, that I will squish into a steaming pile of poo. Yet at the same time I think this is--in some strange, ambiguous way--a loss for me. It has been ages since I have stepped in dog dung. At least as long as I have lived in the Twin Cities. Do I...miss this?

Joys and Perils of Bare Feet

When I was a child summers were for walking around outside without shoes on my feet. In fact, the first day of the season that it was warm enough to do this comfortably pretty much defined the start of summer. There was nothing like the feel of different surfaces on the soles of my feet: soft grass, hot bumpy pavement, smooth metal playground equipment, rough sifting sand.

The pleasures of this diverse tactility was balanced with the dangers of unshod feet. Chief among those dangers: dog doo-doo. There was no moment so regretful, so disheatening than when a step forward brought a squish of wetness spreading underneath my foot and blooming up through the spaces in my toes. O! The smell! O! The embarrassment! O! The impossibility of completely removing the stain by shuffling feet through grass! On any given play area, the discovery of a mound of foul matter was marked and announced to every kid on the grounds much like, I imagine, soldiers on the battlefield communicating the discovery of an active landmine.

My children, however, have not had to worry about stepping in dog droppings. I reflected on this yesterday as I watched them frollick, barefoot, in the grass behind our home. They are, instead, wary of the underground spigots for the sprinkler system. These things can cause a mean stubbed toe, according to my daughters.

Hmph. They do not know the half.

Another barefoot danger when I was a child were the discarded pop tops from canned beverages. The old kind. That came completely off of the can. These things were able to hide in tall grass or playground sand until they were ready to strike. Their business end was sharp, curved--like some exotic ninja weapon. When your bare foot trod upon one, you hoped that your relatively thick heel would take the blunt of the damage. Pity you if, instead, the instrument attacked the arch of your foot. Or worse: the delicate space between two of your toes.

I recall with much clarity one such injury I endured one summer. The pop-top made a nice neat slice into my foot at the base of my big toe. I hadn't even realized I had cut myself until I noticed I was leaving bloody footprints all over the sidewalk. The wound healed in a bizarre fashion, leaving a large flap of independent skin that never reincorporated into the rest of my foot. Finally one day I think I just pulled the embryonic sixth toe off.

(Sprinkler spouts and stubbed toes? Sissies.)

The experience did not put me off of going out in bare feet. The blood prints on the sidewalk were my proud grafitti markings lasting until the next rains. They were proof of the price--well worth it--I had to pay for summer.

Getting What You Pay For

What is the "price" of summer for my kids today? Most of my daughters' summer has been spent in formal, organized day camps. As such, the price tag has not been inconsequential--at least from a purely financial standpoint. I have been very satisfied with their camp experiences--especially a week-long science camp for girls we tried for the first time this year. And I know my kids have enjoyed themselves and learned a lot. In that sense, then, the price of their summer has been worth it.

But I wonder: what are they not getting that I did get during my youthful summers? For example, they likely have never known the freedom that I knew hanging out with my savvy independent inner city cousins all day without adult supervision. True, I never built working weather vanes and dulcimers during my summer vacations. But I did build with my sister and cousins "clubhouses" in the garbage dump out of discarded appliance boxes and sheet metal, furnishing the resulting strucures with old sofas and lawn chairs and packing crates. I never took a field trip to the state house to see Our Government in Action. But I did roam with my cousins to the corner store, pooling our money for some Pixy Stix and Now and Laters and ginormous pickles in glass jars by the cash register. One might say, Collective Economics in Action.

Now actually, my summers were not all freedom and lack of structure. For example, I vaguely recall something called "vacation bible school." However, I seem to remember that this was less an organized camp experience than a bunch of kids of all ages thrown together on church grounds. I think self-organized kick and dodgeball games might have been involved outdoors; indoors, board games in tattered boxes and improvised rules to accomodate missing game pieces.

In general, what I "paid for" in summer was the opportunity to figure things out for myself. As well as the chance to just be. These things were not without cost--even as they may have been "free" to my parents. (In fact, I recall another foot injury--this time at the dump, involving a large nail and subsequent painful shots.) But, oh, the worth of it all!

One day this summer my kids' camp had what they called "water day." In the scorching heat, the adults had set aside structured learning in favor of hoses and sprinklers and wading pools. When I picked up the girls at the end of the day their clothes were covered in mud left over from the pies they had baked. Their faces were also painted with mud, along with highlights of popsicle juice in neon purple. There were twigs and mulch chips littering their hair. And they hadn't looked so satisfied and happy all summer long.

Summers Lost--and Found

Actually, I think my daughters' summers are fairly downsized compared to some of their peers. We have managed to find some balance between structure and non-structure. Of course, though, this is constrained by both my husband's and my need to work and our lack of family living in the area. On non-camp days where we haven't been able to cobble together other care options, my daughters go to work with me. On those days prior to leaving the house I give only one explicit piece of instruction: PACK YOUR BACKPACKS WITH ENOUGH STUFF TO KEEP YOURSELVES OCCUPIED FOR x HOURS.

