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Living Outside the
Lines
In my father’s section of this site you will find
an essay, “The Outside View”, where he discusses a bit of
how he came to be such an unusual character. He and I shared many things
over the years. He had sent me nearly all of his essays while alive, but
as I went through his papers after he died I found this one that he had
never shown me. It was the first hint that he knew what I had experienced
growing up outside all the accepted groups of society, alone, never quite
fitting in anywhere. Dad and I discussed everything. Why had this one
subject never been broached? Why had I never seen this essay?
As a child, being different seems a particularly cruel
fate, yet even then, I found a certain pleasure in the freedom it allowed.
We lived in a secluded valley and with an old rodeo horse for a companion,
the woods all around were mine to explore and play in. When social pressures
became particularly hard or my mother’s beatings and tirades about
what a burden I was to her became unbearable, I would retreat to this
shelter and find solace. I gradually developed an appreciation of my circumstances,
even a way to make them work for me. The tears were there whenever the
urge to be with others became overwhelming, resulting in another rebuff,
but I saw the expectations that acceptance held. I not only could not
live up to them with a Portuguese last name and wearing the tailored plaid
suits mom insisted on dressing me in, but I found I had no wish to try
to live up to them. I sensed the trap they hid, even then.
Man is not by nature brave and has a natural instinct
to seek out his own kind to increase his potential for survival, but inclusion
in a group has a price, as does everything on this crazy planet. To be
part of a group one must sublimate a large amount of one’s individual
thought and action to that group. You are expected to think and behave,
sometimes even look, like the other members of the group. This has its
place and purpose. A society where everyone is off doing their own thing
does not thrive, so the oddball is naturally shunned, but life demands
balance and those on the outside have a vital role to play. They are the
ones who create change, who see the weak areas of popular belief and start
the process toward those weaknesses being recognized and rooted out. Not
having any responsibility for the maintenance of any group’s favorite
sacred cows, they are free to peer around corners, wander down allies
and journey along paths that are closed to most and they tend to do exactly
that.
Eventually they form their own loose friendships with
others like themselves. No, I am not referring to beatniks, hippies or
punks. Those simply rebel against establishment by creating a counter
establishment; complete with all the requisite rules of thought and conduct.
When one encounters a collection of those who live on the outside of society
they are easy to recognize by their total lack of uniformity. Age, race,
gender and even fashion statements do not match, and these people neither
seem to care or even notice. They tend to do well in negotiations between
divergent cultures. They are excellent inventors or artists. Robert Frost
wrote a poem about them, though it implies that traveling a different
path in life is a choice, willingly taken. For most, it is a path that
life’s circumstances thrust them down and after many futile attempts
to cross over to the better traveled territory it is accepted as one’s
lot in life, at first grudgingly.
The question remains. Why didn’t my father ever speak of this with
me? He raised me to examine everything and denied me nothing when it came
to information. Even sex was not a taboo subject. He approached that with
the exact same honesty as every other subject, though it was one thing
that he never elaborated on as to his own preferences till I was an adult.
I believe he did not wish to influence my own choices in that area. Finally,
the experiences of my own children when we moved to NH provided a hint
of what had held him back from this one subject.
There I sat, sorting through a pile of his work after
he was gone and reading this piece which let me know that he had never
fit in himself. By then I was starting to deal with my own children’s
difficulties in the area of acceptance. When they were young, I never
insisted they dress differently and encouraged their development as socially
accepted people. I was comfortable with my own difference, but I also
knew the pain that pushed one to travel different roads. I could not do
that to my own children. They were raised in LA in neighborhoods as diverse
as I was able to find and had had many friends of many different nationalities,
but now my father was gone and we had moved to a small town in Northern
New Hampshire, back to the valley I grew up in. They were painfully out
of step.
My daughter, Galadriel, was the first to feel the pressure,
and she, being the more social of the two, was hit horribly hard. “Nigger”,
it was a word she knew, but in LA had never had to deal with. The tears
that streaked down her normally cheerful face and the crushing hurt that
showed through them broke my heart. Next it was my son Tony’s turn.
