Earning His Keep

When I found Max two months ago on Craig’s List, he was a cute, black-stripped tabby in search of a forever home. Since that time he’s morphed into Mad Max, a furry terror destroying my beloved plants and breaking picture frames left and right. His cuteness is wearing thin quickly.

Up until I had my kids, I considered myself a pet person, but once the babies hit the scene, any creatures that depended on me for sustenance, are merely a pain in the butt. When Loverman first moved in, I inherited Nia, a street-wise cat, that didn’t just kill mice, she pulverized them. In fact, that’s why Loverman named her Nia, because in some West African language Nia supposedly means purpose, and Nia’s sole purpose was to rid our home of the occasional little, fuzzy vermin, and she did so with a vengeance. The only evidence of her crime was a few smudges of blood in the tub or along a floorboard. Unfortunately, Nia died earlier this year, thus, the search for her replacement on Craig’s List.

Now, for those of you not familiar with the habits and tendencies of cats, it’s important to note that not all cats are mousers, and from what I’ve been told, most cats simply swat mice to death, but I’m happy to report, last night, Max lived up to the legacy of his predecessor and actually caught and ate (well most of) his first mouse.

Mad Max, welcome to the family!

Friday Morning Madness

So, this morning in my usual chaotic attempt to get the kids out of bed, washed, teeth brushed, dressed and down for breakfast, I was stopped in my tracks when my 5 yr. old complained that he couldn’t brush his teeth.

“Why baby?”

“Because the batteries in my toothbrush are dead!”

New World Order

Even though my oldest, Olivia, is only in 3rd grade, homework time is often stressful, and I guess it’s understandable since Olivia’s homework is in Spanish and neither Loverman or I are native Spanish speakers. Both Olivia and Yannick are in an immersion program at their school and they learn most of their lessons in Spanish. From the first day of kindergarten through 4th grade, their teachers speak to them in Spanish and the kids are expected to respond in Spanish, so for Olivia, this is her 4th year of Spanish and she surpassed her parent’s Spanish comprehension by the middle of 1st grade. Yannick’s only in his fifth week of kindergarten, so fortunately, we’re still of assistance to the little guy, but he’s a quick learner, so I guess we’d better watch out.

When family and friends hear that the kids learn in Spanish all day and find out that Loverman and I don’t speak much Spanish, they often ask why we chose to put the kids in a Spanish speaking program and for us it’s really simple, we’re preparing our children for the new world order.

Both Olivia and Yannick are bright, curious kids and when it came to finding a school that complemented our worldview, this school and its progressive academic approach seemed ideal. Sure, homework can be stressful, and communication with the mostly native Spanish-speaking teachers is sometimes challenging and sometimes, there are cultural nuances that need to be addressed, but overall, it’s exceeded our expectations. See, we’re teaching our children that yes, we live in the U.S., but we’re also citizens of the world and both within and beyond the borders of this country, Spanish is widely spoken. Actually, 400 million people worldwide speak Spanish.

Children are sponges and adapt quite easily to learning a new language, culture, etc. Oftentimes, it’s the parents that must step outside our comfort zone to truly prepare our children to be competitive globally.

And still I rise...

The other morning I was listening to Radio Times with Marty Moss-Coane and the subject of the show was the war on women in the east Congo. Top U.N. officials are calling the sexual violence towards these women the worst in the world. Marty’s guests, Christine Karumba, who was born in the Democratic Republican of Congo (DRC) and is now the country director there for Women for Women International, and Stephen Lewis, who is a former United Nations Envoy on Aids in Africa, are calling for the creation of a U.N. Women’s Agency to devise a plan to end this horrific violence in east Congo.

Over and over during the discussion, Moss-Coane asked both her guests and those calling in, why isn’t anything being done? Why isn’t this on anyone’s radar? Why isn’t it the lead story on CNN? And guess what… no one had the courage to simply say, because it’s Black African women who are being ravaged and ultimately, the world could care less about Black women, whether it’s Black women being raped and mutilated in Africa, or a Black woman kidnapped, tortured and raped in West Virginia.

