Defining Women

What is a woman?

That was the question up for discussion. And I was stumped. I had nothing to say, because I didn't have an answer. A woman isn't one thing, can't be summed up in a single phrase. Women can be strong and can be weak. We can be brave and we can be cowardly. We can be loving and we can be spiteful. Women can be whole and we can be broken. Women are so, so, so many things. Woman can manifest every possible form of human expression. We aren't one thing.

Then, of course, the question for me would be that if I truly believed that why was I there? What in me needed sisterhood, needed a community of women if I couldn't even define what a woman was? And that question was easier for me to understand and wrap my head around.

For me, women have been my nurturers. Women have cooked for me. They have sent me home with leftovers when they worried I would spend too much time studying and not enough in the kitchen. They invited me to holidays with their families and then cooked vegetarian baked beans for me…because even though my not eating meat didn't make any sense to them, they wanted me to be nourished in their homes. They have combed my hair. And while, yes, sometimes that was attacking my kinks with a vicious hot comb, it was also me sitting between knees as gentle fingers massaged my scalp and adorned my head with braids. Women have held me, soothed me, and moved me.

I enjoy the company of women, though I may not quite be able to tell you what a woman is.

Most of the other women at the table had many descriptions of women. And for nearly every one, I wanted to amend with a "sometimes." And, as often happens when self-identified gay and bi women get together, the conversation turned toward femininity and femme and stud and roles. That conversation followed a fairly predictable path, with one group decrying the reenactment of heterosexual male/female roles while another group  expressed how labels are a convenient way to help us understand each other and that to pretend they don't is to hide reality. And then there was my favorite group…those who welcomed everyone to take or reject whatever labels/roles/behaviors they wanted--and asked that their own choices, different though they might be, be just as respected. They spoke for themselves, shared of themselves, defined themselves, all without permission and without apology, just with an honest attempt to be heard and understood.

I do so love the company of women.

A journey of 21,000 miles begins with a single step

Listening to NPR this morning, I learned that journalist Paul Salopek is preparing to walk from the Rift Valley in Ethiopia to Chile. Africa, Asia, North America, South America. The Bering Strait. I am beyond impressed. In so, so many ways.

On one level, this must be his passion. You don't make a 300,000,000-step journey in order to collect a paycheck. And yet, he is getting paid for this; this is his work. National Geographic is funding much of his walk and will be publishing updates from the travel at Out of Eden -- A Walk through Time.

As always, I am excited about purpose. When people manage to get beyond working and into fulfilling and maybe even a calling. I'm feeling inspired right now.

Rich Blocks, Poor Blocks

Actually, it's more like "rich Census tracts, poor Census tracts." Rich Blocks, Poor Blocks offers interactive maps displaying median incomes for Census tracts. Very interesting. I'm looking at Detroit and being fascinated by the juxtaposition of lower income areas right against higher income ones.

Habari gani? Ujima!

I am mother. This is now the core of my identity. Everything else I am is secondary. I remember, a decade and a half ago, in a discussion around identity politics, one person was very adamant that she was a physicist before she was a woman. I didn't understand at the time how an acquired role could become more essential than one she had worn since childhood. I understand now.

Before I was a mother, I was more involved in my communities. Volunteering was an important part of my life, supporting or belonging to various groups was a priority. Since I've had a child, particular one who is rather…active, I haven't been volunteering or investing my time in the groups who are doing good work in the community. I feel the pendulum about to swing back.

I am raising male child. As much as I don't want sex/gender to matter, as much as I joked about only revealing Booba's sex to those who changed diapers, as much as I find it ODD that so much emphasis and expectation are placed on the genitalia a person a person has, I am very aware that my child is a Black male in this society. Before I was a mother, the murder of Trayvon Martin may have made sparked righteous indignation. As the parent of a spirited, amazing, beautiful Black manchild, I still felt the injustice pulling at my bones, but the sense of loss, of mourning, of powerlessness felt so much more intense. As a mother, I feel a heightened sense of responsibility for my brothers and their safety as they navigate a society that views them as a threat.