They are generally successful at this, managing to stay out of my hair for hours at a time. Out of the corner of my eye I have witnessed quite elaborate playscapes populated by miscellaneous Happy Meal toys, paper clips and other office supplies, stuffed animals, and empty Juicy Juice cartons and bendy straws. I reward their independence by taking them to extended lunches on campus--maybe visiting one of the campus libraries or hanging out at the student union. We also take breaks to walk the halls, together reading the research conference posters hanging on the walls or the cartoons posted outside of profs' office doors. I let them walk by themselves to the restroom down the hall. This in particular is a great if somewhat odd source of pleasure to them. They make several trips per office visit.

When we get home from "Mommy's work," I allow them to frollick to their hearts' content outdoors. Barefoot. Yes, they are always within my sight. But I am careful to censor my opinions, observations, warnings, and admonishments and as much as possible just let them be. I even work up the expected concerned expression when they point out to me a particularly treacherous sprinkler spigot hidden in a patch of moss near our rock bed.

They have, however, yet to step in waste left by one of our neighborhood dogs. But hey--summer's not quite over yet. There is still hope.

SITBB Vault: The Magic of Hair Day

Something magical happens to me on Hair Day. I am a person who lives in the mind quite a bit, so maybe it is the tactile, manual nature of doing hair--but it usually results in me being so...present. Oddly, at the same time I feel an almost otherworldly connection to all the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and Miss Johnsons before me when I do my daughters' hair.

Hair Day?

Previously, I talked about what happens in our house on Hair Day:

The hours-long ritual that is washing and braiding my daughters' hair is more than just a task that needs to be done. It is also an exercise in ethnic identity and pride building. First, the three of us decide on a style by looking through one of our hair books...It's not that I am good enough to pull off many of these styles given my current level of very low skills. (Growing up, while my sister and girl cousins were doing each other's hair, my nose was usually in a book.) But I can at least usually approximate the styles. And looking at the books gives us a chance to speak about the wide range and beauty of Bllack hair. These children are beuatiful, I tell my daughters. Their hair is joy to behold....

(It's been a while since I wrote that. I am getting more skilled at doing my daughters' hair. But I am by no means yet an expert.)

Encounters

Last week was my kids' spring break and one day we spent all afternoon at one of our area public libraries. Both my daughters were in the children's section, seated at a table with their books. Soon another child joined them. From my chair a few feet away I noticed this little girl noticing my daughters' hair. Her own hair was blond, straight, in a small pony tail at the nape of her neck. My daughters' hair was in a style we have come to call "freedom hair" after a character in one of their books: large, picked-out, perfectly symetrical afros.

The little girl reached over and patted one daughter's hair. I held my breath. And sat erect in my seat.

"Look at your hair" she exclaimed. "Did your mommy do that?" My daughter lightly caressed her freedom locks. "Yes, she did," she said, turning in my direction and beaming.

I exhaled. And relaxed my spine back into the curved wood of the chair.

Right, Under, Left, Cross, Pick Up...

My husband does not understand it, but when I first begin braiding I actually have to concentrate. I cannot discuss what I want to have for dinner that evening, or laugh at a witty commercial on TV, or opine about the merits of one summer camp over another. The simple rote act of correctly crossing three strands of hair to make neat rows of crop-like patterns requires all of my PhD-bound brain power.

Often I must comb out unsuccessful rows and begin anew. Almost always, my first attempts at sectioning hair into parts with the tip of my pink rat-tailed comb are ragged and rough. Sometimes early on I try to rush the process, combing through a section of hair before all the tangles are out--resulting in predictable pain and cries.

I have been known to poke a patient little girl in the ear lobe or eye with a comb, brush, or thumb.

But I do not give up. Mainly because I know that--if I just stick with it a little--this initial period of bumbling and fumbling will give way to something truly special.

Enter the Matrix

My mother is a pianist. She believes solo pianists should be old-school and memorize even the most complicated classical pieces (instead of appearing on stage with sheet music and a page-turner). When she would rehearse, she would say she had to practice until she was able to "get the music in her hands." If she was able to sit down and play a piece that she hadn't played in years, she would say that it was "still in her hands."

That the closest analogy I can think of to what happens to me at some point during braiding. It is as if my hands take over some memory, some proficiency, some something that cannot be explained by my multi-year self-taught course in Black natural hair care. I do not always know exactly when I have reached this point. I usually only realize after: after I find that I have been looking up at the TV (instead of down, at my braiding) for one full minute at the SpongeBob episode where Sandy enters SpongeBob in a weight-lifting contest. Or maybe after I have near-simultaneously told one daughter where to find a missing puzzle piece, shouted to my husband what I want on my pizza, and completed another row of braids.

I am in the hair zone. I have entered the hair matrix. I am making hair magic.