He deflected the attack on his sister by attracting it to himself and
the siege began. I was beginning to understand why dad never approached
this one subject with me. He was hoping, despite the joys he found in
his own deviant nature (That’s right, I said “deviant”.
It is not a bad thing you know), that I had been somehow spared the requisite
pain, all the while knowing I hadn’t. OK Dad, I see your reasons,
but now what? I could sure use your help on this one!
A Legacy Continues
Isn’t it amazing, we can take so much upon ourselves,
but the hurt suffered by our children tears us apart, we would chose to
be tortured if it would only spare our kid’s pain. My two children
were black, in an area where some folks still wore orange on St Patrick’s
Day to show their disdain for the Irish. I had hoped the North Country
had grown out of such pettiness - not a chance. Night after night I spent
hours with my children going over the day’s events and trying to
keep Tony from striking back. He had grown up in some of LA’s tougher
neighborhoods and had been taken under the wing of some of our Mexican
neighbors there and taught street fighting . . . with my blessing. He
was under relentless pressure and I feared he would lose his temper and
seriously hurt someone. If he did that too soon I knew it would be used
as proof that the taunting was deserved. Our nightly talks became known
as mom’s “Martin Luther King speech”. Without the eloquence
of the late Dr King Jr. to guide me, Tony would have sought justice with
his fists early on. Sometimes I wonder if people are aware, when they
honor that man, how much “white” blood has been spared by
him.
Calls to the school proved fruitless. Our local police
chief was sympathetic, but because it was happening at the school he could
do nothing. At one point the attacks became so bad I was forced to call
on the FBI. My children were learning what it was to be different at a
dizzying pace. Finally, after over a year had passed, the opportunity
I had urged Tony to wait for before striking out presented itself. Five
boys confronted him just off school grounds, intent on doing physical
harm. The first to jump him went to the hospital, badly bloodied. Tony
received a small red spot on one cheek where the opening, and only, blow
had landed. He was upset over the altercation because a number of small
children had witnessed what happened and because one teacher had congratulated
him on a job well done, reinforcing his suspicions that the authorities
at the school had no intentions of helping him or his sister. Our police
chief assured me there would be no charges filed. “I’d have
hit those kids long before he did, he said. I’m amazed he held off
as long as he did.” Thank you, Dr King!
There were no more open threats, but KKK symbols started
showing up and a new hurdle raised its ugly head. Some folks were more
than willing to accept my children in their group, not because of who
they were as people, but because they were black, and the ideas they had
about what “being black” meant were not complimentary. Galadriel
(Driel) had gotten over her initial shock. Now she was on the warpath.
She chose to remain an outsider rather than compromise her integrity.
Tony, a peacemaker at heart, still tried to fit in.
“Driel” took her teachers to task for every
assumption or slight they dared to voice toward any minority group.
Tony perfected his basketball.
Driel told me where I could stuff my “Martin Luther
King speech” when some girls picked on the only other black girl
with taunts of “black bastards of America”, and taught the
lot of them the meaning of fear.
Tony learned to hunt and tried drinking with the local
boys.
Driel helped start a “Multi-cultural Diversity Day”
at the school.
Tony gave up trying to fit in at school and started to
hang out with some kids in a neighboring town who thought he was “cool”.
Driel told a reporter at a Martin Luther King Jr. march
(NH did not yet honor Martin Luther King Day) about her and her brother’s
experiences, finishing the interview on a positive note about the Multi-cultural
Diversity Day.
Tony started using his middle name, Rajah, and wearing
his hair in dreadlocks; the change fit him well.
Driel went on to a private school and worked to combine
her new and old schools in a bigger and better multi-cultural day.
Tony’s new friends started being perceived as a
gang in the neighboring town and Tony adopted a more ghetto style.
