Turning The Page

Everyone remembers their first big job. You know, the one that bumped your pay grade just enough to indulge in stuff other than groceries or rent. And I, I, was working towards one thing. That single splurge that would mark, to me at least, that I'd made it. 

Cue the Hallelujah Chorus: A subscription to The Providence Journal. 

Delivered daily. 

To. My. Door.

Go ahead. Call me a journalism geek. I'll take it. (And probably deserve it, especially once you add in the fact that the second indicator of my world domination was being able to subscribe to Newsweek--at the same time!) Eventually, I MADE it, wildly flaunting BOTH subscriptions. 

But then, things slowly began to change. 

Newsweek got cut from the roster first, after gradually deviating from its oddly successful model, of, well, promoting news, that had sustained it for over 80 years. Kim Kardashian. Not news. It's on-line model, to me, was a shell of its former self. I didn't renew. 

And earlier last month, after an agonizing decision, I reluctantly decided to let my beloved Providence Journal go as well. (Ironically, or not so much, it was the same week that this column appeared in the Providence Phoenix. It's so not my imagination.)

For me, it went back, just as it came in, to economics. An outstandingly bad timed quarterly payment to the newspaper, rolled up alongside taxes and life insurance premiums, made me look at the budget hard. The value for the information received just wasn't there anymore. So, I substituted the e-edition for print, wondered when exactly people stopped being able to pay weekly, and tried to be okay with not physically turning the page. 

I'm not.

In fact, I'm not really cool with the pace, in the twenty years since I graduated from college, that the industry has changed. This short attention theatre stuff is killing me. Where's the details? The art of the long form? The investigations? The building of the story? The getting lost in it? The learning of something? Anything.

I know it's all just business. Like it was in 1992, when two daily editions of the ProJo got folded into one. And in 1997 when the independent locally owned newspaper got sold to a media corporation in Texas. And in 2008, when the ProJo closed their local bureaus, and ending neighborhood zone coverage. 

It's all just business. But it still makes me sad.

 

Kindness of Strangers

You may have seen me in Narragansett Pier last Saturday afternoon. 

I was the chick shuffling along the seawall in flip-flops and an aqua cover-up, balancing my beach bag in one hand, while clutching this lovely white floral centerpiece, along with its glass vase, against my right hip, trying not to spill too much water.

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The theme of the day? Kindness of strangers.

It was our first visit to the beach this year. Sigh. I know. We live in the Ocean State. But I've realized that giving yourself complete permission to mark off a single day on your calendar, to sit in the sand and watch the waves lap at the shore is something that most people beyond the age of 22 rarely do. 

It's more adult, read: productive, to run around on these beautiful days and do errands. Or laundry. Or clean the house. 

Completely wrong. We will fix this.

Narragansett is an outstandingly special spot for Andre and I. Way back in the spring of 1992, when I was a student at URI, and in the midst of my daily walk on Ocean Road, someone shouted from the window of a passing automobile, "Hey, sexy!", then stopped 100 feet ahead. (He'll deny it.)

A girl with street smarts would have turned around when they didn't recognize the car. But I wasn't finished with my work-out, so I continued on my path, naturally, while peering out of the corner of my eye at a safe distance. Thankfully, it was only Andre, my co-worker from the Showcase Cinemas, who also lived in the neighborhood.

The start of our special place.

Last Saturday, Andre and I were looking for a spot to sit on Narragansett Town Beach (the BEST in the state), when someone Andre used to work with spied us. We've run into Vinny before near the beach, but truthfully I don't even think he knows my name. There was a couple minutes of small talk before Vinny said:

"I'm glad you guys are still together."

Aw. Beyond sweet. His words, along with the truly perfect weather, was more than enough to make this beach day memorable. But there was more to come.

On the way back to the car, we walked beneath The Towers, where our wedding reception was held back in 1999. Pure magic. The door was open, so we went inside to look at the pictures of the historic casino that were hanging in the lobby.

Maybe a minute after our arrival, I could hear someone struggling at the front door with something heavy. I turned to Andre and said, "Maybe someone could use your help."

The someone was Towers coordinator, Kate, a passionate steward of the historic building. She remembered us from over 14 years ago, and our passions--photography and writing. When I commended her on her memory, I occurred to me that maybe it wasn't so much her recall, but our stories, and who we are as people, that made us stand out.

She took us on a tour of the upstairs banquet hall, set up for an evening wedding, including a stop on the truly breathtaking outside deck, with its panoramic views of the shore. Here, Kate pointed out an osprey in the water and told us how when the seagulls followed fish at night, they look like white butterflies fluttering over the water. 

