DIGGING UP WHITE ROOTS- HOW HISTORY GREW MY MIND.

I would like to propose that we create for the American people a month dedicated to white history. I know... Morgan Freeman says history is history, but I can’t help but feel that white people need some special emphasis, like a dedicated 30 days out of an already white year of history, to explore the inception of what a white race is.

Our eyes come into focus as we sift through the very familiar stories of a collective past. We unveil those tarnished gems that many have not heard. The revived luster of this forgotten history could illuminate the dark corners of those bleached hearts; ones that may beat even as this sentence is written, or as it is read; stories responsible for stripping the common, pink color once present in all of our collective chests.

Let’s start with the impressive narrative of our nation; it is an account claimed predominately by the pale hands of Englishmen. Our history was written by European colonists. They documented the stamina required to create a country, ensuring that future Americans would always be aware of the labor involved in tinkering and thinking; lofty hobbies when one isn’t confined to toil and starve.

The great ideas of the past are enshrined by god-like descriptions of Christian men. Valiantly our forefathers wrote rules to a game that they could win. While writing our constitution they determined that a future America could perhaps live without slavery; but the idea of abolishing it would not even be open for discussion before twenty more years of free profits had been extracted from the lives of their current enslaved people. The framers conspired and compromised and created a country, while the most severe foundational work was achieved by nameless humans called servants and slaves.

 Black History is American history. Deeply entrenched in this too often unexamined story is the birth of an institution that we continue to  brush off as a long begone belief; that “white people are superior to those of all other races, especially the black race, and should therefore dominate” (first definition given for ‘white supremacy’ with a Google search). This measly definition sets the stage for any half decent human in our society to shun the very idea. ‘I don’t “feel” that way, therefore my conscience is absolved from giving any further thought to the matter.’ But what unresolved issues surface when we read a complete definition of white supremacy?

“...an historically based, institutionally perpetuated system of exploitation and oppression of continents, nations and peoples of color by white peoples and nations of the European continent; for the purpose of maintaining and defending a system of wealth, power and privilege” (Sharon Martinas 1995 CWS Workshop)

This definition is packed full. Without history, we can never get all of its contents out of the bag. What nations were exploited? What historical figures were oppressors? Who were the beneficiaries of this privilege? What have we internalized from our history?

At first I asked myself, what wealth and power did I have while my mother was waiting for the food stamps to arrive? We were car-less and often homeless. I couldn’t wrap my head around any extra that my whiteness had given me.

I remember vividly what the stereotype towards twentieth-century, ragged white, welfare kid, felt like. I was poor, but I could get my dad’s side of the family to buy me an authentic Stussy T-shirt, and during recess, when that well-to-do kid reached in my collar and flipped out my tag, I could have a victorious moment basking in what it felt like to be a whole person. Not being poor was an attainable dream  It was something I could work hard to change and prevent that stereotype from attacking me in the future.

Now imagine that I can’t alter my poverty. Let’s pretend that poverty is a skin color and no matter what I do; the clothes I wear, the goals I obtain; a whole society only sees the poverty of my skin. Generations of children grew up with this stereotype called racism. It hacked into who they were, and who they could become.

But let’s get back to being white. This “Institutional racism” that you hear about has been around since the beginning of our great nation. It is credited with taking a motley crew of immigrants and renaming them “white”.  In this way, our ancestors who struggled (but chose) to sail to a land not native to them; who lived by the skin of their teeth, and died to give birth to new ways of thinking; were promised a monetary gain in the form of a thought:

‘You may be poor as your lawmakers grow rich on your labor; you may toil so relentlessly that you and your children and your children’s children will be unable to attain an education; you may not have the means to afford a voice in determining the laws of the nation you die for, but as consolation, you can be white.’

And the rest is white history, written through each decade with a firm grasp on the so called prize of superiority; while the majority of white Americans were poor, disenfranchised and uneducated, twenty percent of the American population was considered ⅗ of a person; the white American owned his squalor, whether it be in the north or the south, while at the same time black Americans were coerced into “the largest and most rapid mass internal movement in history” (Nicholas Leeman, 1991).  A thirsty White American, poor as she may be, could still drink from the same fountain that her wealthy lawmaker drank from. While each class shared the common watering hole of the rich, segregation ripped across the hearts of black men and women and children.