Driel’s interview was printed in a paper far from
our town, accurate, but minus the positive ending. It made its way to
our local school and she was informed that she had hurt people’s
feelings and must apologize.
Tony was arrested in the neighboring town for playing
cops and robbers with a toy gun at a Halloween dance.
Driel watched as her brother was taken away, a young teenage
girl, frightened and in tears, she was left alone by the police to make
her way on foot through dark, deserted streets to the police station as
best she could.
A very shaken Tony chose to fight the charges despite
the threat from one officer that he would be taken away from his family
if he lost.
Driel refused to apologize for speaking the truth and
her contact with the multi-cultural committee she had helped form was
severed.
Tony’s case went to court and, after a harrowing
trial, was thrown out.
Driel left the area upon graduation for Atlanta, with
no plans to return.
Tony went to live with his dad in LA with no plans to
return.
What did I do through all this besides providing damage
control and support where needed? I split and stacked firewood to work
off my frustrations. A whole lot of firewood got split in those days!
I also spent a lot of time wondering how, despite my best efforts, my
two children had become so much like me. Knowing that they now were free
to view the world through far more facets did nothing to make the pain
they were dealing with any easier to experience. The circumstances were
different for my children than they were for me, but I knew the outcome.
They were destined to forever live on the outside of society despite all
my efforts to spare them. Driel quickly got her footing and adopted an
attitude of: “If you can’t join ‘em, lead ‘em”.
Tony, with the double whammy of being male as well as black, continued
to try to find somewhere to fit in, but found he had nowhere to turn.
The groups inclined to accept him as black were not too thrilled about
men in general, and those who still felt men were alright, found blacks
suspect. He became what he had been suspected of being right along, but
his gentle nature kept winning out and he is gradually finding his own
path.
In the meantime I had another child, my last. Now what
are his chances of acceptance? Let’s see now: I appear to be white,
but have never been accepted by whites. His father is black, but he was
raised in a white neighborhood so there is all sorts of confusion there
too. He is growing up in the same NH valley as his siblings. He likes
to wear his hair long, has a passion for Peruvian panpipe music and keeps
snakes and exotic bugs for pets. Oh yes, and Tony (now called by his middle
name, Rajah) and Galadriel (now called Glady) are his brother and sister.
My husband and I have bowed to the inevitable and accepted the fact that
this child is destined to view life from the outside just like the rest
of us. Guess who is being home-schooled!
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White Folk's Little
Problem
Ask a person what effect
the Holocaust had on the people of Germany and you can probably get some
sort of conversation going. The fallout from that horrible period for
Jew and gentile alike are clear for all to see.
No one who lived through that time remained untouched and Germany is destined
to bear the scars for many years to come. I think you would have a hard
time finding a sane individual who would argue that the people of Germany
were not profoundly touched by the events surrounding WWII and the crimes
against humanity that their government committed and many of the people
condoned, whether they themselves took part in them or not.
Fair enough, but that was
but a brief blip on the radar of history; a relatively short period of
time. I do not argue the fact that it will shape Germany’s culture
and people from now on, how could it not? But if it did, and will continue
to do so there, what could be happening in our own country from our own
past? We do not have a short period of horrific crimes committed by one
group against another to contend with. We have a long, well established
institution of slavery that was a part of the very fabric of our nation,
and it existed for centuries. You are aware, I assume, that it was not
that long ago – if you’re reading this you’d better
be aware! I had a great-aunt who used to tell me what Reconstruction was
like from first hand experience. She was a child at the time.
Ask any white American how
the institutionalization of a crime like slavery affected blacks, then
and now, and you will get an answer. “Oh yeah, it affected them
in all sorts of ways – easy to see that . . . wish they’d
get over it by now, though.” Okay, so it may be a stupid and inaccurate
answer, but there will be recognition of a profound effect on black culture
in America. So much of that culture is shaped by our country’s past
trafficking in human flesh that it would be much easier just to list the
parts of their present existence that trace back to an African heritage
unaffected – short list, that one.