My fingers are moving in effortless choreography to carve razor straight parts, create three perfectly even strands, and knit them together in strong, tight braids. My eyes have developed a sort of x-ray vision, discerning even microscopic masses of tangles which my suddenly gentle hands are then able to coax apart with not a single whimper. Whole sections of freedom hair are transformed into twists, braids, plaits, cornrows--of any thickness I please.

Some of the sections even look like the pictures in the hair books.

Crowns

Within the last year or so my daughters and I have added a new ritual to our hair styling--every time we do hair, but especially on Hair Days. After I finish, I fuss a little over the result, deem the style complete, then "crown" my daughter. This, apparently, is a step that I cannot skip or else my daughters will let me know about it. I must say, "I crown you ______, Princess of ______land" or "...Dutchess of ________ville" or "...Queen of __________." As I bellow this phrase in my most solemn-sounding voice (no matter how silly I make the title or land) I must make a crowning motion with my hands, then turn my daughter around to inspect herself in the mirror.

Sometimes I wonder if I am going overboard with all this hub-bub about my daughters' hair. But I usually conclude that positive hub-bub is just fine. Especially if it gives my daughters a confidence I never had to answer questions of curious children. Especially if they come to associate their hair with their regality.

And I have to admit that I love the special feeling in my hands that lasts for a few moments after I crown them. It lasts while my hands wash and put away the brush and rat-tailed comb...while my hands cap the spray bottles of special oils and empty the spray bottle of warm water. It starts to fade as my hands wash each other and dry themselves on the Hello Kitty towel hanging on the rod.

With that my hands are back to being the blunt clumsy instruments that merely poke at computer keyboards or wrestle a steering wheel. But I know that the memory and the magic are still there, somewhere inside them, waiting to take over from my mind on the next Hair Day.

Listing Agent

Because of this blog's title, I frequently get visitors here as a result of searches for lists of things: "six nutritious things to eat for breakfast," "should I exercise before breakfast," "things that are impossible for humans to do," etc. I always wonder if these folks arriving at SITBB are disappointed upon landing here and finding no answers to their request for such lists. But then it occurred to me--I could write a post where I provide my opinions on two of the most popular of these search phrases. So here they are. Please feel free to offer your own suggestions as well!

"Six Things to Do Before College Graduation"

1) PAY ALL YOUR LIBRARY FINES
2) Buy a nice suit or other outfit that is appropriate for job interviews
3) Get rid of your college textbooks (You likely will never use them again and they are too cumbersome to pack and move)
4) Drop a prof a line who has made a difference in your college career and thank her or him
5) Destroy any incriminating information/materials you may have about any ex-es, and get back any incriminating information/materials any ex-es may have on you
6) Sign up with your alumni office

"Six Things To Do Before Turning 30"

1) Fall in love
2) Purchase at least one piece of furniture that does not involve self-assembly
3) Open up a savings account and actually keep a balance in it
4) Travel to at least one place where every body else does not look and sound like you
5) Forgive someone you have been blaming for something
6) Ask someone who you have wronged to forgive you

A Very Merry Unbirthday to You!

From my birthday to you on your unbirthday, a very merry unbirthday to youuuuuuuuu!

Now statistics prove
Prove that you've one birthday
Imagine--just one birthday every year

Ah, but there are 364 unbirthdays
Precisely why we're gathered here to cheer

...Now blow the candle out, my dear
And make your wish come true

A very merry unbirthday to you

SITBB Vault: Birthday (Faux) Guest Blogging

This week it's all about The Girls! Who knew last year when I posted this that a year later I would be finished with my dissertation (well, I had hoped this but did not "know" it for sure) and working as a postdoc with data from the Minnesota Center for Twin and Family Research (though actually I am working with adoptive family and not twin data). Twins, twins, twins: Move to the Twin Cities, give birth to twins, work with MC-Twin-FR data! I guess you never really know where life will lead you, or what strands will emerge as consistent themes. Maybe that is one of the reasons why we hold onto remnants of the past (like the photos below): to help us keep hold of the unfurling thread in some attempt at control. Speaking of which, we recently cleaned out our garage, and the stairway gate in the background of the last pic below was still in there. Why? I do not know, besides concluding it is an example of what I just talked about. Anyway, happy birthday, ladies!

Hi! Thanks for stopping by our Mommy's blog today--on our birthday! We are her daughters. Actually "we" are our Mommy, speaking in our voices (or, what she imagines might be our voices). She calls this type of thing adults' (mis)appropriating the voices of children to say things they (the adults) would really like to say themselves but feel, somehow, that it is better/easier/more clever to say through their children.

We have no idea what any of this means.

Our Mommy is in Graduate School and she lotsa times says stuff like this that doesn't make any sense.

Anyway. This is one of our first pictures:

Actually that is only one of us. (We were just "Twin A" and "Twin B" at this point.) It is a picture of one of us in you terro. That's Latin. That means we were in our Mommy's you-terrus. We were not in our Mommy's belly. Mommy hates when grown-ups tell children stuff like that instead of giving them the Proper Terms for things. Saying that babies that aren't born yet are "in their mommies' bellies" makes it sound like their mommies ate them. Which is not true.