Our own Supreme Court denied any discrimination with ‘separate but equal’ policies, in Plessy v. Ferguson. This was the precedent for the next 60 years. Finally Brown v. Board of Education declared, “To separate [children]... solely because of their race, [causes] a feeling of inferiority...that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely ever to be undone…”

These are the words from our own Judiciary system, recognizing that the damage done to black Americans would be insurmountable to mend; that the unwillingness to embrace the history of a people who built a nation, would not be undone, even 60 years later with the exultant election of a president whose skin was brown.

White supremacy lives like a silent floating cell, passed down through generations to each person who has never known better and as such, cannot do better. To me, February is a moment to focus on learning and teaching a history that hasn’t become mainstream. I don’t agree that to end racism we need to stop talking about it. Sorry Morgan Freeman.

Talking about race is scary. I hope that by celebrating black history with emphasis this month, and with passionate interest for the rest of my life, that my kids won’t feel that fear. I live in a society where no one has ever judged me for my skin color. I don’t have to fear that my children will be detained (or worse) by the law based on their skin. When I drive by 3 consecutive streets in the town of Oakhurst named: Black, Spook, and Hangtree, I can identify that if I had black skin I would be tormented by this. There was a time where those streets meant nothing to me. But I know better now.

-Emily

A GIRL, AND A COLLISION WITH WOMANHOOD.

Blonde, ragged hair trailed down my naked back as I left the house shirtless once again. I shoved off hard on my bike and into the long, straight street ahead of me, eager to create the whirl of wind in my ears. It was the end of summer and the air was filled with ladybugs. I swerved through the speckled light as I stood tall atop the pedals, coasting in and out of the shade provided by tall, swaying pines. I was 8.

That year I would hit a bump in the road and knock out half of my left, front tooth on my handlebars. That year my mom would give me a haircut with bangs and I would leadingly ask everyone I met if they thought I looked like Aurora. That year I would walk backward together with the neighbor-boy, dragging our feet as we danced to Michael Jackson... his dad would overhear me saying there were dead bodies in the vacation rental across the street, and promptly send me home. I was a little kid, carefree, with big ideas and an abundant imagination- and by the beginning of the following year, I would be wasting my time trying to mimic what the world told me a girl should be.

As autumn approached, my mom and step-dad would get divorced.  We three girls would lose our home. Poverty would push us into the arms of anyone who would take us. And I would lose myself pretending that I was an orphan like Annie, escaping my woes through song and dance; placing all my hopes on magic and miracles.

Just before the weather turned cold, my sister and I were sent out on our bikes to the last place we had couch-surfed, in an attempt to collect our forgotten winter clothes. We could make it safely there by taking the back roads and staying off the main street.We retraced the same route on our way back; plastic shopping bags filled with coats and pants, banging against the tires as we pedaled hard uphill. Panting heavily at the top of a particularly steep hill, with a long distance still to go, I resolved to feel that freedom from worry again. I wanted all those simple moments back, I wanted to feel the ladybugs pelting against my face, as I tore through that dappled light, making my own wind. I shoved off. Pedaling fast.

“Emily… Emily Stop! You better stop!! I’m going to tell!! ...Emily!!”

My sister's cries became a murmur as gravity pulled me faster towards the quiet intersection at the bottom. The trees blocked any oncoming traffic from around the corner, but it didn’t matter. I was wind and light and I never even slowed down. If danger existed, I would narrowly escape it. Nothing could stop me.

And then a truck ran me over.

A concussion later, with a cast that ran clean from the top of my thigh to the tip of my toe, my mom stood beside the hospital bed recalling how I had eyeballed a girl with crutches just one week before. “I wish I had crutches” were the careless words that had left my lips.

