This is bound to be a very politically incorrect post. It may piss you off. If you are easily offended I suggest we say ‘good-bye’ here and then we can say ‘hello’ again on another day. First off, Happy 4th of July. I’m not sure what that means anymore nor am I sure what the beloved term ‘land of the free home of the brave’ means any longer. But…nevertheless…Happy Independence Day. May our Forefathers be still and peaceful in their graves.
I’ve been known to blog about race and bigots and things like that. I’m usually the first one to stand up for what’s ‘right’ as opposed to what’s convenient or what happens to fall in with my own personal views. I think I am anyway. I hope I am. I don’t think anyone is particularly living Martin Luther King’s ‘dream’. I know racism is alive and well in the Good Ol’ USofA. It’s just gone quiet, that’s all. Radio Silence.
I’m on this subject because a Facebook post pissed me off. Yeah we are and yeah it did. A FB friend posted a poem she wrote and my jaw dropped at the title in which she was begging her son not to give up on black women. If I titled a poem “My Darling Daughter I Hope Your Knight Is White” I’d be vilified. That poem would go viral for all of the wrong reasons. Especially if within said poem I opined how I’d rather my daughters be lesbians with white women than be straight with black men. If I said that I’d try to accept him no matter what because she seems to like him but it would be difficult because, ya know, after all, if they’re not like me then what does that say about me? If I continued on to a metaphor of looking through and then piling up old boxes and suitcases I would hope that someone would stand up straight and proud and say something like; “Hey! You realize you’re piling your own baggage onto your kids’ shoulders, right? Why don’t you fucking deal with it yourself and let your kids live their own lives? You racist narcissistic bitch.”
That person would be right.
Of course no one did anything like that.
As all of us white folke know a black person can never be considered ‘racist’…something to do with a lack of power over other people’s lives. But, I contend they can still be prejudiced and bigoted. Your Mileage May Vary. I think everyone single one of us can be prejudiced and bigoted if that’s what we chose to be.
The poem itself isn’t horrible and the writer received lots of kudos from people of her own race and a few other ‘minorities’. People who openly admitted to having ‘pride’ in ‘our people’ and ‘our heritage’ and ‘our this and that’. From the icons I deduced that not many white people commented on this poem and the few that did said things like; “You love who you love.” I realized that none of us white folke pointed out this rather perplexing enigma because we didn’t want to be called ‘racist’. Even if we understood her point and tried to agree with her we’d be nailed to a cross and called to task as to why we didn’t want our kids to marry black kids–aren’t they good enough for us? We’d interrogated as to why we should have ‘pride’ in ‘our people’. They’d call us bigots and prejudiced. Yet never see the same reflected within themselves and that poem. It was a total Catch22.
I remained silent even though it was killing me–hence this post, I know. Would you have said something? If you knew you were going to be totally bullied would you exercise your First Amendment Right here?
Gary Oldman recently got into trouble for saying the absolute truth so I’m going to follow his lead for a minute and agree with the poem writer: I wanted my daughters to bring home intelligent upwardly mobile hardworking white men for prospective marriage material.
Yeah, even though I brought home a wild-ass Filipino. Yep my parents were freakin’ thrilled (not!)
I never gave a single thought to the boys they would bring home being like me or like my husband or like anyone in our family. I wasn’t breeding mini-mes here. I wasn’t looking for them to join either. So, at least I had that going for me I guess. What came and went through my door was a very wide assortment of colors, sizes, shapes, styles (oh Lord!), but not economic background. No they were all poor as dirt for the most part. Not too many were very bright no matter what color they were. Then again most of us aren’t thinking with our brains between 14-19, I know, I haven’t forgotten.
One daughter married a white man. A really white man covered in freckles with bright red hair. Hey, what can I say, us redheads we really The Best.
The other is living with a man of Hispanic descent. Like her mother she has a weakness for slightly browner boys.
What I think of either of these young men is irrelevant. These are the men my daughters have chosen. My choice is to accept them just as they are along with the fact that they love my daughter or to be a bitch and risk losing the relationship with my offspring. That’s it. If I have any baggage concerning redheads, freckles, or Puerto Rico then that’s my problem it’s my duty as a good parent not to make it theirs.
You love who you love. There may be challenges in that love but those are things that make this life worth living and give you character making you a richer deeper person.
I hope the boy in the poem grows up strong and true to himself–not to a cause or a group of people but to himself–I hope that he finds the one person in this life who will love him through thick and thin and that his mommy never makes him choose between the two no matter what sex or color the love of his life turns out to be.
I hope that one day I won’t be considered ‘racist’ for making posts like this or for exercising my First Amendment Right to voice any honest opinion at all on this subject. But that’s mostly because I’m still hoping that one there won’t be any need for posts like this or poems like the one that started this conversation.
That will be a glorious Independence Day.