Now ask that same person
how the institution of slavery affected whites in this country –
go on, ask. How did centuries of keeping, breeding, training, working
and trading in slaves affect the white people of our nation? Stuck on
that one? Well, what did your history books say? Still stuck, or are you
going to try to wiggle free by claiming it had no effect on whites or
white culture? The stain of a few years of Holocaust shapes Germans to
this day, but our centuries of building a nation through trading in human
flesh left white America unscathed. Oh come on!
There’s damn little
focus, if any, on how the white people and the predominately white culture
of this country was affected by an institution that the very foundation
of our nation was built on. Why not?! Yes, we had a Declaration of Independence
and a Constitution – “all men are created equal--- they are
endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights” –
pretty words, those are. Profound words . . . too bad we didn’t
follow them, but words alone can not a country make. It takes sweat and
lots of it. That is where the slaves came in. Our propensity to profit
from the labor and suffering of others built our nation and yet we, as
a people, were not molded by this? Bullshit!
I have never been a fan
of affirmative action. Before you start cheering of jeering, know my reason.
I believe it is a cover-up, a dressing to hide an ugly wound that is not
healed. Though I am glad to see some folks actually get a much needed
chance because of it, it irks me no end that a number of the recipients
of this advantage are white women who just happen to own a company that
their husbands work in. Can’t you just see the dates they must have
had when they were younger, gazing longingly into each other’s eyes
over a candle lit dinner while she tells him about the new back-hoe she
just bought. That’s believable, isn’t it? Yeah, honey, I’ll
buy that, and one of those sky hooks while you’re at it. If I had
my way the whole mess would be stripped away so we could all get a good
look at how many worthy people in this country never get any opportunity,
ever, to make something of their potential. This wound would heal faster
if it were exposed to the light. It just festers under that bandage.
It never ceases to amaze
me to watch white folks dealing with things that minorities have been
dealing with for centuries. My gawd, you’d think the freakin’
world was coming to and end whenever things don’t go exactly right.
“I lost my job” – oh the horror. “But my credit
will be wrecked if I can’t pay my bills” – my goodness,
there’s a reason to tank. “I’m so depressed, and I can’t
get up” – there, there, honey, go take your meds now. Heaven
forbid that you actually do something about it – after all, not
many folks in this world have to deal with what you’re dealing with
right now. You poooor baby. “But, but . . . I got in an auto accident
and I’ve got the flu and my aunt Jennifer is dying and I’ve
had to work late every night this week!” I’ve had the lovely
experience of having white friends tell me that black folks aren’t
any worse off because they have problems too – and then they list
all the above crap as proof. Honest to freakin’ gawd I have had
that happen! These friends of mine – they actually believe this
– they hand it off to me with a straight freakin’ face, I
kid you not! That’s the point and the problem, isn’t it? If
they believe this, then they believe that black people don’t have
those same problems or don’t respond the same to those problems,
or shouldn’t. I don’t know what they believe because there
is no way to justify what these people are telling me. Best I can tell
. . . I associate with people who really think that the problems of life
are spread around evenly so if a person has to deal with, say, discrimination
on the job, bigoted attitude from store clerks and an inferior school
system for their kids, then life just skips past them when it comes to
job loss, late bills, car wreaks, illness and death – it doesn’t
happen to them. That – that right there – that is privilege
that is so ingrained, so much a way of life that it doesn’t even
recognize that it is privilege. That is the sort of shit that drives me
freakin’ crazy!
We’re talking some
sick attitudes here – the result of centuries of trading in human
flesh That is just a small piece of the huge effect that centuries of
slavery has had on the white people of this country. White Americans have
some problems – and are in serious denial about those problems.
It’s time we stepped up and confronted what is ours. You gotta own
your problems before you can disown them. They are there. They are real.
They are destroying us. How long are we going to hold on to them?
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Nigger
White folks for years have used the word
“nigger” with gusto – “Get over here, nigger.