Now I lie awake in my sleeping bag, an incessant itch behind my unreachable knee; my ankle bruised on my good leg from each bump against the tough, white exterior of the cast. I relearn to sit, and pee, and bathe and it feels like the damn thing is on for years, even though it is only a few months. My mom can’t say no and allows me to go swimming with the thing on, and afterward, the mildew stench creeping up from the dark confines of my leg are revolting. Coat hangers become my best friend, as I push the bent wire down between my irritated skin and the cast.  

Finally, the doctor cuts it off. I am horrified to find my leg shriveled. Curly black hairs have evasively strangled out the blond. I can’t stand the way it looks. I am not Aurora. I am a monster with a skinny, smelly, hairy twig of a leg. That night in the bath, I shave off all of my leg hair. The clouded soup of bath water laps around me. My removed hair hangs on the inside of the white tub. No one can know how gross this is. I just need to be like everybody else. But my leg hair never stops growing back black, and so I begin the social conformity of shaving off my own body hair, before the age of 10.

Later, when puberty is on the brink, and my body flourishes like a weedy garden, my best friend’s older sister informs me that shaving from the knee down will not suffice for me. We three lie in a row on her back porch, bellies down as we sunbath. I twist around, propped up on my elbows to see her scrutinizing the dense hair that coats the back of my thighs. The sunlight bounces off each hair, creating a matt of texture over the smooth brown contour of my leg. Hideous.

At some point, I must have wished for body hair. It comes in droves. I am constantly monitoring my bushy laden privates, barely hidden behind the fabric of my bikini. I shave it off whenever I can that summer. Tiny red bumps riddle my skin, itching, burning. The older sister gives me Nair. The smell is enough to singe the hair from my nostrils, but I endure the sting, the mess, and nothing; my hairy coat of armor doesn’t budge.

I blame God for doing this thing; giving me hair where normal girls don’t have any. I pluck it from beneath my belly button so that my boyfriend won’t know I’m a wooly ghoul. The roots are deep and thick and I watch as my skin is yanked up with each hair. One painful hair down, an innumerable amount to still go, for as long as I am a girl, for as long as I am supposed to be hairless.

This whole routine happens behind the veiled curtain of “woman”. We are hairless. That’s what the world portrays us as. There aren’t many Frida Kahlo's walking around to defer a second opinion to. And hairlessness is just one of the legs supporting the weight of what we should be. Maybe shaving and plucking, and resorting to waxing on occasion, is your cup of tea. But I personally find it taxing, saddled alongside the need to be thin and pretty and always smiling as the world judges your worth.

It takes consistent effort to remember how whole I once felt as a girl, wild and free, before the pressure to conform to something sideswiped me. It took years to even consider if I wanted to shave all these parts of my body.

Eventually, I stopped because, fuck you, Gillette! And because my body constantly revolted by responding with repeated ingrown hairs and razor burn. I let the hair beneath my arms grow because I knew my daughter would soon grow hair beneath hers, and the last thing I wanted is for her to begin her journey into womanhood acknowledging that she must make herself less.

I will be her Frida, even when I still feel embarrassed by my own natural, God-given, mammalian hair; I will recall the strength and the joy of being that little, shirtless girl. I will give my own girls permission to make trusted, conscious choices about their own changing bodies.

Realistically, tackling social conformities takes time. I just recently wore a bathing suit with full fledged body hair but it was with my closest friends. I can’t say I won’t ever shave again. But It’s worth it that my girls see me question and even struggle, rather than blindly shave because I’m a “woman”.

-Emily

WOMEN AND SEXUALITY- The Pressure to Reciprocate.

As a younger woman, I have had my “Margo” moment. I have had my “Grace” moment too, where I didn’t have to hate myself so much the next day and could just focus on what a prick he was. Aziz’s date got away…but was it from him?

The curse of being a vulnerable woman in a sexual setting befalls any dame who was raised on this perpetuated myth: you are less than a man. This lie raised me from the time I was a little girl; stuffing my Barbie into tiny pink stilettos so she could get Ken’s attention; I’m 8 and impressionable, idolizing Jessica Rabbit in her provocative red dress, displaying her only real power over man, a sexy bod; I’m worshipping Han Solo as he grabs himself a mouth full of Leia whenever the mood strikes him. Later in school, the lessons on US government and US history confirmed what I was starting to sense: parts of women were valuable; as a whole, we held less worth. The rights and stories of our people described as only “men” disregarded the potential for “women” to feel equal and to have a voice; as if words don’t have power.