(And, actually, is a little bit scary.)

We do not have many of these pictures from before we were born. Mommy says these types of things are part of the medical-lie-zation of pregnancy and childbirth. That's another one of those Things that Mommy says when she's been reading too many of her school books.

Here's an early picture of us. Lots of people ask us "What's the best part about having a twin sister?" The best part about having a twin sister is that you always have someone to talk to and play with.

Now, here's a picture of one of us with our first baby doll. Most of our baby dolls (like this one) are brown. That means that they are African American. (That's the Proper Term for some brown people who were born in the United States.) Mommy has been meaning to write something for this blog about Images and Children and Diversity. Before she wrote about this kind of thing and TV. (You can read it here.)

Here we are again:

This picture shows something we do a lot: Hug each other!

We are all grown up now (six years old). But it is really fun to look at pictures of ourselves from a long, long time ago. Thank you for spending part of our birthday with us!

Just Saying "NO" to Party Madness

One of my grad school profs, Bill Doherty, is featured on today's U of M Moment talking about the phenomenon of child birthday party one-upsparentship:

Children’s birthday parties are careening out of control in America, leading to higher costs, pressured parents and overindulged kids. William Doherty, a U of M professor of family and social science, says many parents are raising children who feel entitled to bigger and better parties each year, with more stuff to fill their lives.

I've written about this before, and it is ever so relevant as my children's birthday is a few short weeks away. We've been on the "less is more" birthday party bandwagon for a couple of years now. However, things are a little complicated this year because (a) my children are now in their third school/child care environment, and (b) they are, for the first time, in separate classrooms. Both situations have greatly expanded their potential guest list to an unmanageable size. I have staunchly avoided "girl-only" parties in the past, as both daughters have always gotten along and are very popular with boys as well as girls. But that is certainly one place where a cut could be made. Well, we'll see.

Beyond guest list issues, we are determined to keep to our tradition of low-key (and low stress) celebration. What about you: If you are parenting or have parented, how do/did you handle your children's birthday parties?

*Another story here; Also see this website.

The Plural is All

Daughter: Mommy, this James Bond is called "Octopussy." I think that's when, like, there are many, many octopusses.

Me: No, I think you're thinking of octopi.

Daughter: Then what's "octopussy" mean?

Me: Oh look--Spongebob is on!

The Idiom is All

Daughter: Mommy, Mommy, guess what? My Tamagotchi passed out.

Father: No: It passed away.

Daughter: Mommy, my Tamagotchi passed away...

Monday Morning Poll

Happy Monday! I wonder if you can help me out with a little exercise. Imagine the following scenario:

You, an African American man, take your two young daughters out to dinner at a neighborhood Casual Dining Establishment. (You have so gracially arranged to do so on a weekly basis so that your wife can have several hours to work at the office, for which she is eternally grateful. But I digress.)

The three of you settle into a booth. As you are attempting to equitably divide crayons and kids' menus/activity books, a fifty-ish White man and White woman are shown to the booth behind yours. As they pass your table, they smile at you and your daughters, and you smile in return before returning to the important task at hand. A few moments later the gentleman leans over his booth to peer into yours and says,

"May I feel your daughter's hair?"

If you were the African American man, which of the following would be your response:

(a) "Of course! Honey, stand up on the seat so this nice man can reach your hair."

(b) "Of course... May I feel your wife's breasts?"

(c) "No. And I just want to let you know that I find your request highly inappropriate, offensive and rude. My children do not exist to be the means of your desire fulfillment, curiosity seeking, or cultural education. If you are curious about African Americans' hair and hair styles, I suggest you conduct some research on the Internet, or arrange to sit in for a few hours at a Black hair salon, or talk to any of the close personal Black friends you may have. If you are asking because you like my daughter's hair, then a simple, 'Your daughter's hair is so beautiful' is both appropriate and welcome."

(d) "No, you may not."

(e) [No direct verbal response. Any number of other responses including but not limited to (i) evil looks, (ii) breaking out into a loud, dramatic rendition of "We Shall Overcome," (iii) bodily assault or homicide.]

(f) Other __________________ (Please provide answer via email or comments)

Thank you!

Headline News

And my LAST WORD is...

LISTEN.

A while back Blogos had a wonderful post about the last word of your dissertation. Before I even had a single chapter written I projected here that my last word would be "transformation." Not bad, but I like my actual (for now) last word even better. I do not know if it will hold: The diss is now in the hands of my four committee members, and I have not even defended it yet before a jury of my peers, so that may change on the final copy I submit to the Graduate School.

At any rate, I'm just happy to have a last word. THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who has congratulated me here, via email, in the halls, etc. It is a huge boost to get these pats on the back. I will have a lot more to say about the closing weeks of this whole process soon. But for now, let me just say that it can be done. If you are just starting this process, or are stuck somewhere in the middle, or trying to leap over one of the final hurdles--just keep on keepin' on. I know that sounds simplistic, but that's the best general advice I can give right now.

