Collective Black Guilt Syndrome

With all of my 42 years, I still cannot seem to shake Collective Black Guilt Syndrome (CBGS). For those of you not familiar with CBGS, it’s the misplaced sense of “one bad apple ruins the whole bunch.” An example is when I’m lying in bed, watching TV and the news breaks in with a developing story of a deadly shooting, and the first thing that comes to my mind is, “Oh Lord, I hope the shooter isn’t Black.”

I got to thinking about this after checking out a recent post on the blog, Mes Deaux Cents (MDC). The post detailed the vacuous nature of Sherri Shepherd on The View. According to MDC, Sherri’s a disgrace to Black women everywhere and I tend to agree with her. When Miss Shepherd admitted to not knowing if the world was round or flat, I wanted to reach through my TV set and shake some sense into her. But, why do I feel like Sherri’s representing Black folks/women everywhere? She surely doesn’t represent me.

Earlier today, Loverman caught a promo for today’s Oprah and the topic was a man who videotaped himself physically abusing his wife and before they showed a picture of the abuser, the first thing out of Loveman’s mouth was, “I hope it isn’t a brother?” Unfortunately, it was. A few years ago, when the D.C. area was terrorized by a series of seemingly random sniper shootings, I remember feeling pretty confident that a crazed White man would be identified as the shooter and I, along with many others, were shocked to find out how wrong we were.

The flip side of this syndrome is collective pride folks feel when we bask in the glory of the likes of Oprah, Obama, Malcolm and Martin, but somehow, it’s just never enough, and many of us feel saddled with the vestiges of Willie Horton, welfare moms and video hoes.

I’m sure this syndrome has something to do with how Black folks are represented historically, as well as in mainstream media, but for me, it’s an area where I need to do some personal work. I definitely don’t want to pass this tendency onto my kids. I/we cannot carry the burden for an entire race of people on a daily basis. It’s just too heavy.

NOLA Update

Well folks, I’m back and happy to report my sojourn to NOLA was not for naught. I think I caught a glimpse of change. A day or so before I departed, Brad Pitt announced his Make It Right initiative which will focus its attention and resources on rebuilding the Lower Ninth Ward.

Last Thursday, I traveled to the Ninth Ward and I saw the deep pink tarp structures indicating where the Make It Right homes will be built. When I toured the Ninth Ward in March, I was stunned by the absence of energy, but this visit I saw a few people and work crews and I felt the conjuring of energy, movement, maybe even progress.

I recently learned that historically, the Black folks and Creole of New Orleans are known for their expert craftsmanship, with longstanding participation in the building trades and as with most folks, they aren’t looking for a hand out, but a hand up. Will Brad & Company simply step up to the table to build these quirky looking green homes, or will this innovative initiative offer real opportunities for folks to get back on their feet by providing jobs and job training, while contracting with homegrown minority contractors ensuring sustainable change for members of this devastated community?

Time will tell, people. Time will tell.

Bearing Witness

Tomorrow I’m off to NOLA for the National Performance Network’s (NPN) Annual Meeting. Despite the fact that I’ll miss the mango tribe terribly, I’m looking forward to catching up with friends and seeing new performance work. I wish I could say the same about visiting New Orleans.

This will be my second trip to New Orleans this year and as with my previous trip, I’m heading to the Big Easy with lots of trepidation. I’d visited the city years earlier, but Katrina and its aftermath completely ruined my charmed view of the city. Another sad reminder of this country’s disdain for people of color, but of course, that’s a whole ‘nother post.

When I arrived in New Orleans for a business meeting last March, I grabbed a shuttle to my hotel in the French Quarter and during the ride I silently surveyed hundreds of homes in various stages of rebuilding. I saw hundreds more that appeared to be completely abandoned in all types of neighborhoods.

While meeting with my colleagues, I tried to find the right moment to request a tour of the 9th Ward. As I hemmed and hauled looking for the right words, the Louisiana natives I was meeting with, looked at me plainly and asked, “Do you want to go on a disaster tour?” “Uh, yes,” I stammered and went on to explain I wasn’t looking to see the devastation just for a sensational thrill and my colleagues explained that they want as many folks as possible to see what's really going on because they feel as if most people in the country have no idea of how slowly, and in some instances, nonexistent the recovery is. They needed folks from the outside to be a witness.

About five of us went along for the tour and it was unbelievable. As I mentioned, our hotel was in the French Quarter, which appears as if Katrina never happened or at least is a distant memory. Folks were partying up and down Bourbon Street like all’s well with the world.

During our disaster tour (I still can’t believe that’s what they call it) we visited a number of neighborhoods in addition to the 9th Ward. In all of the neighborhoods, except the 9th Ward, I saw dozens of FEMA trailers parked in front yards and driveways. The woman taking us on the tour explained that she was having trouble getting her bearings because so many street signs have been swept away and whole streets are actually missing. She also explained how to read the markings on every house. Each home is marked with a big X and in the Xs four quadrants are numbers indicating what authorities found when investigating the property after the storm. This info included the number of dead bodies found in the house, the date of the inspection, if any pet carcasses were found and so on. Each house also had a line that wrapped around the entire structure and was usually found close to the roof. These are water lines and indicate the water at its highest level. I remember thinking these Xs, numbers, and lines are post-Katrina hieroglyphics.

By this time I was totally bummed, but nothing could prepare me for the absolute bareness of the 9th Ward. At least in the other neighborhoods there were signs of life, activity, things were happening. Here in the 9th Ward--- nada. The silence was deadening. There was an absence of energy, life. We drove for maybe two miles and all I could think of was that at one time, this place was home for thousands of people and now no one is home. It actually looked like a movie set designed to look like a disaster zone. I thought of all of the people who want to return to their home, their city, but can’t because there’s no infrastructure to provide their most basic services, gas, electric, water…etc.

