Stella Luna Lands a Letdown

Sitting in the auditorium I notice
first the lack of color around us.
One biracial father, one other adoptee.

Including my family, that makes four
out of say, three hundred.

My first response is not dread it's curiousity.
Why aren't there more, OK any families of color here?
Here being a public school auditorium just outside of town.
What is the cultural difference in entertainment value
that is of little or no interest to families of color here?

What is it about children's theater that holds no appeal?
Or was it how it was advertised? Or to whom?
Where could I go on a Saturday afternoon 
and see another or other demographic?


Then when the play starts, the dread sets in.
All white cast of four from Toronto.
Two men, two women. 
They sing, they dance, they exude.
They manipulate the puppets, 
and they attempt to captivate the all white audience.

Then the content unfolds igniting the dread like a pile
of dried leaves, crackling and swirling around me.
An accidentally abandoned 
baby fruit bat "adopted" by his bird friends is forced 
to deny all that he knows 
to survive in this new family's home.

He eats bugs instead of fruit,
Sleeps upright and by day so his new mother 
doesn't kick him out.

She threatened once.

He calls himself clumsy, and flies away in shame.
Where he is happily reunited with his real mom.
Bye bye bird family. 
My biological family has saved me now.

With Marcel on my lap laughing, 
and Sam three seats away next to his friend
with a serious and distant look on his face.
What is his interpretation? How will I ever know? 

To be a transracial adoptive parent is a constant
unending stream of messages that require 
interpretation, mitigation, and action.

Like a fruit bat, I just want to hang upside down 
sometimes and let that be enough.
Writing this blog, and knowing that my readers
can see me hanging here, is so very often 
the enough that I need. Thank you.

A Mother of Another Color*

If I am not a Black Mother
and I am not a mother to white children
does that make me grey?

Or would a Grey Mommy
connote a mother of a certain age range
that I may be approaching
in strands, but am not there yet.

A Mocha Mommy is a support group
for stay at home mothers of color
so that does not describe me either,
though it certainly describes an aspiration
to be at home all day and write about
the mocha mom in me.

Chameleon Mom
might be closer to the truth
with all the colors I wear
navigating from here-our blended family home
Out into the so-much-to-explain in the world out there.

Explain to the educator how
a mother
of a child of color surrounded in a room
of white teachers
may not feel as at ease
understood
or seen
as the well intentioned
intentional gathering might think
she should.

Explain to the manager of the grocery store
that although he may offer me
a hundred hair care options
it is my children's hair for whom I inquire.
Handing him the bottle of Mixed Chicks Shampoo**
I tell him that I would appreciate it if this product
could be carried too.
And not on an end cap, I add.
End cap feels like an afterthought to me- wouldn't you agree?

Explain the heaviness in my breath
as my morning feet slide
into the soft green slippers
with the semi mushed pom-poms.
That I have been turned inside out
from the birth of my first born son
grabbed up and into my arms
in a hospital in North Carolina
as I sat precariously on the edge of her bed
on the edge of instant motherhood
on the edge of other motherhood
on the edge of our son's thirty-six hour life

and shed.

My understanding
or lack there of.

Being a mother of any
color.


*Dedicated to Our E, who brought me much needed blog clarity and kudos last night. Thank you.

** Mixed Chicks hair products-link to come--check them out on the web

Blended Nation-Marcel Syle

Part one of a three part series on multi-racial North Americans on NPR this morning caught my attention. Well what little of it there is to be caught during the morning on the weekend.

Between screeches, requests, whines and kerplunks I caught the interview with the authors of the book Blended Nation (see link below). This is the blurb form NPR's blog:

"The husband-and-wife team of photographer Mike Tauber and co-producer Pamela Singh were intrigued by the post-Sept. 11 climate of anxiety and racism. Years later, the election of a bi-racial president would bring the topic of racial identity to the forefront of national conversation. Tune into the series to learn more. On Sunday's show, Hansen will also speak with Cheryl Quintana Leader, one of the subjects in the book, who is part Caucasian, Mexican, and Aztec Indian. See more photos on Mike Tauber's Web site."