Still Sexually Ambiguous After All These Years

One of the things that I am able to do now that the dissertation is done (for now) is catch up on my TV viewing. I am NOT one of those academics who (claim to) only watch C-SPAN or public television or (the horror!) proudly proclaim that they do not own a television. I like watching TV! I even have a dish--and a PVR! Well, anyway, one of my husband's and my favorite programs is FX Network's Nip/Tuck, and I finally caught up on the season last night (the season finale from last season and the first episode from last week.)

*NOTE: Mild spoilers ahead. Do not read further if you haven't seen these episodes yet.

This is the fourth season. Part of the problem this season, as I see it, will be keeping the "edginess" in a show that has already pulled out all the shocking elements that it seems possible to pull out. So far, it seems like the series may be sticking to a tried and true formula: When in doubt, hit 'em with sex and gender exploits. Transgendered heavies! Brokeback Medical Practice! Sex organ-less crazies! Incest! As much as I like the show, I have a sneaking suspicion that this season may be it--at least for me, if not for the network. Any regular viewers want to guess what will be N/T's "jumping the shark" moment?

At any rate, I was very happy that the show got a little color this season in the form of one of my favorite actresses, Sanaa Lathan. Looks like she'll be a recurring character, so it'll be interesting to see how this will play out. So far, it seems they're doing the whole "let's not mention that she's Black" thing. (Remember Aisha Tyler's recurring role on Friends?) That'd be too bad if the show's producers and writers keep that up. Or maybe they think there's just nothing edgy any more about race?

Light-Bright, Making Theory with White

Speaking of race, I have been pleased to see this study getting a lot of publicity recently: “Putting Whiteness Theory to the Test: An Empirical Assessment of Core Theoretical Propositions.” Here is a Diverse Issues in Higher Ed piece on the study; It was also featured recently here on MPR's Midmorning program; And here are a couple of University press releases about it: MNDaily and UMN News.

If you're an FSoS'er you may remember one of the PIs/co-authors, Douglas Hartmann from our Sociology Department here at Minnesota, from his lunch seminar in our department a while back where he presented some of his fascinating work on race and sports.

This study is part of the American Mosaic Project. From the website:

We hear a great deal about the diversity of American society—ethnic, racial, and religious. Sometimes, our diversity has caused commentators, and leaders, to fear that we are headed toward a divisive "culture war." At other times, we have celebrated our diversity and understood it as being at the heart of our vitality as a nation.

Sponsored by the David Edelstein Family Foundation, our three-year project has explored these issues, with particular focus on race and religion as key forms of difference that shape American life and experience....

The American Mosaic Project is designed to contribute to our understanding of what brings Americans together, what divides us, and the implications of our diversity for our political and civic life. We are most concerned with how Americans themselves understand the nature and consequences of diversity for their own lives and for our society as a whole....

It's That Time of Year Again...

...My birthday, April 25!

Also today:

DNA Day: "53rd anniversary of the publication of the structure for DNA and the 3rd anniversary for the publication of the completion of the human genome sequencing"
(via Geneforum/Genetizen Blog)

The United Negro College Fund is incorporated in 1944
(via Wikipedia)

Jazz legend Ella Fitzgerald was born in 1917
(via http://www.ellafitzgerald.com/)

Alas, I note there is no special mention of this date in 1964 on the William Beaumont Army Medical Center's history web page. Just an oversight, I'm sure!

The Magic of Hair Day

Something magical happens to me on Hair Day. I am a person who lives in the mind quite a bit, so maybe it is the tactile, manual nature of doing hair--but it usually results in me being so...present. Oddly, at the same time I feel an almost otherworldly connection to all the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and Miss Johnsons before me when I do my daughters' hair.

Hair Day?

Previously, I talked about what happens in our house on Hair Day:

The hours-long ritual that is washing and braiding my daughters' hair is more than just a task that needs to be done. It is also an exercise in ethnic identity and pride building. First, the three of us decide on a style by looking through one of our hair books...It's not that I am good enough to pull off many of these styles given my current level of very low skills. (Growing up, while my sister and girl cousins were doing each other's hair, my nose was usually in a book.) But I can at least usually approximate the styles. And looking at the books gives us a chance to speak about the wide range and beauty of Bllack hair. These children are beuatiful, I tell my daughters. Their hair is joy to behold....

(It's been a while since I wrote that. I am getting more skilled at doing my daughters' hair. But I am by no means yet an expert.)

Encounters

Last week was my kids' spring break and one day we spent all afternoon at one of our area public libraries. Both my daughters were in the children's section, seated at a table with their books. Soon another child joined them. From my chair a few feet away I noticed this little girl noticing my daughters' hair. Her own hair was blond, straight, in a small pony tail at the nape of her neck. My daughters' hair was in a style we have come to call "freedom hair" after a character in one of their books: large, picked-out, perfectly symetrical afros.

The little girl reached over and patted one daughter's hair. I held my breath. And sat erect in my seat.

