Passin' in Reverse – The Rachel Dolezal Story

Shhh! I’ve got a secret. You want to know what it is? I am fascinated by Rachel Dolezal. I've followed her story since she was outed for passing as Black. There are those who think (including her) that what she did wasn't a big deal, and that it shouldn't over shadow the work she did. It shouldn't. My biggest problem with Rachel is her not owning that what she did was wrong. In the interviews I’ve seen, she is as slippery as a bar of wet soap. When asked if she lied while talking with the BBC, she said how can you lie about a lie.  Rachel continues to argue that race is a social construct even though we already know this. So, why lie about a lie? Does that make it less of a lie?

I was gifted her book, In Full Color, and I'm reading now. I want to understand. But it's like watching a train wreck, having gapers' block. It is for me what reality TV or Maury is for others. 

The book does provide insight into who she is, but it doesn't change what she did. Truth be told: I really don't care how she self identifies. I just want her to stop blaming other people for the situation she finds herself in now when she’s the one who lied about the lie and brought us all to this place. 

So captivated by Rachel that she inspired me to pen a poem.  It’s featured in my coming up book--Unzipped—Exposing the Naked Truth which I co authored with Rick Allison--the irony of that! Listen to her interview. Read my poem. And tell me what you think about this white woman passin’ for Black.

 

Playing the White Card

When I first heard the story

 of a White woman passin’ for Black

I must admit, I was taken aback

I mean siding with the oppressed

 instead of the oppressor

Who in her right mind does that?

So as I learned about this White Chick

Whose hair required a pick

Who darkened her skin

And tried to fit in

She masqueraded in Black face

Trying to steal a place

In the Black race

Thought if she wore a costume

We’d all assume

That she was down

Because she’s light brown

So, yea at first I was like what’s the big deal?

So, what if she ain’t Black for real

If she wants the burden let her have it

Til I rolled it around in my mind a bit

And thought to myself ain’t this some ish

After watching a couple of interviews

I shook my head thinking,

This woman must think we’re some fools

Yes, she was an activist

And an African-American studies teacher too,

But the real struggles of Black womanhood

She doesn’t have a clue

For us, it’s more than a costume

Since birth, these roles we’ve assumed

You see the legacy of our ancestors

Is in our DNA

And this Rachel Dolezal wants to play?

To have felt the master’s whip on her back

And lived a life of hardship and pain

And have to pick herself up again and again

Rachel had a 10-year fantasy—

That’s all

Because when it comes to being a real

Black woman

She dropped the ball

She has no clue

What it’s really like to stand in our shoes

You know what they say:

Once you go Black you never go back

But for Rachel, if life gets too hard

Unlike us, she has an option of playing

 The White Card

We Wear the Mask

  

In honor of National Poetry Month, today I want to pay homage to one of my favorite poets. Looking through some papers recently, I happened across Paul Laurence Dunbar’s We Wear the Mask and reading it again made me realize why I love it so much. It’s one of my most treasured poems; it resonates with me every time I read it.

Born on June 27, 1872, Paul Laurence Dunbar was the son of freed slaves from Kentucky. Despite his background, Dunbar gained national and international recognition for his poetry. Published in Lyrics of Lowly Life (Dodd, Mead and Co., 1896), We Wear the Mask speaks to the harsh condition African Americans faced.  Though born free, Dunbar drew upon the life of his parents, Joshua and Matilda Murphy Dunbar, in his poetry. What I especially love about this poem is its universal and timeless appeal. 

We ALL hide behind the mask that “grins and lies” sometimes. It’s part of the human condition.  This poem makes me think about how far we go to duck behind the façade of who we really are. And in this age of social media, we can and do create alternate realities. When and where we can be our authentic selves? Can we ever come from behind the mask and live in our Truth?  I wonder.

What mask are you wearing? Tell me about it in the comment section.

We Wear the Mask

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

We wear the mask that grins and lies, 

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— 

This debt we pay to human guile; 

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, 

And mouth with myriad subtleties. 

Why should the world be over-wise, 

In counting all our tears and sighs? 

Nay, let them only see us, while 

       We wear the mask. 

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries 

To thee from tortured souls arise. 

We sing, but oh the clay is vile 

Beneath our feet, and long the mile; 

But let the world dream otherwise, 

       We wear the mask!

The Bag Tax – Skinning the Cat

Why do I have to pay for bags when I shop in the city? On February 1, 2017, the city of Chicago imposed a bag tax. Consumers purchasing products within the city limits are asked to bring our own reusable bags or pay. The bags are 7 cents a piece of which the city will get 5 cents and the retailers will get the remaining 2. According to a Chicago Tribune article, the city stands to make 12.9 million dollars.

We pay for air. We pay for water to drink and then we pay tax on that. Soon we’re going to pay a tax on sweetened beverages. We pay to have our garbage picked up, and beginning July 1, we’ll pay a water and sewerage tax. At some point, as consumers and residents we have to stand up. We cannot keep normalizing this foolishness. This bag tax is another way for the city to piss on us and tell us it’s rain. I know what the stench of disregard for residents smells like, and this bag tax is it. Does the mayor pay the bag tax?

