HONEYSMOKE

I thought I’d share a common phrase in our house these days. When the girls ask me how I could share these with strangers, I will tell them I was just trying to blog.

1. I was just trying to wash my hands (while slathering soap on both elbows)

2. I was just trying to do my hair (while piling half a jar of Vaseline on hair)

3. I was just trying to paint my toes (while adorning nails, toes and feet with black permanent marker)

4. I was just trying to feed Ringo (while slipping him a chicken nugget)

5. I was just trying to make a picture (while scribbling on the floor)

6. I was just trying to drink my milk (while hanging upside down on the sofa)

7. I was just trying to get this (while picking the bottom toy from a stack of toys on a shelf)

8. I was just trying to share (while grabbing a bag of Goldfish from her sister)

9. I was just trying to get covers (while climbing into bed and kicking Daddy in the head)

10. I was just trying to do this (said countless times when I couldn’t determine what was trying to be accomplished, but I could determine that there was suddenly a great big mess that had been created)

It’s all right, Daddy. You tried.

Simone consoling her father, after he said he did not hear her latest demand.

What you do for one, you must do for the other.

Ken and I have heard this mantra constantly. Most of the time it comes from someone who does not have children. I like to think that those of us who have children learned this lesson the hard way. We buy two of almost everything, but at Christmastime we bought a hand-held Leapster game for Simone but not for Nadia. Big mistake. Nadia was too young, I thought. While this may be true, she quickly took an interest in her sister’s gift and had fun with it.

Tug of wars broke out. Simone and Nadia shed tears. We replaced the batteries time and time again. That’s when I suggested we buy one for Nadia, who enjoyed the learning toy as much as or more than her sister. I know, I know. Children shouldn’t play these games for hours and hours.

A few days later, we purchased a new hand-held game. The wars ended. The tears dried. We bought a lot of batteries. Peace had been restored. For those of you who may forget the mantra above, don’t make our mistake. What you do for one, you must do for the other.

The Girl Who Fell From The Sky

By Heidi W. Durrow

I “met” Durrow last week on the Mixed Chicks, but that’s not the reason I went out and bought her book. A writer friend of mine reviewed the work for a national magazine and told me she read the book quickly and that it tells an extraordinary story about race. That coupled with the little I already knew about the author compelled me to drive to the nearest big box bookstore and get a copy. I have to say I am glad I made the effort. The Girl Who Fell From The Sky is a remarkable book. The novel is a portrait of a biracial girl who is navigating the tepid waters of race and class, and it won the 2008 Bellwether Prize for best fiction manuscript addressing issues of social justice.

I had hoped I could finish it before writing this post. Instead I will update it in a day or two. The book is set in the 1980s, and I love picking up on all of the popular culture sprinkled throughout the prose. The main character is a military brat, which resonates with me because my father is retired from the U.S. Air Force.  Check it out.

ETA: I don’t want to give anything away, but I have not ever read anything like it.

I read this article about interracial marriages, and I saw a piece of information I typically see in stories about interracial relationships.

The divorce rate is higher in an interracial marriage than in those composed of two people of the same race. My immediate question: According to whom?

Every time I see this assertion, it is not followed by a statistic. It is just floated out there as truth. A few years ago, I called the U.S. Census Bureau and several research organizations, trying to find statistics to back up this premise. I couldn’t find anything. If such data or research exists, I would certainly like to see it and find out why the rate is higher, lower, or the same.

The theory makes sense. Those in interracial marriages have to deal with race on top of all the other issues that come with a marriage, and so, it is more likely the marriage will be torn asunder. I understand the reasoning, but I am not sure it is true. Two people willing to walk down the aisle and do something different may be more likely to stay together. They are aware of the concerns, before they appear. I also believe you have to know who you are and be pretty comfortable with that person to enter into a interracial relationship.

Prove me wrong or right. If anyone knows where such data is kept, please point me in the right direction. If it’s not out there, I may have to wage a one-woman campaign and start challenging this assumption, especially when it shows up in news articles.

I gathered all the records I needed to prove Simone is a real person: a birth certificate, Social Security card and immunization records. Then I gathered everything I needed to prove we live in the school district: gas bill, water bill and a mortgage payment stub. I am not keen on providing the payment stub, but I understand why the school district requires it. If all of the schools were good, administrators wouldn’t have to worry about children attending schools outside of their zone. But I digress.

I carried all of the documents to the school, handed them over to the secretary and filled out three sheets of paperwork. All of the forms came in more than one language, including Arabic. When it came time to answer the race question, there were no little boxes to check. There was a small space, where I wrote “biracial.”

Simone has been registered for Kindergarten, and it was easy. What may not be so easy is taking her there in the fall. I don’t think I will need to attend the Boo-Hoo Breakfast, an annual rite of passage for parents sending their children off to school for the first time. I also don’t think I will cry. I am told, though, that parents have a hard time sending their children to school for the first time, and there must be a reason why schools host those Boo-Hoo Breakfasts. I am not one of those kinds of mothers, am I? No, I am looking forward to waving good-bye to Simone as she embarks on her educational career. Next stop: Breakfast with all of the Kindergarten teachers at Simone’s soon-to-be new school.

As soon as the words tumbled from my mouth, I knew I was in trouble.

We haven’t dealt with race in a while, I told the Mixed Chicks. That night, Simone and Nadia chose the books they wanted me to read to them. They each chose three, and Nadia picked Martin’s Big Words.

“I have a dream that one day in Alabama little black boys and black girls will join hands with little white boys and white girls,” I read.

“What color am I? Am I beige?” Simone asked, showing me her arm as if she wanted me to survey it and then give it a color.

It took a moment for me to process her question. Simone likes to ask questions, but they are usually about the book.

“You’re beautiful, Boo,” I said, showering her arm with kisses. “You’re biracial. Your mommy is black and your daddy is white.”

I knew I hadn’t answered her question. Truth is, I didn’t want to. I will provide her with facts, but I want her to decide what she will do with them. It is part of my parenting philosophy. While I hated it growing up, I learned more when I completed tasks by myself or developed my own ideas. I don’t want Simone to confront me one day and say, “You told me I was this, and I am really that.” So, I kept quiet about her color that night.

“Biracial. That’s my color?”

Parent fail. I had confused her, and I certainly didn’t want to do that. I tried again, this time giving her the power to decide.

“What color do you think you are?”

“Beige?” she asked. I didn’t say anything. “Tan,” she said, confidently. “Daddy is beige.”

“You’re tan,” I confirmed. “Daddy is beige.”

This was not the first time I had fielded questions about color. I would like to say this question and others like it are becoming easier to answer. I am getting better at answering them, but they are still tough.

Note to self: Don’t go on any more podcasts, bragging about how you haven’t talked about race or any other difficult topic in a while. You will surely eat those words. Okay? Thanks.

So, what do you say? Have your children asked you something and you had to really think before you provided an answer?

I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no sticky.

Nadia letting us know she would like to have a peanut butter sandwich.