"Look at your hair" she exclaimed. "Did your mommy do that?" My daughter lightly caressed her freedom locks. "Yes, she did," she said, turning in my direction and beaming.

I exhaled. And relaxed my spine back into the curved wood of the chair.

Right, Under, Left, Cross, Pick Up...

My husband does not understand it, but when I first begin braiding I actually have to concentrate. I cannot discuss what I want to have for dinner that evening, or laugh at a witty commercial on TV, or opine about the merits of one summer camp over another. The simple rote act of correctly crossing three strands of hair to make neat rows of crop-like patterns requires all of my PhD-bound brain power.

Often I must comb out unsuccessful rows and begin anew. Almost always, my first attempts at sectioning hair into parts with the tip of my pink rat-tailed comb are ragged and rough. Sometimes early on I try to rush the process, combing through a section of hair before all the tangles are out--resulting in predictable pain and cries.

I have been known to poke a patient little girl in the ear lobe or eye with a comb, brush, or thumb.

But I do not give up. Mainly because I know that--if I just stick with it a little--this initial period of bumbling and fumbling will give way to something truly special.

Enter the Matrix

My mother is a pianist. She believes solo pianists should be old-school and memorize even the most complicated classical pieces (instead of appearing on stage with sheet music and a page-turner). When she would rehearse, she would say she had to practice until she was able to "get the music in her hands." If she was able to sit down and play a piece that she hadn't played in years, she would say that it was "still in her hands."

That the closest analogy I can think of to what happens to me at some point during braiding. It is as if my hands take over some memory, some proficiency, some something that cannot be explained by my multi-year self-taught course in Black natural hair care. I do not always know exactly when I have reached this point. I usually only realize after: after I find that I have been looking up at the TV (instead of down, at my braiding) for one full minute at the SpongeBob episode where Sandy enters SpongeBob in a weight-lifting contest. Or maybe after I have near-simultaneously told one daughter where to find a missing puzzle piece, shouted to my husband what I want on my pizza, and completed another row of braids.

I am in the hair zone. I have entered the hair matrix. I am making hair magic.

My fingers are moving in effortless choreography to carve razor straight parts, create three perfectly even strands, and knit them together in strong, tight braids. My eyes have developed a sort of x-ray vision, discerning even microscopic masses of tangles which my suddenly gentle hands are then able to coax apart with not a single whimper. Whole sections of freedom hair are transformed into twists, braids, plaits, cornrows--of any thickness I please.

Some of the sections even look like the pictures in the hair books.

Crowns

Within the last year or so my daughters and I have added a new ritual to our hair styling--every time we do hair, but especially on Hair Days. After I finish, I fuss a little over the result, deem the style complete, then "crown" my daughter. This, apparently, is a step that I cannot skip or else my daughters will let me know about it. I must say, "I crown you ______, Princess of ______land" or "...Dutchess of ________ville" or "...Queen of __________." As I bellow this phrase in my most solemn-sounding voice (no matter how silly I make the title or land) I must make a crowning motion with my hands, then turn my daughter around to inspect herself in the mirror.

Sometimes I wonder if I am going overboard with all this hub-bub about my daughters' hair. But I usually conclude that positive hub-bub is just fine. Especially if it gives my daughters a confidence I never had to answer questions of curious children. Especially if they come to associate their hair with their regality.

And I have to admit that I love the special feeling in my hands that lasts for a few moments after I crown them. It lasts while my hands wash and put away the brush and rat-tailed comb...while my hands cap the spray bottles of special oils and empty the spray bottle of warm water. It starts to fade as my hands wash each other and dry themselves on the Hello Kitty towel hanging on the rod.

With that my hands are back to being the blunt clumsy instruments that merely poke at computer keyboards or wrestle a steering wheel. But I know that the memory and the magic are still there, somewhere inside them, waiting to take over from my mind on the next Hair Day.

SITBB Vault: They'll Find it Disturbing???

OK. I said I wouldn't blog about this, but the inner child in me will not allow me to remain silent. I must speak out on one of the great traumas of my young life. A trauma so deep and pervasive that just the thought of creating its physicality by typing about it on my keyboard makes me fear for my continued sanity.

I am talking about the time when I, as a child, saw "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory."

This is the first one, with Gene Wilder as WW. And now the perfectly sane and non-twisted mind of Tim Burton is bringing us a second remake of the Roald Dahl book, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" starring that other paragon of cinematic normalcy, Johnny Depp.

If this type of thing thrills you, then by all means, go see the movie. But please think carefully before taking along your young child. Here's what the Nick Jr. parents' movie guide has to say about the appropriateness of this film for the six and under set:

They'll find it disturbing when the children are punished for not listening: one of them turns blue and blows up, one falls into a chocolate river and is then sucked up into a tube, another is miniaturized and has to be stretched back on a taffy rack.