The bag tax is supposed to encourage people to recycle. And I definitely believe in recycling, but why be punitive? Why not give us 7 cents for bringing our own bags?  Retailers have that option.  Pete’s Produce pays 5 cents to customers for bringing bags. That’s a better idea to me. We pass too many costs on to the consumer in a city that pretends to be broke but is always being beautified in areas that attract tourists. The city had money to pay for the Cubs win and we always seem to have enough money for the die the lake green every year for St. Patrick's Day.

I’m sick of feels being imposed on, and I don’t see where it benefits me. Downtown Chicago is beautiful. The north side is lovely. The south where I live is full abandoned properties. The streets are in need of repair and we are under siege from the violence in our own neighborhoods. At What point do we individually and collectively say, “That’s enough?” Well, I'm saying that's enough.

I refuse to pay for bags. I don’t care if they are only 7 cents. That money adds up. I can easily solve my problem because I don’t have to shop in the city. I can take my hard earned dollars to the nearby suburbs, and I will when I want to do major shopping. But what about the people who don’t have the means to shop anywhere else but in the city? They will be hardest hit by this bag tax, so they’ll have to bring their own bags or ante up that cash for bags. This is my Resistance! I will not pay for bags.

Incident #1 I forgot about the bag tax when I went into Walgreens to purchase a few things. The cashier asked if I needed a bag, I said no and proceeded to put my stuff into my pockets and my purse.

Incident #2 I went to Family Dollar to get some dog food. This time I was ready. I placed my bag on the counter, but because I didn’t hand my bag to the cashier, she assumed I was bagging my own stuff. She explained that if customers give her the bags, she will gladly bag their stuff. I wasn’t exactly clear on who does the bagging when I bring my own bags, so I let it go because I needed clarity.

Incident #3 I went to pick up a prescription for my mother from Walgreens and decided to pick some items to do laundry. The cashier asked if I wanted to purchase a bag. I said no and placed my bag on the counter. She gave me my change and moved on to the next customer. So, I asked if I had to bag my own stuff. She said yes. I walked out of the store thinking about this and decide against it. I walked back into the store and ask for a refund. She was irritated and so was I, but I was not blaming her. I explained that I know that she has to do her job, but I’m not bringing my own bag and bagging my stuff.  I went home and wrote a complaint to Walgreens. Though they acknowledged the complaint, I did not receive a call back as requested.

Incident #4 I went to Target and bought a few items. I realized when I got to cashier that I had left my bag in the car. I had more stuff than would fit in my pockets and purse. So, I asked her to hold my stuff until I went to my car and came back. She did. I ended up bagging my own stuff because the cashier was kind enough to keep an eye on it until I came back.

To combat this bag tax, I realize that I have to have a strategy. I went to Mariano’s which is outside of the city limits, so the bags are free. I purchased a couple of reusable bags to keep in my car. When I go to Target in the suburbs, I’m going to reuse those bags as well. My mother has always told me that there is more than one way to skin a cat. This cat will need nine lives before I pay a bag tax. 

What are your thoughts on the bag tax? Do you think it encourages recycling? Leave a comment in the comment section.

A Teacher’s Worst Nightmare

It’s been a long and challenging week. I have not been able to erase the memory of a former student from my mind. I keep seeing his round brooding face as he sat in my class. And now he’s dead. He was one of three young men found shot to death in a car. One of the other young men is also a former student. Though I did not teach him, I did have both of his younger brothers. My former student also has a younger brother who is a student in our school now.

My student’s death is troubling because he predicted it. Like too many young Black males he thought death at an early age was inevitable. So, he didn’t think about his future; He didn’t plan for one. When he was in 7^th grade, I asked the students to write an essay where they saw themselves in 10 years. 

“You’ll be in your early 20s. Will you still be in school? Will you have a job? Will you be married? What will you be doing?” I like to ask students to begin thinking about their future. And I tell them it’s ok if they aren’t sure or don’t know. I also explain that as time goes on they may change their minds.

My student raised his hand. I acknowledged him.

“I don’t want to do this assignment,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“No disrespect, but I don’t think I’ll live that long.” There was no bitterness or anger in his voice. It was just matter of fact.

His words stilled me. I didn’t push him to complete the assignment. Instead I talked to him about why he didn’t think he’d live that long. I learned that tragedy had been visited upon his family. He had an older brother to die tragically and another in jail for murder. These two brothers would show up in his writing, and I encouraged him to write about it. To get it out. He seemed open to the idea, but he never wrote in any depth. 

At the time, I was teaching writing twice a week to students in grades 5^th through 8^th.  I had multiple classes at each grade level totaling nine classes. So, I had close to 300 hundred students.  Though we talked a few times, the student and I did not form a close bond. As is typical of teenagers, we actually locked horns on occasion, but nothing major. Adolescents challenging adults is par for the course.