Could the answer to Marty’s questions really be this sad and this simple?

Unbeweavable

O.K. before I get into this I should offer full disclosure. I’ve never had a hair weave or even wore a wig. I’ve had dreadlocks or a natural short cut most of my adult life. I may, in some circles, even be considered a natural hair snob, yet I do understand the versatility and convenience offered by both weaves and wigs.

What I don’t understand is the large number of beautiful, brown girl children with weaves going down their backs. What’s up with this? Who puts a weave on a child? Again, is it about convenience? I remember the days when little girls simply had cornrows or pigtails, maybe even a press & curl. Now, we have these young girls with Nubian Yak and Ripple Waves, hairstyles that make them look like little grown women. Don’t even get me started on the subliminal messages we’re sending these children, the first being--- what they’ve been given naturally isn’t good enough.

On many fronts, our society encroaches on the innocence of children and childhood, and I guess this is just another example, but for young Black female children, I am especially concerned. The portrayal of Black woman in popular cultural is often characterized as sassy, loud, overweight or hypersexual. For young Black girls, sassy and loud still apply in both live action programs and cartoons. Bratz dolls are marketed to our girls with thongs and tight shirts with cleavage. Parents have to work double-time to identify alternatives that celebrate and affirm our children. If you ask me, it’s time for us to go old school, like back in the day, when you had to be a certain age before you got a perm or even wore your hair “out.” It’s fine for adults to make these choices for themselves, but until our children have an honest sense of self and all of their beauty, I think it’s best to keep it as natural as possible.

R.I.P.

Listen up! This is an easy one. I am not, have never been and will never be a bitch. I don’t want to be called one by the men in the “old boys club,” or by the frat boys in the pub, or by the brothers hanging on the corners or in the clubs, or by my Girlfriends, or the Queens of Comedy or by Isaiah Thomas. It’s totally unacceptable. No one gets a pass on this one.

I can’t seem to figure out when the use of the word “bitch” became so pervasive, but it’s been out of control for a long time and it's time to put the bitch to rest. Calling a woman a bitch is often hurtful, and mean and never cute or endearing. It’s demeaning and more importantly, it’s not how I want our young girls to start characterizing themselves. R.I.P.

Lessons Learned

Last spring my family and I moved into a new house. This move was in response to a break-in nine months earlier one evening when the kids and I were home alone. We lived in a working-class neighborhood in Philadelphia. The house was on a major thoroughfare, with motion lights all around the perimeter, locks on all the doors, and an alarm system. We thought we were safe. Fortunately, neither the children nor I were physically hurt, but the emotional toll was indelible, especially for Miss Olivia and me.

For months following the break-in Olivia and I didn’t talk to each other much about what had happened. I didn’t want to upset her and she was doing the same for me. When we finally did talk about it. I was amazed by the details she remembered. At the time, she was only 7 years old, but she remembered the police waking her up with their guns drawn and her father grabbing her out of her bed assuring her that everything was o.k. My heart broke when she asked why I chose to grab her brother from another room, but not her. I explained that her brother was only a few feet away from me, but to get her I would’ve had to cross the hall, wake her and get her out of the top bunk of her bed. I didn’t want to draw any more attention up the stairs. In a split second, I opted to leave Olivia asleep on the 2nd fl. while I made my way to the telephone on the 3rd fl. Fortunately, she understood, and I thank God every day for making this move possible, because there are countless families that feel their living in a vulnerable situation, but don’t have the resources to move.

Despite the trauma of the break-in, my family and I have experienced many blessings from this incident. It’s brought clarity to what Loverman and I want for our family. We decided it was time to abandon our urban adventure and really acknowledge the violence that plagues our city’s streets. This is not the type of environment we wanted for our kids. It’s also taught me the importance of not underestimating the capacity for understanding of our children. By sharing my fears and thoughts with Olivia and encouraging her to do the same, we’ve been able to dispel misconceptions about the events of that evening which could have negatively impacted our relationship for years to come.

You can learn more about my story by checking out the following link: http://storiesforchange.net/node/466 or by clicking on the title of this post, LESSONS LEARNED.