No, in my opinion, “Grace” didn’t get away from Aziz; she got away from that huge, ugly, universally relatable monster that women are just beginning to identify: ORDASA… or, obligated reciprocity during a sexual advance. That’s a fucking mouthful (no pun intended Grace… sorry not sorry because, humor). Unfortunately, this topic has not been opened for discussion. Defining the girl that got away as something other than a “tease” or a “slut that won’t put out” is still new to us. Yes, in case you’ve forgotten high school, the girls are just as mean as the boys. I don’t ever recall one of the guys being called a slut, and if he was, it wasn’t derogatory.

So who is Grace? An attention seeker? A girl gleaning power from another’s fame, or worse...a confident female with a healthy sex life? This probably really pretty girl, who was holding out until maybe the second date, went through a yucky experience but continued allowing a lot to happen. And that would have been fine. But now she is talking about it. Unfortunately, the focus is on what Aziz was doing (badly and probably not soft enough) because we can’t wrap our heads around the idea (Grace included maybe) that this time it’s a story about a woman who chose not to relent when penetration was repeatedly presented. Insert BBC birds of paradise video here.

She vocalized the challenge that we as women come up against; to put-out even when we don’t want to. Because as educated and as feminist as we strive to be, in the dark, in a sexual embrace, we have already sealed the deal. It’s all in, otherwise, a stigma of gargantuan proportions is going to fall from the height of man and squish you; you don’t have to go all the way to be a slut, all you have to do is hurt his ego. The fear of criticism or retaliation to follow, that’s where the submission comes in.

I hear those who are saying that “Grace” shouldn’t be airing this encounter for all to hear, and I get it; we don’t talk about this. It wasn’t rape. It wasn’t violent or physically aggressive. It definitely wasn’t sexy or sensual… but that’s also not a crime, and so what’s the actual story here…?

It’s a woman walking away; to some, an unworthy story: nothing happened. Only the #metoo movement has not only exposed the vulgarity that powerful men thrust at women, it has peeled back a curtain on women’s sexuality. We are identifying the very common skeletons in our own closets. ORDASA is one of those shameful things we have sought to hide, thinking we were alone in our fears to walk away. But we aren’t alone. Having unwanted sex as a woman is not unique. Someone who's fended off this unwanted sex and has given it a platform, for other women to identify the problem and discuss solutions; that is unique.

We are the ones who will learn and grow from this experience. Aziz and the like can change too; read some “what women like” self-help books or something. But ultimately this particular lesson is for women. You can want sex, you can stop wanting sex, and you can leave; all on the same date. Put it to practice. Preach it. Make it a norm for a generation of girls who will someday read Roupenian’s brilliant short story Cat Person, and hopefully find zero of it relatable.

-Emily

IN DEFENSIVE OF FEELINGS- Why Emotion Leads to Logic.

I blame my grandiose fantasies, of dispelling stereotypes and creating connections through shared emotions, on an adorable cartoon animal of the 80’s. I had a deep affection for my plush Tenderheart Bear. His soft, brown fur and white belly, complete with a red heart at its center, became an affectionate companion of my youth. He was the leader of the other CareBears, the one who helped the other creatures understand the power of their emotions and how to use their feelings to defeat evil.

There is a reason this character is animated and not real; trying to create solidarity among peoples of differing opinions, with an emphasis on respect, is like expecting a zygote and a baby to talk nicely to each other. As the comment sections of most of our social-media confirms, animosity conquers. Nobody cares about your feelings. Sorry, Tenderheart.

Much like my animated, plush-friend, I have difficulty making sense of life choices that are based on pure logic. I get a twinge of angst in my gut witnessing someone drop statistics and data all over someone else’s life experience. It takes a little extra effort to acknowledge the people who do things juxtaposed to our individual choices, but those not willing to do so are really only singing to their own choirs.  