He graduated and went on to the neighborhood high school, and I would see him standing around with a group of guys from time to time. I’d blow and they’d wave and I kept going. Unlike other students who graduated, he never came back to visit. 

This week, I was looking for a letter of recommendation for a student that I had written when I ran across an essay my deceased student had written in 8^th grade. I was trying to get students to enter a contest in which they wrote about barriers they faced in their lives. I opened up his essay and read it. It was about missing his brothers and not being able to trust anyone. I had made comments on it for his revision, but he never did the second draft nor did we talk about it. It was spring and the only thing on the minds of the 8^th graders was graduation.

What I wrestle with his how do you give hope to the hopeless? I wonder did I do enough? What else could I have done when this type of thinking is so common among young Black men? If they don’t think they’re going to die, then they think they’ll end up in jail. So they live a life of urgency—of right now.

There are people whose lives are tragically cut short taking their dreams with them. But what do you say to a person who doesn’t dream? I don’t know. I have experienced the death of a student, and it never gets easier. Looking down into a casket of a young person gone before they’ve lived is one of a teacher’s worst nightmares.

He predicted he wouldn’t see his 20s.  And now he’s dead at 18.  He thought Death would come knocking? Was it a premonition or a self-full-filling prophecy? Did he ignore the knocking or throw the door open in defiance? Questions that have no answers. Questions that no longer matter for him.  Until we find some answers, others will follow.

My student did not find peace in life; I can only pray that he finds peace on the other side.

Dancing Kizomba in the Age of Trump

Kizomba is this incredibly sexy dance out of Angola that I've fallen in love with since I began taking classes with Black Diamond a little over a year ago. It's a couple's dance that's all about connection. When the chemistry is right between lead and follow, partners flow into each other like water running in a stream. It's so sensuous; so fluid. 

In Kizomba, connection is extremely important. It's not about complex combinations or fancy foot patterns. It's about occupying the same space at the same time and moving in sync. A dance with just the basics can be wonderfully danced if the partners are connected. The basic steps are relatively easily, but because they can be done in any variety of ways, combinations are endless. Kizomba is easy to learn, but hard to master. It is a dance where the follow (usually a woman) must submit to the lead (usually a man). 

As a single and independent woman, I'll admit that submission can be challenging for me sometimes. I'm accustomed to doing what I want when I want. That only works in free style dancing.  Having belly danced in a troupe for years, I understand the importance of connection.  Truth be told, I'm not really opposed to submitting. I just don't want to just follow any ol' body. I need to know if the person is capable of leading me--even on the dance floor. 

My Kizomba was getting better. I was learning to be patient with the bad leads--the self-proclaimed Kizomba expert after 3 classes, the lead foot, rhythm less lead whose dance feels like a waltz with Frankenstein, and the no confidence lead who likes to walk their partners into the wilderness of dance. I was learning not to back lead just because I knew the combinations and to trust my lead--and myself.

I had settled into dancing Kizomba--closing my eyes and relaxing into my partner. And then the election happened. And I found out that some of regular Kizomba leads actually voted for the current president occupying the White House. My Kizomba took a hit! And I'm still wounded from the injury. I was shocked because I didn't take them to be Trumplethinskin supporters. 

I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter. There was no place for politics on the dance floor. I kept telling myself that we can leave our differences aside and just enjoy the dance. Music and dance are unifiers; they don't discriminate. But I must confess it's been hard. As 45 and his minions go to work undoing the progress that has been made, and making the world a scarier place, I don't know how to dance with leads whose ideology so violently clashes with mine. 

What had been a clear channel of connectedness is now clouded. All I hear is static in the background when we dance. These are the trumpeters that I do know. What about the ones that I don't know? I could be having a great dance with a lead who wears a Make America Great cap on the weekends. I could be dancing with someone who supports legislation that harms my existence as a woman of color, so now I find myself side eyeing leads wondering if I'm dancing with the enemy. 

So I go to class and keep my mouth closed. I don’t want to know who else is rolling with The Donald. In this case, ignorance is bliss. As for the Trump leads, I do know, I don't engage in conversation with Them; I can't. I have tried to understand Their way of thinking. I have listened and read numerous articles, but why women and people of color voted for this administration will remain one of life's greatest mysteries. 

And I know someone reading this is thinking that I'm being irrational, petty or whatever, but my feelings are my feelings. I just need time to work through them as we often do when we think we’ve been betrayed. I'm not irrational--strong willed maybe. I was talking to a fellow Kizomba dancer and friend, Santana and she tried to reason with me. 

"Stephanie they,  have a right to vote for whoever they want."

"I know that," I retorted.  "And I have a right to be mad about it."

 Did she forget that I have to dance with these people? I have to trust them? How can I close my eyes and surrender when I need one eye open?

What I know is this too shall pass and maybe,  just maybe I'll get back to dancing the dance I want to dance. At least, that's what I hope will happen. If not, I'm going to have to start vetting potential leads before I settle into a potential dance partnership with them. My love of Kizomba depends on it.