Sleepy Dust
My mother-in-law and her son are in Atlantic City this weekend. Tonight Mouse is having three friends sleep over. I use the word “sleep” loosely, of course. Having eaten their collective body weight in candy, wept (three out of four of them, anyway), sustained accidental head blows (two), and lost a disturbingly rotten tooth (one), they are now exchanging secrets and gossip. Two of the four have proposed to kiss Tweenbot, and one is wandering the house stalking the cat. I hear the Disney channel in the background somewhere.
Remind me please that I am never allowing more than one child to sleep over ever again. Ok, maybe just more than one girl. The level of drama has been intense, what with the aforementioned weeping and the sidebar conversations. Plus my idiot sons decided to play a profanity-laced YouTube cartoon for the girls in the 15 minutes that I left everyone at home to go get some more soda, deeply shocking one of the girls. The same girl was also vocally appalled by the amount of time Tweenbot clocked on his PS3 (admittedly excessive) and the size of our television (admittedly small).
(Though I just heard one nine year-old explain to another, “My dog and I are not simpatico.” That was kind of worth it. “Come out, simpatico kitty,” she called as an afterthought.)
I Claim This Planet In The Name Of Mars
Channeling Marvin the Martian as I claim this post as an entry in my self-proclaimed Blog Carnival about race in the HoCo and l’affaire Travvon Martin. I hope Tom Coates doesn’t mind.
UPDATE: OK, and I’m also expropriating this one too from Bill Santos at Columbia Compass. It predates the killing of Travvon by a few months but it’s a good entry point into the politics of race and class in Columbia.
hocoblogs@@@
Carnival Of Blog
I am calling for a blog carnival. This is far less fun than it sounds given that, as my daughter points out, we do not have a great big giant ferris wheel; moreover, I call upon my fellow HoCo Bloggers to write about what the killing of Travvon Martin means to them and how they relate it to race relations in Howard County. I am lousy at following through on calls for information and contests, but my fellow blogger Bill Santos at Columbia Compass will keep me honest in tracking entries and keeping local blog readers posted on what comes out of the call. The deadline for response is April 6, 2012. We’re going to need a twitter hashtag and stuff too. Join us, won’t you?
hocoblogs@@@
How To Talk To Young White Boys About Travvon Martin
This post is inspired by Toure’s Time Magazine post, “How To Talk To Young Black Boys About Travvon Martin.”
1. It is possible that you are behaving in a racist* manner without consciously intending to do so. Lots of (white) people will tell you that Travvon Martin wasn’t shot for being black in the wrong place at the wrong time but for seeming threatening to a dude with a vigilante complex and a gun. Lots of (white) people will tell you that racism isn’t a problem in this day and age, too. Being white doesn’t automatically make you one of them, but lots of people of color will assume that you are. If you are, ask yourself why. If we’re all equally endowed by our creator with innate intelligence and moral sense, how is it possible that that there is such a radical cleavage persists between white people and black people in how we perceive racism in our society?
* Racism is about one ethnic group unilaterally imposing its will on another ethnic group for political, cultural or economic gain. There’s no such thing as reverse racism any more than “irregardless” is a valid word in English. Members of an historically oppressed ethnic group may be biased against members of the historically oppresssive ethnic group, but it’s only Racism if your ethnic group has the political, economic, and cultural power neccessary to succeed at imposing its will on other ethnic groups.
2. If you encounter a situation where someone accuses you of racism, you need to keep a sense of proportion. Being accused of being a racist is unpleasant but not deadly. Being accused of racism may have social and/or economic consequences for you. It may be unfair. But it is highly, highly unlikely to kill you or cause you physical harm. Treat it the way you should any other accusation – ask yourself if it’s true. Ask yourself why someone might believe it to be true. Recall that far more people have been injured or killed as victims of genocide, enslavement, and lynching than as victims of disagreeable accusations.
3. You may not be a racist. Heck, let’s say you’re not a racist. You probably never owned any slaves or set out to deny anyone their constitutional freedoms on the basis of race. But just by being white, you enjoy the benefit of the doubt. That is, unless you’re behaving in an overtly threatening manner, you have a reasonable expectation that you will not be generally perceived as a threat. This is called white privilege and, whether you asked for it or not, you’re getting a break in the world because of it. You can wish all you want for a color-blind society – but as long as people do perceive differences in color and ethnicity in this world of ours, race will be a factor in people’s perceptions of each other.
4. If you don’t want to be called a racist, start by acknowledging that race is a factor in people’s perceptions of each other. Challenge your own perceptions of the black people you meet. Ask other white people about the basis for their perceptions of black people if they express opinions. Make eye contact with black people. Ask your mom why she’s locking the car doors when she sees a black teenager. If you are clear with yourself about your own motivations and biases, they will shine through in your behavior and make you less vulnerable to accusations of racism.
5. If you don’t want to be accused of racism, be sensitive to how people say that they want to be addressed, described, and treated. I’m not saying you can’t laugh at the dialogue in “Blazing Saddles” or Key and Peele’s ”Magical Negro” sketch. I am saying that you should refrain from imitating or reciting that dialogue aloud in polite company. Do you really need to share your feelings about the N-word with your black colleague? I am not saying you can’t be fascinated by your classmate’s afro. I am saying that you should refrain from touching it without permission and that, moreover, you should really think twice about asking to touch it in the first place. If you saw a white dude with really interesting hair, would you ask him if you could touch his hair?