They'll find it disturbing?! Heck-I find that disturbing! And mind you, I happen to be a horror/science fiction/mystery fan. I remember when I saw the first WW film I had the idea that all these "bad children" were being murdered, dispatched with in the most gruesomely creative ways. You might say, my first slasher film--years before I saw "Friday the 13th" or "Halloween" or "Nightmare on Elm Street." I only got it, years later when I saw the film again as an adult, that these children did not actually die. (There is one brief exchange in the latter moments of the first movie where Charlie asked where the kids went and WW says they're OK... I must have missed that as a kid. No likely due to the PTSD the movie had already caused me to suffer.)

Then there is something else about this movie that puts it off of my "must see" list. I can't quite put my finger on it...but I think that the colorful, widescreen visions of all that candy and chocolate and sweets will be for some kids almost--pornographic. Especially for today's kids, many who get such things in their own lives only as an occassional treat. (Or, in our case, when they visit any of their grandparents.) Like I said, this notion is vague. Don't ask me to explain any further.

Now, I've been in conversations with other folks around my same age who had the exact opposite reaction to WW. Some of them had read the book first. Some didn't. And, I generally am a fan of Burton's work--even if I think it very clearly is "adult" in nature.

But, my daughters will not be seeing "Charlie." Maybe they could handle it. Afterall, they love watching "Teen Titans"--a far cry from "Care Bears"--with their comic book connoisseur Daddy. And they are big fans of "Alice in Wonderland," another work with...shady (if not dark) elements, which I previously read chapters of to them at bedtime over the course of several weeks. They might handle "Charlie" just fine.

But I have a feeling I'd be quite disturbed. Again. (*shudder*)

Maybe next Halloween I'll go dressed as a good parent...

Being a good parent means continually downgrading one's expectations of what it is to be a good parent. Leave it to Halloween to (re)teach me this life lesson. This year I successfully failed in three areas:

(1) Breaking my daughters of their deeply ingrained gender stereotyped wishes for costumes;
(2) Making them beautiful, handmade costumes with (as Spongebob said recently) "love sewn in every stitch," and
(3) Partcipating in old-fashioned, neighborhood, non-commercial Halloween festivities.

Last one first. We went trick-or-treating this year at Camp Snoopy, the giant amusement park housed inside the Mall of America. Now, as a card carrying liberal, I am supposed to despise everything that Camp Snoopy/MOA stands for. I am supposed to espouse an ardent belief that Camp Snoopy/MOA is the very handbasket in which our hell-destined nation is currently being carried: Commercialism. Crass consumerism. Cookie-cutter chain stores. And probably a lot of other hard-c words that I just can't think of right now.

But. To Camp Snoopy we went. The girls stopped at the dozen or so stations sponsored by different food and other companies, exclaiming "TRICK OR TREAT" to the costumed, thoroughly bored looking teen employees in charge of doling out the corporate-donated booty. Not quite the "old fashioned" trick or treating I remember from my childhood.

Second failure achieved: Hand made costumes. In years past I have been shamed when I observed the elaborate get-ups that some of my parenting peers had lovingly wrapped their offspring in. Here my kids were in store-bought, not-quite-right-sized costumes that--despite my most careful clipping--still managed to have stray plastic tag stays sticking in the most uncomfortable places.

Here their kids were in custom-made Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz outfits, feet clad in red jeweled shoes with taps in the heels, a real live little dog trailing beside them on a leash.

This year I swore I would rise to the occassion and make our girls' costumes.

One problem: I do not sew. But no problem. I bought tape-on velcro and this special fabric bonding paper I saw on HGTV that only requires a household iron on silk setting. My daughters picked out their own colorful ribbon and fabric. I cheated a little with pre-made tiaras, wings, wands, and leotards. But the overall look was to be (in my mind) quite unique and 100% homemade. Other parents would gaze upon the costumes and nod knowlingly: "Now there is a Mother Who Cares."

Well, hours later (hours) I had crafted something that looked like what someone might piece together following twenty minutes of fruitful dumpster diving. Folks who saw my daughters thought they were cute. But no one was quite sure what look I was going after. (Typical comment: "Ohhhh, how cute! What are they supposed to be?")

And now, about those costumes...

The mister and I have been fighting an unrelenting battle against the Disney Princess marketing machine for the last couple years now. We repeatedly explain our objections: girls can be so much more than princesses; wouldn't it be better if they showed more beautiful brown girls like you and your sister; etc.

This year we compromised: They were tooth fairies. (Or, they were supposed to be tooth fairies. See above.) A far, far cry from the firefighter or vet or dino-digger I had tried to steer them toward. But at least they were not any of the Disney princesses.

Yet. Still. I am a good parent. (Lather, rinse, repeat.)

The kids had a ball. They proudly sported their inexpertly-rigged costumes even as parts of them unravelled as the evening wore on. They were thrilled at being in the princess/fairly/angel club with so many other little girls (and one secure, successfully gender smashing little boy). And even though Camp Snoopy was crowded, chaotic and even more completely over-the-top than its usual tacky spendor, that only seemed to add to the spirit of Halloween.