It took hours for me to find words to describe what I’d just seen. I bought back photos and shared them with everyone and anyone who would listen. I relayed stories I’d been told, the generosity and grace I’d witnessed. I was touched by the human spirit’s ability to forgive and heal. I learned that residents of the Gulf Coast no longer trust or depend on the federal government for shit, but their faith lies in their fellow man, their neighbors.

On Thursday, I’m going on another disaster tour, with a busload of people and this time, I’m hoping to witness change.

Finding Your THING?

When I was pregnant with Olivia, Loverman used to spend hour after hour wondering what our little girl’s THING would be as she grew up. He did the same while we were expecting Yannick, too. I listened and dreamed, praying only for their safe passage from the womb to the world.

As the children grow, the two of us catch glimpses of what we think may be their THING, maybe more like leanings toward their THING, but today when Olivia came home with a partial scholarship to an intensive Saturday art program at a local university, our hunches were confirmed. Olivia is an artist.

It’s really not a surprise. Our lives are surrounded by art and artists. My mom is an incredible jewelry designer, my husband’s a filmmaker, I program for a multidisciplinary presenting arts organization. In fact, years ago, I curated an exhibition which included shadowboxes made with found materials and this exhibit included some of Olivia’s early work. I think she may have been three at the time.

From day one, Yannick has been musical. I’d be surprised if music isn’t his THING. It’s in every pore of his little body. His nickname is Be-bop, because even as an infant, he’d bop back and forth to any rhythm within earshot. As a baby, his favorite book was Charlie Parker Played Be-bop. As he’s gotten older, his musical tastes seem to be gravitating towards world traditions including the polyrhythmic North Indian tabla and all things Beatles.

What a gift Miss Olivia has been given! To be affirmed of her talents at such a young age. I think knowing your THING helps to ground you. I know so many folks who are still looking for their THING, or haven’t been given the space and time to really develop what they think their THING may be.

Now, the challenge for Loverman and I will be to strike the right balance between providing support and encouragement, while not allowing this revelation to limit this child as she explores her other talents and interests. We’ve got to know when to step aside and allow nature to run its course, because who says that you can only have one THING?

Score 1 for the little guy!

Yesterday, my entire mango tribe was heading home after the usual Sunday-get-ready-for-Monday errands and Yannick was trying to tell us a story. He's a little chatterbox and as usual, Olivia was butting in and tramping all over the details he was working so hard to provide. When they took a breath, I jumped in and scolded Miss Olivia for never letting her little brother tell the story all by himself. I’m going on and on, blah… blah… blah… blah, about letting the little guy speak and the importance of active listening, when Yannick quips in and says…. “Yeah, like you’re doing right now Mommy.”

We all fell out laughing and afterwards mango mommy just zipped her lips. Point well taken, little guy.

SCORE BOARD
Yannick: 1
Olivia & Mango Mama: 0

Forget the Boogeyman

Condolezza Rice scares me, she always has. Condi is the embodiment of the Ice Princess, with only ice running through her veins.

I guess you’re wondering what got me thinking about this? Well, this morning I learned there’s going to be a new Condi biography dropping on Dec. 11, Condolezza Rice: An American Life and while I listened to the interview with the book’s author, NY Times reporter, Elizabeth Bumiller, I tried to separate the personal from the political and of course, that’s totally impossible. It made me wonder how as a child this woman, who lost a friend in the 1963 bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, could feel at peace with waging such horrors upon others.

Now, I’m not one of those women who thinks every woman needs a man (or another woman), or have children, to be happy and fulfilled, but if Ms. Rice had babies of her own, she wouldn’t be so keen on sending someone else’s into harms way.

I didn't see it comin'

It just snuck up on me. I haven’t felt this way in years, maybe decades. In fact, it wasn’t until this morning that I was even ready to admit it, but I’ve decided there’s nothing wrong with it, so I might as well own it. So here goes… I’ve got the Christmas spirit.

I don’t mean I’m rushing out buying ooo-gobbs of sense less gifts for everybody or I’m running around wearing those tacky holiday sweaters, but I am feeling full of good will and cheer towards my fellow man and (wo) man. I’m not cringing every time I hear a Christmas carol and this morning I even convinced Loverman to get the Christmas lights out so we could dress up the house a bit. I headed out to Targé this afternoon and bought a really great wreath for the door and the cutest holiday cards.

I’m not sure where all of this is coming from, especially because today’s only Dec. 1, but I’m o.k. with it. It sure beats my usual emotional state when the holidays roll around. For as long as I can remember I ducked my head and moved through the holidays with as little fanfare as possible. Since the kids have come on the scene, I’ve tried my best to get with the program, but beyond getting them presents, throwing a tree up in a corner of the living room and baking a few sweet potato pies, I haven’t done much. I’m not proud of my former bah-hum-bug attitude, but it is what it is, and I just haven’t seemed to have the energy to do better.

What’s different this year? Is it simply my attitude, or better yet, my sense of gratitude? Maybe, I’ve been doing a lot of work on trying to focus on what’s going right, as opposed to dwelling on what’s not just the way I want it at that very moment.

The kind of Christmas spirit I’m feeling is the kind where I’m looking forward to everyone losing their edge for a few weeks and instead of running around like chickens with our heads cut off, we’re encouraged to take time to be with family and friends. We eat good food and savor our blessings, or if we’ve had a particularly crappy year, we can look forward to better times and better fortune in the coming new year.

So, it might feel a little foreign, but I’m prepared to go with the flow and ride this holiday spirit wave to wherever it takes me.