When we were leaving, Kate presented me these flowers, leftover from a reception the night before. I was beyond touched by her beautiful gesture. And I was once again struck by the fact that some of the most powerful positivity in my life has not come from traditional sources, but from surprising places when I least expected it.

It was also a further reminder that if you listen to the universe, it will always give you what you need. 

And what you deserve.

 

All Good Things Must Come To An End

In July, 2011, I set out on a personal challenge: Write one blog post per week for a year.

That's fifty-two essays, in case your elementary math really sucks.

And I wasn't just going for a record of what I ate for breakfast. (Oatmeal. Steel cut. With fresh blueberries, raw almonds, a glass of cranberry juice and a Starbucks iced French Roast.) I wanted to create a platform that was thought provoking. Conversation inspiring. To bring voice to issues that mattered. 

Or at least ones that mattered in my world.

Two years, and one hundred and six consecutive posts later (107 if you count this one), clearly, this grand experiment has gone a bit into overtime. (I'll blame my obsessively competitive nature. Even if I'm the only one running in the race.) 

And so, while I'm giving myself a standing O for outstanding achievement in discipline and deadlines, without any enforcer (or money) involved, it's time to pick up this party and move in another direction.

What? And you thought authoring an unpaid blog was my life dream?

Don't worry. I'm not saying good-bye to the blog. (Or, horrors of horrors, writing.) My mouth is far too big to stay silent for long. But what I am saying good-bye to is this rigid schedule of posting every Thursday like clockwork. 

Because that part is feeling increasingly like a job. Instead of what it really is: 

A calling and a passion.

 

Trayvon Who? Or More Tales From Racist America 2013

Last Friday, my husband Andre, and a couple of buddies, took the two and a half hour ride from Providence to the northwest corner of Connecticut, to see Soulive, his all time favorite band. 

Norfolk, CT, not to be confused with Norwalk, is a small rural place near the foothills of the Berkshires. Population: 1,709. According to the 2010 US Census, the racial breakdown is: 1659 White, 12 African American, 11 Asian, 2 American Indian, 7 Other and 18 Identified by two or more races.

In other words: 97 percent of the population is white.

In other, other words:  Andre, a black man, is probably gonna stick out a bit.

No biggie. 

One of the many beautiful things about my husband is, even after living forty-eight years in his dark hued body, that he doesn't look at life with the weight of some angry chip on his shoulder, expecting folks to react in a certain way. 

Andre is ALWAYS just Andre. Mellow. Accepting. Nonjudgmental. A quality cat.

His only expectation? That you'll treat him the same.

Friday night was no exception. After dinner at the restaurant downstairs, he started to lead his two friends, tickets in hand, upstairs to the concert venue. The ushers at the top of the stairs, the only official people in sight, were Andre's target. 

But apparently, because he'd never been there before, Andre misstepped protocol--and clearly the safety measures that had been put into place to avoid gate crashers.

Even though the place only holds 300 people. 

Even though these Three Amigos, one towering way over six feet, would have been pretty easy to spot in the half sold crowd of 150 people, should their intent be to slip past the first checkpoint, a woman who clearly wasn't manning her station. 

"Hey! Where are you guys going?" called the woman from off to the side. 

"I saw you talking over there," said Andre.

Translation: I didn't think you were working here.

"Yeah, well I thought I was going to have to wrestle you," said the woman.

"I get that a lot," said Andre.

And then? The 'oh, no you didn't moment.' The kind that stops time, where the speaker realizes what she said and the participants wait to see how each other will react.

To Andre, a black man, the white woman said, "Watch it, boy." 

Really, lady. What were you thinking?

Sure. I can pause and give her the benefit of the doubt for a (milli)second. What if she was just trying to be flirty? Or show my husband that she was 'down with him'. Sorry. Doesn't matter or work here. There's just certain things you don't do in life, whatever your intent: Say hijack in an airport. Yell fire in a theatre. 

And, especially if you're a white person, call a black man, 'boy'. 

Way too racially charged. Way too much history. Way too much context.

And truly, what's up with the timing here? Her sorry outburst came just hours after the President's speech on race. It came just days after the George Zimmerman verdict. Maybe its me--and apparently it is-- but is it crazy to think those situations would cause other people to not only reflect about their beliefs, but be a bit more thoughtful about their interactions with one another?

Luckily for her, Andre had that introspection piece covered for both of them.

No doubt, timing is everything. If she had uttered those words to anyone other than my husband, she may have gotten a hugely different reaction. Conversely, if any of this went down prior to the Trayvon Martin case , and his own deep reflections, Andre may have reacted differently. Truthfully, he probably would have opted to say nothing, silently steaming about this ignorant woman.

She would have become part of his negative history.

But instead, because of this Zimmerman verdict. Because of his anger over the senseless killing of a black teen who was much like him. Because of his recent experience developing and teaching a workshop on cultural and race relations, Andre did something a whole lot more powerful.