6. If you perceive a black person as threatening, think about why. Imagine how you would react to a white person of similar appearance. What basis does your fear have in reality? White people are most likely to be threatened or harmed by other white people, so what would a white person have to do to scare you? If you’re still feeling threatened after that process of self-examination, then do whatever you would do to protect yourself from an equally threatening white person. No more and no less.
7. What if the threatening black person is in a position of authority over you? Proceed as if the threatening authority figure in question were white. Recognize that your odds of becoming a victim of violence at the hands of a black police officer are far lower than the odds that a black dude your age will become a victim of violence by a white police officer.
8. Never forget: racism will persist as long as white people don’t acknowledge their role in perpetrating it. When you honestly confront your own assumptions and educate yourself about the reality black kids live with, you are being part of the solution. When you take refuge in the idea of a hypothetical color-blind society, you are being part of the problem.
Merry-Go-Round
Le Piano Nostalgique
I think I have mentioned that we’re moving this summer. The REALTOR ™ is coming tomorrow morning to whip us into shape and maybe have us sign something so we can get the Dino Nest on the market. We rented a storage unit a couple of weeks ago to facilitate the decluttering process, and the living room is now full of piles of things to go to AMVETS. I have some additional small improvements to make that I hope the scorn of the realtor* will spur; I should be doing them now, but then you and I wouldn’t be having this cozy time together, would we?
*Our realtor seems unlikely to register scorn because he is very professional and friendly, at least so far as we can tell. But I’ll know.
I love my heirloom furniture and am outraged when Dino Spouse suggests that we get rid of pieces that he considers clutter. I expect that this is because I have invested some of my fantasies of what I wanted my adult home life to be in these pieces of furniture. I cling to the china cabinet (ok, not an heirloom at all, a $100 purchase eight or nine years ago at the local Salvation Army) because it has all the cool tchotchkis and serving dishes and all I bought when I imagined I would entertain regularly. I cling to the music cabinet because I want us to need a music cabinet (plus it’s a great place to stash paper and mail when company comes).
This leads me to the piano, which I got in Russia in 1999 for the cost of getting it hauled to my apartment from where it had been a fixture in a genteel Russian family who now wanted to be rid of it to facilitate a real estate transaction. I imagined that I would host soirees musicales where visitors would play, that my kids would learn to play piano on it. Instead it stands as silent testimony to my vanity – unplayed except for my kids banging on it periodically, untuned (and about a half-tone flat), and useless except as a staging point for library books and occasional piles of crap.
Dino Spouse and I agree that the piano should go. There is no reason for us to pay to move an enormous object that we don’t use and won’t have space for. I suppose I could ask my belle-mere to shelter the piano in her new home, but she might wind up in a studio. And that presupposes that she’ll still be on speaking terms with me when she realizes that we are serious about this whole separate homes business. So – well, anyway, anyone in the area want a piano?
(Speaking of Baba, she had another run-in with the neighbors today in trying to photograph them and their poor dogs as they were coming or going. This was in front of Tweenbot and Mouse, who were mortified by the stream of curses they heard echoing through the house. Dino Spouse and Baba forbore to share this info with me, but the kids ratted her out as soon as I got home. Again, I must remember to set up a PayPal button for accepting donations to the Babushka Bail Fund.)
Occasional Music
In the Dinosaur Mom calendar, there is great sentimental value attached to the Ides of March. Never you mind why. But in honor of the occasion, I present a music video. And then, just because it’s a cool song from the same CD, another music video.
Observations
1. People be hiding my sh*t. Where is the hammer?
2. I have accumulated an astonishing amount of crap in hopes of completing craft projects that, somehow, never come to fruition. Anyone want a bunch of stencils? Decoupage-worthy miscellany (Victorian and Soviet Nostalgia)? Beads from broken necklaces and garlands?
3. I never cease to wonder at my own insecurity and arrogance.
4. Daylight savings time is empirically better than standard time.
5. The inside of my bladder is creepy and pale but smooth. I saw it on Monday morning at the urologist’s office, on a screen. She’s putting me on some drug that will repair the lining of my bladder so I’ll get fewer UTIs. That can only be an improvement.
Flown Over
National Airport is much less romantic at the end of a journey than at the beginning. The honeymoon was over when I got on the wrong bus and wound up in an infinite loop between the departure terminals instead of at economy parking. Fine, National Airport. You know what? Fine.
A Fine Romance
The first time I left the North American continent was in 1990. I was 19. It was a trip born of my parents’ largesse and my uncle’s assignment to a military base in Germany.
I must have flown in or out of Washington National Airport before then in my quarterly flights between Lansing and home, but I don’t remember. I don’t even recall being impressed particularly by National on that first transatlantic trip except by how old-fashioned it seemed – 1947 on the outside and 1971 on the inside. (Now that I think about it, though, my first impression of National was stark terror when my flight home to Ypsilanti on West Middle School’s 1984 eighth grade field trip to Washington took off at a steep angle over the Potomac. I didn’t see land.)
I flew in and out of National probably a dozen times between 1990 and 1997. There were sentimental farewells. There was a glorious night landing one 4th of July. There was the afternoon I came home pregnant and alone from an awful year overseas, weeping with joy to see my mother. There was the day a few weeks later when I wept with joy to pick up the baby’s father, who I feared would not make it through the bureaucracy of emigration from Kazakhstan in time for our child’s birth.
Later there was a day when I found the last two Parker student model fountain pens in the airport stationary store. A day when I reconnected with a beloved relative. Like much of what happened in my life after 1997, these things sound anticlimactic. And what kind of human being values a good stainless steel nib on a par with love?
Still – well, National Airport, I love you. I get butterflies in my stomach when I transit you or even drive past you. Thank you for keeping my sense of romance alive.