I enjoy being right as much as the next person, but the things I feel most passionately about are the things I want my opponents to consider. I don’t want to scare them off with judgment or condemnation. It also behooves me to learn why they formed conclusions opposite to mine. I want the dialect, the heartfelt reasons someone’s journey lead them to convictions I couldn’t imagine having. Show me the emotions and suddenly I understand. Our disagreements stem from very similar feelings; ones that we routinely stuff down, ignore, or chalk up to pure rubbish.  

I have never birthed a baby in a hospital, but I know what it feels like to be afraid and overwhelmed, feelings that my so-called adversaries have experienced as well. I know that hospitals save lives, but I “felt” more secure birthing four babies at home. We can connect here, in this feeling of security. And, now we are rolling and having a conversation in regards to all the wonderful reasons why someone may or may not birth in a hospital.

Feelings are a valuable starting place, not to be confused as an excuse to make up one’s mind about things. For example, the drudgery I “feel” for routinely removing 60% of my body hair hasn’t immediately lead to me unfurling my expanding bikini line on the masses. The assumed identity of what a “woman” looks like, an opinion held by most (some who have seen my underarm hair and called it “disgusting”),  has led me to question, research, and discuss what kind of perimeters a woman is restricted to. Ultimately, the glorious aha moments come when I discover that my feelings often know things before my logical half confirms it (thank you intuition and Naomi Wolfe).

Not everyone processes the world around them like an INFP (personality type). But I know that I am only unique in regards to the other personalities that I take the time to understand. Knowing myself is a process that takes into consideration the world at large. And the way in which we process this life often comes in the form of emotions; they are absolutely not supposed to be stuffed away. The loveliest thing you can do is share them and simultaneously give someone permission to do the same.

-Emily

POST PARDON ME- Sharing the Manifestation of Postpartum Depression.

I looked up through the night that was closing in around our apartment building. The slender crack of light glowing where the curtains wouldn’t touch, in our second story bedroom window, revealed that life was hidden within. That was where my newborn baby was. Moments ago, I’d pulled my aching nipple from her locked lips and then held my breath in anticipation of her cry, as she searched for me, suckling the air between us. This time, peace came to her, and she fell back to sleep. Relieved, I rolled onto my back and freed the sigh held captive in my chest.

“Sleep when she sleeps”

My midwife’s words came to me; tired mothers are weepy, I must maintain a diligence against postpartum. If I am not well rested the wear and tear of becoming a mother might make me sad; the deep red stretch marks etched over my abdomen, the repeatedly fresh, pink wounds resistant to heal on my nipples, the warm tangy smell of spit-up breast-milk clinging to the sheets on my bed, these things could quickly add up to an “unreliably” negative outlook.

I mouthed her name silently, still trying it on, as mother speaking to daughter. I had done this countless times while pregnant with her, rubbing circles on the growing fundus of my baby, and saying aloud the name she would fulfill;

“Haven”

I turned my head to receive the dose of oxytocin that accompanied her very existence, the folds of brand new skin squished together under her protruding lips. My eyes followed the sweet round curve of her cheek that led to a tiny glimpse of her elusive neck. I was well aware that my hormones were adjusting, picturing the trail of neurotransmitters in my body failing to light, lacking the glow that fueled all that bygone pregnant-contentment: estrogen, progesterone, endorphins, all of them once wrapped together in my grasp. Now I felt them dropping like a delicate glass ball that I scrambled to get a hold of before it left my fingers and shattered.

She wouldn’t slumber for long. I had only just stopped sleeping with her in the living room, a nest of pillows shoved around me in the papasan chair so that she could rest with her belly to mine, her cheek pressed into my chest, upright and closer than close. This yielded sleep. This was a solution to the night walks, fruitless burping, and instant spit-ups that splashed us awake when she was vertical. I had an army of supplies encircling our nest, everything was set to be a fingers-stretch away: diapers, wipes, burping cloths, giant glass of water.

“You must stay hydrated.”