* Over 70 million people identified themselves as multiracial in the 2000 census.
* That number is growing
* This number is growing with the growing number of multi-racial marriages and the offspring of these marriages/partnerships.

All of this inspired the above photo of Marcel.

I imagine the book would be a great one for our family to look through and see people who look like us.

And people who don't, but who do at the same time.

***
Update: Review of the book to come soon. Mr. Tauber has graciously agreed to send me the book, so that I may review it here. He replied that; "There are several people in the book that are adopted by parents of another race." And he said how cute Marcel is.

He sent these updated links:

Not sure if you saw the updated NPR page: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=120209980

Also, we were on the Today Show in late September: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/26184891/vp/33056542#33056542

solutions

When crazy hair day is posted
as this weeks Friday activity
(last week was a picture of your pet,
the week prior a souvenir...)
you, the mother of the only
African-American child
in the preschool class
has the right to
pause
and consider
your approach.

Do you comment,
boycott,
suggest an alternative,
adapt
or educate?
You consider
each of the above
in three second
intervals
and land
on the combination
you are most familiar with:
adapt and educate

When your son's hair
does not invite
barrettes, gel, or braids
you have reason to consider
the value of
crazy hair day.

On the Thursday before
you mention to the teacher in your most
diplomatic
engaging
and cautiously insistent
voice that it would be appreciated if the class
could consider options for all kinds of hair
for success tomorrow.

Excuse me?

Well, crazy hair day can be a little
complicated for tight curly hair
like his.

A flash of realization washes over her face.

Oh my, I hadn't considered..

It's fine.
We'll figure it out.
They have hair sprays
you tell her, in pink and blue..

Your scour the shelves of the drug store
and explain to the manager
wearing the toupee
your predicament.
45 minutes later
as the groceries melt in the trunk
you find it,
the perfect solution
tucked behind the blush
and the tanning cream

***

Three days later and Sam still has
silver sparkle intergalactic eyeshadow
in his hair-
in five
long
Star Wars pilot Darth Vader
stripes.


It was a huge success.
and lasted longer then the braids,
the gel, the rubber bands and
all the other
Caucasian hair accoutrements.

Crazy.

Reflections on a legacy

Recently being the mother of children of color has ushered in thoughts that have nothing to do with freedom, and everything to do with creating it from scratch on a good day. Like when I was slathering Sam’s skin with lotion after bath, and crumbled internally as I had an image of him, or his great, great, great, great, great grandfather being slathered with a salve to help him heal. Heal from the sores bore into him by the chains he wore across the Atlantic ocean, before being auctioned off above ground the next day. My chains are made from little strips of paper, glued in a circle, while being linked to the next piece, handed to me by my mother, and her mother, and her mother's mother. A chain begun one day under the shade of a banana tree in the West Indes. When she ran out of paper, her servant was asked to bring her more.

Shoving books in Sam's daycare teachers arms with a smile and a need that could fill the basement of that church five times over; “It’s about a little (black) boy who (looks just like Sam and who) saves the world from being taken over by urban sprawl... the kids will love it,” I add with such certainty. And, and, and for at least the few minutes while you are reading the story Sam won’t be the only person of color in this entire building, except for the slightly worn out looking graphic of Dr. King that is posted on the wall behind us as we talk. But they listen, and accept, and include, and they read the book.

Four and half years ago I had freedom from the constant hum of race. I had freedom to feel comfort in the margins of my own racial awareness. Is this a new kind of freedom? Freedom to accept how far I have to go, how daunted, not afraid, I am most days of the work I have to do. Does that in itself bring me a little closer to picking at (if not up) those words by Dr. King and holding them in my curious, if semi sheltered lily white hands; "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"