And see here? Apparently even fairy/princess/human butterfly/ballerina types can be NASCAR drivers!

All in all a very successful Halloween. And thankfully over--for another year at least.

SITBB Vault: Gumbo

As drafts of this entry were sitting around my blog entries list, I wondered: "What is this entry about? What is its point?" Is it about making a personal, family connection to Black History? Is it about African Americans and our place in the history of organized religion? Our place in the American Catholic church? Is it about Louisiana and Blacks? Louisiana and Catholicism? Louisiana and race? (Some) Blacks' denial of race?

In the interest of not spending any more time than necessary on a simple blog post, I'm gonna call it a day and say "The point of this blog is...all of the above. And more." Hence, the title: "Gumbo." Defined on this site, gumbo is a word derived from various Bantu dialects in southern and central Africa. It's a soup-like dish with hundreds of variations, most famously a Louisiana specialty. It is spicy. It is a bunch of ingredients mixed up together. Its making is a long day-long affair, not to be undertaken by the microwave set.

Gumbo is what I think of when I think of my late maternal grandmother, Rhona Lacy--who, in her day, threw famous gumbo dinner parties--and when I think of her native Louisiana.

To me, Louisiana is the closest thing we've got in this country to having a separate country-within-a-country. Forget about Texas being a nation onto itself. Or California. Louisiana is the true American nation-state. It has an extremely complex history--including a complex racial/ethnic history.

A huge part of Louisiana history and culture is its Catholicism. And my family history is very tied up in that. My grandmother Rhona's mother had a female first cousin, and this first cousin had a son, Harold Perry. I grew up hearing stories of this distant cousin. At the time I was more interested in (and somewhat concerned about) the fact that this maternal relative had the same last name as my paternal side of the family than I was interested in his place in history.

But here, I will rectify that childhood lapse of interest--just in time to observe the anniversary of my late grandmother's birth.

And along the way, just a taste of the complicated gumbo that is race and religion and skin tone and freedom and slavery and history...

According to the Diocese of Louisiana site : "Beginning in 1966 with the appointment of Bishop Harold R. Perry as auxiliary bishop of New Orleans, the diocese was honored with the selection of several native sons to be bishops. Bishop Perry, a native of Sacred Heart Parish, Lake Charles, was the first 20th century black bishop appointed in the U.S." There is a boys' middle school named after my distant cousin, the Bishop Perry Middle School (http://www.bpms.org/).

I don't know what it is about the men on my maternal grandmother's side of the family and the priesthood: I have two other famous Father-cousins (who are also brothers to each other): the Rev. Verlin LeDoux, U. S. Air Force Chaplain, and the Rev. Jerome LeDoux, a national columnist and evangelist. The latter Father LeDoux delivered the eulogy at my grandmother's funeral, and he is the only one of the Father-cousins I have met. (See this site for more.)

Interestingly, the LeDoux family traces their history way-way back. I should make clear: The White LeDoux family traces their history way-way back. As I was exploring the 'Net, I found this from one LeDoux descendent:

"I ran across a historical article in the Lake Charles American Press regarding Louis Verlin LeDoux. He was to be ordained as a priest at the Sacred Heart Church in Lake Charles according to the article that was originally printed Dec 23, 1952. According to the article he was/is black. This article stirred my memory from childhood.

Our particular clan is considered white and I don't know anyone living in our family that can remember anything more about this black family line or where they trace their roots. So, I am curious as to whether anyone has any knowledge of this or if this line still continues or do they consider themselves Creole/Black/French, etc..."

Eventually a LeDoux of color contacted these other LeDoux. They had several exchanges of electronic correspondence, but I don't know if the two sides ever met up in person.

Likely another distant relative, and yet another Father-cousin, is Bishop Curtis Guillory. (My grandmother's maiden name was Guillory.) On this site I read of his meeting with Pope John Paul II--and here's a photo:
And here I learned that "in the run-up to the Olympic Games in Atlanta, Bishop Curtis Guillory of Texas becomes the first Catholic prelate to carry the Olympic torch."

There is much more on the Creole culture of Louisiana at this site: http://www.frenchcreoles.com/. There, Guillory is listed as one of the common surnames of free people of color in the state. I felt a little guilty about seeing this: My grandmother used to always insist that her ancestors were not slaves--at least not in this country...that two brother-forebears escaped from bondage in the Carribean on a stolen boat and set up shop as free men in Louisiana... I always dismissed this story as an example of a complicated (and, unfortunately, common) denial of painful history and rejection of African past. But now, well, who knows? Maybe it is true. --And yet, any "truth" of my grandmother's origins does not erase those complicated feelings--feelings all tied up with skin tone, hair texture, and facial features...

On that same site is info on other famous Creoles, including Creoles of color--although that distinction "of color" is not so clear cut in LA, more so, even, than in the rest of the nation. Included in this list are Fats Domino, Jelly Roll Morton, Jean Baptiste Du Sable, Greg and Bryant Gumbel.