Marilyn’s voice again. She told us both, repeatedly, as we sat side by side at our monthly appointments, John’s warm protective fingers laced in mine, that it was up to us to to do all these things (so many things). I didn’t understand at the time that my future baby would hold me personally accountable for all of her needs, whereas John would need me to explicitly ask for backup; assistance in successfully fulfilling all those needs. I had no idea how incapable I would feel asking for the amount of help that I actually needed. So, as I grabbed the empty water cup in my hand and reset it beside me, stuffing my thirst away, I thought of him; his body in our bed, sleeping as he always had, committing crimes with his well rested-ness, smuggling away all the availability to move freely through this world, his potential to pop up and get a drink of water without considering the impact it would make on the universe.

I rolled silently from the bed and stood admiring the tiny lump she made. Maybe we were progressing, this sleeping girl in the middle of our bed, perhaps she would allow our invisible tether to stretch and I could reconnect with solitary me. I retreated to the bathroom, lowering the seat over what was beginning to look like a frat house toilet bowl. I sat there and cried while listening to the soft chuckles from the living-room where John and our roommate, Matt played Zelda. I needed a place that I could wail. I needed a comfort that I wasn’t sure existed anymore. If I took two steps to the right, my reflection would be waiting for me and the ugliness there was too much. I had showered a total of two times, once immediately after birth and once while John paced in the bathroom, fearfully cradling our baby as her cries echoed off the walls. In that moment, I was terrified that she would cry too hard. I quickly rinsed the soap from my head and watched as startling amounts of my hair washed down the drain. Like the freak show I was evolving into, I pulled back the curtains to reveal my naked form, framed by the vapor just beginning to cling to the mirror. Nothing can prepare you for that; the empty womb pouch, extra weight, swollen breasts and stretched skin, nipples elongated and transformed by their productivity, tired, tired eyes and skin and ...ugh.

Those same bathroom walls were now closing in on me. I pulled my bathrobe around myself and walked through the living room unnoticed. I didn’t want to be seen. I left our apartment and carefully descended the cement steps outside and was met with a rush of cold air on my face as I left the alcove. I gasped and choked on my own breath and crumpled. The pitty I harbored for myself at that moment was heavy enough to pull me down. And I cried my fucking face off. I repeatedly mouthed “I can’t do it”, glancing into that sliver of light above me where she was, ashamed of the remorse and angst and confusion that I felt for motherhood.

I couldn’t raise a hand to count my blessings. I was failing at this thing. I had to get it together before anyone knew. I had to breathe. I needed to get up. Just then a shrill whine called from behind that upstairs windowpane. Haven. My body was moving up the stairs before I had time to make a conscious choice. I floated through the living-room in my long white robe like the ghost of woman’s past and disappeared down the hallway. She needed me, no matter how disassembled I felt at that moment, my parts would provide her comfort and nourishment. And, if I couldn’t get those things for myself, I could find solace in being the one who could give them to her.

I revisit this moment in my history, time and time again. There was a very metaphorical ‘window of opportunity’ showing itself to me that night, that view from below, that last bit of light shining through. Hours passed that night and I couldn’t console Haven’s cries; when she wouldn’t latch, wouldn’t stay swaddled, or be rocked, I kneeled over the bed and abruptly released her body from my arms. Then I said out loud “I don’t want you.” Instantly I clapped a hand over my mouth. I backed away from her horrified. I rushed down the hallway and jerked John awake from the couch, confessing the thing I’d done.

“I told her I didn’t want her! I told her I didn’t want her… John!”

He jumped up, putting his hands on my shoulders, looking a little terrified. Realizing that something bad may have happened, he let go of me and ran for Haven. I buried my face in my hands. He returned with an instantly consoled baby in one arm. With the other, he embraced me.

“Emily, shhh... she’s okay. She’s okay. You’re okay.”

He guided me to bed.

“Sleep.”

He tucked me in and kissed my wet cheek. With Haven in his arms, he switched off the light and closed the bedroom door. Sometime in the night he inserted her warm body back against mine, exposing my breast for her. He held me, us, a family. I would learn to depend on him. He would learn to make himself available. Our children would grow from this direct exchange between us. I would continue, from this moment on, to look for those slivers of light and connect them, knowing there would be hardship in between. But, also knowing we would make it.“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.”

Leonard Cohen

-Emily