He looked her in the face and said, very calmly, "That's not very culturally competent."

Andre spoke the truth.

And for a moment, at least, it worked.

 

Why White America Blew the George Zimmerman Verdict

I could say the George Zimmerman verdict surprised me.

I'd be lying.

I'm generally optimistic. But when I heard the jury make-up: six women, five whites and one unidentified minority, in my head it was all a done deal.

Not guilty.

Here's the thing. I'm white. I've been partnered up with this amazing black dude for almost half of my life. I'm sympathetically aware of the bullshit challenges he sometimes experiences. Occasionally, if I'm outstandingly lucky, I even get to share in joint racial profiling. But, as a white woman, I can never fully experience his discrimination.

And neither could these jurors.

To prove the crime of Manslaughter in Florida, the State must prove that Trayvon Martin is dead. Check. And that Zimmerman intentionally committed an act or acts that caused the death of Trayvon Martin. Double check.

So what's the issue? Could the reasonable doubt have come into play because these women, the majority of them white, have absolutely no understanding of the hardcore profiling that black men and teens deal with every single day. And trust, even with a black president, we still live in an outstandingly racist society. 

Lately, I can't stop thinking about how many people don't want to accept their part in the ugly. Indeed. That would be you Mr. Zimmerman, last week's pariah Ms. Paula Deen, as well as all all of their supporters, including the peeps claiming no one's racist here.

Who exactly are you lying to?

Clearly, if we're living in a colorblind society, as so many people falsely believe, then my husband, Trayvon Martin, and millions of other people of color, who have similar stories to tell, should be able to go about their business without a second glance. 

Sorry. The numbers just don't match up.

The greater truth? No one wants to be labeled as racist. But if you've blissfully managed to live in self-segregation and avoid putting yourself into a situation, any situation, where your beliefs about race can be challenged, either good or bad, then you cannot, I repeat, cannot claim you're not racist.

Racism is not some sort of abstract idea. It's concrete. It's ugly. And how you react in front of a real live person, who looks, on the surface, perhaps a bit different than you, particularly during a time of stress is the true test of character, and in my opinion, the only way you can discover where your racial prejudices really lie.

Zimmerman failed this miserably. 

Tim Wise, an antiracist essayist, author and educator said in this recent piece: "Which is to say, Trayvon Martin is dead because he is black and because George Zimmerman can’t differentiate — and didn’t see the need to — between criminal and non-criminal black people. Which is to say, George Zimmerman is a racist. Because if you cannot differentiate between black criminals and just plain kids, and don’t even see the need to try, apparently, you are a racist…"

Sure, George Zimmerman can claim that he's not a racist. He's got a Peruvian mom after all. But his true test came when he met up with a dark skinned youth, wearing a hoodie, who had the balls to walk through his neighborhood. Did Zimmerman see Trayvon as an individual just passing through. Nope. Trayvon was called out by Zimmerman, three days after the shooting during an interrogation with the police, as yet another of those "fucking punks". 

Racist.

The other piece of the whole mess that really disgusts me is this concept that persons of color have no right to defend themselves, during an attack. Especially during an attack that they didn't start. Indeed, Trayvon may have contributed to those wounds on Zimmerman's head--as self-defense during an fight. But I guess the protections awarded by the Florida Stand Your Ground Law don't apply to dead teenagers. 

Again, I defer to Mr. Wise: "They are saying that black people who fight back against someone they think is creepy and who is following them, and might intend to harm them, are more responsible for their deaths than those who ultimately kill them. What they have said, and make no mistake about it, is that any white person who wants to kill a black person can follow one, confront them, maybe even provoke them; and as soon as that black person perhaps takes a swing at them, or lunges at them, the white pursuer can pull their weapon, fire, and reasonably assume that they will get away with this act. I can start drama, and if you respond to the drama I created, you are to blame, not me."

Let that sink in for a second.

And can we be real for a second Zimmerman? When you pulled your gun on Trayvon, it's highly doubtful that he said, "You got me", as you claimed in the Hollywood western playing out in your mind. Do you really believe your story? I'm guessing that Trayvon said, in complete shock and disbelief, "You shot me."

Which you did. 

So, I wonder, do you still think he deserved it? I don't remember you apologizing. Even now that you're off the criminal hook.

My very wise girlfriend told me recently, about the perspective of one of her African American studies professors, a white man, who said black people are not going to end discrimination. The task lies with white people, the only ones with power to change the system. But to do that, injustices not only have to be seen, but acknowledged as such, even if you can't relate to them in the exact same way.

So to you, the five white jurors, who a real opportunity to leave your mark on history, you just blew it.

Again.