Every time a police officer acknowledges my two year old, I feel the most striking sense of cognitive dissonance. When they wave and smile as I tow him in the bike trailer, when they offer him stickers, I want to ask--to demand--that that remember this when he is 16. That the same spirit whose beauty they appreciated then, now walks in a bigger body. When they're deciding to investigate what he and his friends are doing, I want it remembered that our young men *are* part of the community that the police are charged with protecting.

As I reflect upon the principle of ujima during this Kwanzaa, I am very aware that my brothers' problems are my sisters' problems are my problems and I commit myself to joint work to solve them.

Connections

After more than two years of ignoring the fireplace, suddenly Booba has been getting soot on socks, toys, fingers, cheeks and everything else. It has been extremely frustrating and just was not making any sense to me. Until yesterday. Booba told me that presents come from the fireplace—ah, the light bulb above my head was bright.

I have never talked to Booba about Santa Claus. I didn’t grow up believing in Santa—I was very aware that presents did not come out of a magical void, that there was definitely a cost associated with them. Especially since I don’t celebrate Christmas, there seemed no need to seed an impressionable mind with what I consider nonsense. So, if we lived in a bubble, Booba would never believe that getting dirty in the fireplace will result in presents. We do not live in a bubble. I have a job and while I am at said job, Booba goes to a daycare where they apparently discuss magic elves delivering gifts through chimneys.

Finally understanding just why soot is suddenly an issue in my house, I yearned for the bubble—that safe place where I wouldn’t have to worry about outside influences teaching my child questionable things. I could postpone all those philosophical discussions I’m certainly not trying to have with a two year old.

One day’s frustration aside, I really don’t want that bubble. I appreciate the women at the daycare, who love my child and take care of Booba when I’m working. They teach him about shapes, skipping, and sharing. He gets to practice having friends, including apologizing when he hurts his friends. I appreciate my relatives whose houses don’t have the same rules as mine, who care for my child, even when they don’t do things the same way I would.

I realize that who I am, who Booba is, who we are as a family, only exist in the context of our extended family, our community, our city, our peoples, our nation, our world, our universe. I give thanks for the connections that bind us, uphold us, and lift us, despite my smaller moments when I just want that bubble. I set my intention to live more in the us, and less in the me.

Habari gani? Umoja! Today, my spirit celebrates unity.

Parenting for Public Critique

Since I last blogged, quite a bit has changed in my life. The biggest change is that I became a parent. I now have my Booba who toddles madly around the house, wreaking havoc. Other than the fact that a baby's reach is always farther than you think it is, the biggest lesson for me has been that people constantly feel the need--the right? the obligation?--to question others' parenting judgement. Family, friends, acquaintances, and assorted strangers feel the need to offer unsolicited advice.

The first time this registered to me, Booba was only a couple of weeks old. I was pulling him out of the car and securing him in the baby carrier when some random woman came up to me and insisted that I needed to always cover his eyes and keep him out of the sun. Apparently this rule was even important during the 30 seconds it was taking to slide him into the carrier. I was not impressed, but kept quiet because I really do try to respect elders. Apparently I did a poor job, as my aunt later informed me that I gave her a...quelling look.

So, the other day I'm talking with my friend and she asks whether I'm going to "let him eat meat." Um...there are really two responses to this:

1. Sure--when he's old enough to make an informed decision on his own, he is perfectly welcome to use a portion of his allowance to purchase meat. I would guide him toward healthy choices that were raised humanely and sustainably, but otherwise, it's really up to him.

2. So...are you going to let your kid be an atheist? What?!? You mean you're taking him to church with you on Sundays? You're not giving him a choice? What if he doesn't want to go to church? Oh, you mean as his parent you raise him to according to your ideas of what is good and right? You think that when they're small they need to be guided and directed? Really? I see.

Perspective, people, perspective.

I'm baaaack.

Well. It's been a long time. I haven't blogged regularly for nearly two years and nothing at all for about six months. I think I'm starting up again.