The other night we had a family conversation that occurs about once a year. My older daughter was talking about some "brown" person, and I "corrected" her and said "black" person. This makes no sense to them, of course. They know I'm white. They know their dad is black, but it doesn't really make sense to them. My older daughter prefers "brown skinned" if she must talk about race. But honestly, she seems not to need to talk about it. So, they know they're not "black" they know they're not "white." They prefer "tan", but I was explaining that society has certain words they use to describe what they believe to be the "race" of people (I'm going to stop with the quotes now. You get the idea).
So, I said "you're mixed. Or biracial. You're half white and half black."
"I prefer zebra," my oldest daughter said.
Don't be too shocked-- she's been saying this since she first heard the term years ago. I remind her every time that it's not appropriate, but she doesn't understand why. She would much rather be called a zebra than mixed. And I don't think she's totally wrong there.
My children aren't very interested in their racial characteristics. They know who they are, and that seems to satisfy them. They know who we are as their parents, and they know they have white aunts and black aunts and white grandmas and black grandmas and, well, you get the idea.
Other people, however, seem much more interested in the spectacle of our family. The line I most hear (and that most cracks me up) is, once they meet my partner, "I never would have imagined you with a black guy." Seriously? All I can say is I'm sorry. I'll try harder to be the kind of woman who would be with a black guy. I'm not sure what that means, but when I find out, I'm going to dedicate my life to being that kinda gal.
When I'm out with my daughters and their dad is not with us I hear "what are they?" Why, they're little girls, of course. "No, I mean, what are they mixed with? That one (pointing at my youngest) looks Indian. That one (older) looks Mexican (or Greek, or Italian...)" This is not a game, people. There are no prizes for guessing correctly.
More innocuously, I often have people tell me what a nice guy my partner is. He is a nice guy. He's way nicer than I am. But sometimes I wonder why people have to tell me all the time. Is it because, with his bald head, tattoos, black skin and bitchin motorcycle they expected something different? Or is it because they thought he would be different? Was he supposed to not be a nice guy?
He is much more forgiving than I am when it comes to people's racism. I can't guess why, but if I was forced to, I'd say he's probably more used to it than I am. He told me a story about his Mee-Maw. She's passed now, but when she was alive she was probably one of the gentlest ladies (and I mean LADY) that you'd ever want to meet. Tiny, maybe 5 feet tall, thin, beautiful. She went to church every week, taught special education, was loved by many, many people. I never heard her say an unkind word. I never, ever, EVER heard her curse. Once, when my partner was a youngster (I imagine twelve, though I don't think he ever said), he traveled with his Mee-Maw down south to the Tennessee/North Carolina area, where she was from. They were at a gas station, filling up, when a truck full of white men blew past and screamed out the window, "Fucking N---s!" Larry's sweet Mee-Maw turned around, held up the special finger and screamed back "Fuck you, you fucking rednecks!"
I'm more comfortable with my family when we're in a group of black people, even if I am the only white person. People notice me, obviously, but it's a kind of, oh, she's white. Moving on. With large groups of white people, more often than not people approach to tell me how beautiful the girls are (which they are, so thank you), but also to touch their hair and exclaim over and over (and over), oh their skin is so BEAUTIFUL! I wish I had that skin, my goodness that SKIN! Sometimes I want to ask, would you like me to lift their lips so you can see their teeth? Go 'way, please.
White people (in general) are extremely uncomfortable talking about racism. They get all stiff and mutter "race card". Black people have no problem with the discussion, when it comes up.
I was talking, before a graduate level class, about the experience of taking my girls to vacuum out the car at a car wash just up the street from our house. The girls love to work the vacuum. Scratched there, just under the quarter feeder, was the N word. I moved the car so the girls wouldn't see it, but I found myself looking over my shoulder (I know, ridiculous).
One of the men in the class said, "I think racism has gotten a lot better."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, I haven't heard about any lynchings lately."
Well, if that's the standard we're using, then yes, hallelujah, racism has been cured.
Race is not a "major part" of our life in the way some people seem to assume. We don't talk about it very often ("Black man, if it's not too oppressive, could you do the dishes?" We do have a favorite phrase I heard on a black radio talk show one morning-- "All the doo doo you done done to my people!" but generally I say it to him when he asks me to do something I don't want to do.) And when we do, it's with the girls, in the way all parents at some point have to talk about the craziness of race in American society. We understand discrimination as a family, so we work hard to have a home where discrimination is not tolerated in any of its ugly forms. Are there cultural differences? I guess so, though I think of it more as "how his family does stuff versus how my family does" or "what his mom cooks versus what my mom cooks." Which I think is pretty much how my girls view it, although I suppose I'd have to ask them. We've faced discrimination, and even some meanness ( in some cases from family members, but not close ones).
Spectacle ethnography. I love that phrase. I picked it up when I was taking a woman's lit class, and a theorist was writing about white America's response to the influx of Chinese immigrants in the early 20th century (or perhaps before, the details escape me now). I love the term, because it so neatly describes the kind of racism that still openly exists-- the spectacle of difference.