No niggers allowed” – nigger this, nigger that. As a child
I used to chant, “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. Catch a nigger by the
toe.” No one used the word “tiger” back then. Most of
us had never seen anyone black except Nat King Cole on TV and we didn’t
even know what the word “nigger” referred to. It was just
a word, like “eenie” or “meenie” that we sang
on the playground under the approving and watchful eyes of our teachers.
Black America was a world away and had no control over the use of that
word. They didn’t like it much, but what could they do? White folks
dictated what they should and shouldn’t think. They had to comply,
at least in public, if they wished to survive.
Roll the clock forward a few decades
and blacks have found a way to deal with the word. They’ve adopted
it and altered its meaning. In the black community there is some disagreement
on the appropriateness of this, but many blacks use the word “nigger”
as a mild rebuke, a term of endearment or a general greeting. It’s
become an all-purpose word with its meaning being granted by the intentions
of the speaker. It’s part of black culture . . . and now white folks
want the word gone. It’s too evil to be spoken. It’s too horrible,
too nasty, has a wicked past. You shouldn’t use it – ever.
It’s now “the N word” which puts it right up there with
“the F word.” I wonder what we’d do if all our “unspeakable”
words weren’t so well spread across the alphabet.
No word is evil on its own. Words are
the ultimate slaves. They bend to our usage completely. A word that represents
something that should never be forgotten should not be removed from the
language. As I type this my spell check is telling me there is no such
word – I must mean “Niger”. Even my computer program
has been scrubbed clean. I can write “fuck” and it has no
problem, but not “nigger”. The history of that word is the
history of the building of America. Are we proposing to forget part of
the foundation upon which this great nation was built?
Nigger and fuck are both words white
folks tend to use in private, but never speak in public unless they’re
drunk. However, when they pressure blacks to drop the word they forget
one minor detail: The black American experience is not dictated by the
white American experience. Their history is different from white history.
Different history and different experiences make for differences in action,
speech and culture. White America created those differences, maintained
those differences, enforced those differences, but now that white America
has decided that their actions were wrong, even shameful, they want to
forget the past and bury the evidence. If whites in this country have
truly reformed, their past shouldn’t bother them and neither should
the adoption of one of their creations of oppression as a powerless word
by the formerly oppressed. They’re still mighty jumpy about that
word “nigger,” though. Why?
Personally, I detest the term “the
N word” and wish the original were back on the block in its full
form. My husband is black and, more significantly, so are my children.
When something is directed at your children it becomes personal. Years
ago we moved from LA to New Hampshire and enrolled our pre-teens in the
public school where they encountered the word being used against them
for the first time. Those were difficult days for all of us. Being white,
I did not raise my children to expect such treatment or give them the
tools to deal with it – a mistake a black mother would never have
made. I struggled to make sense of and handle what was happening to my
family, while tamping down the indignation inside myself. My ancestors
had started a revolution and killed people over a whole lot less. I constantly
had to squelch the urge to go on the war path.
So what’s the problem with removing
the word if it causes that much pain? We were able to change the minds
and attitudes of many of the people who were using “nigger”
when we moved here, but with “the N word” users it was impossible
to even establish a dialogue. Those people insisted on their right to
tell my children, and even my husband, how they should think, feel and
act and saw nothing wrong with that because, after all, they weren’t
racist. We’ve found it bloody hard to address something that people
refuse to admit exists. I’d rather deal with “nigger”
verses “the N word” any day. It’s honest and establishes
a starting point for disagreement – even carries within itself the
admission that there is still reason to disagree.
When whites call someone a nigger, its
exceedingly offensive, but it’s worse when whites have the gall
to object to black’s usage of a word they have had to deal with
for centuries. As long as white America continues to believe they have
a right to dictate to black America what their culture, thoughts and actions
should be regarding this subject, white supremacy is alive and well –
no matter who becomes president. Black folks will decide this, as well
as everything else about their life, themselves. The rest of us need to
back off!
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