You and Me

So…

I like this song, although I find it to be very sad.  The woman in video is not Wayne Brady’s ex, but the little girl is his daughter and the voice.  Oh!  That voice is golden.  The man can sing.

I have to buy it now.

Multiculti Dolls for ‘09

April Issue of Playthings

I was walking past the magazine rack at work and this magazine caught my eye.  Most moms of color know it’s not always easy to find dolls of color and the April issue of Playthings.com has an article on multicultural toys.  Maybe the end of the first decade in the 21st century has helped manufacturers to hear our pleas because there are a lot of multicultural toys on the horizon this year.

While the category may have historically evolved as a movement to provide children of various ethnic backgrounds with toys that reflect their own traits and experiences, these days it seems the prevailing driver for many of the latest entrants into the multicultural toy market is an urge to provide all children with a base for understanding lifestyles that differ from their own.

Playthings.com April 2009

Here are a few of the toys that I liked:

Karito Kids

Karito Soft Plush Dolls

No, the dolls aren’t cheap.   They remind me a bit of American Girl dolls because the dolls also come with a book (you gotta love that) and have accessories you can purchase separately.  The dolls retail at 99.99 but unlike AG,  Karito donates 6 percent of the wholesale price of each product to the Plan International children’s charity.  So while your kids learn about another culture they are also giving back.

 

To learn more about the dolls click here.

Karito 21in dolls

Bongo the Bilinugal Buddy

The cat is just cute.  I hope they add other languages to their line like a Japanese-English Cat and a French-English Cat.

To see more toys go to Playthings.com.

Ask a Mama

We wanted to try something new because it occured to us that black moms don’t interact a lot on the net.  So for the next couple of Fridays we will have an open thread for women (or even men) to address concerns they might have about parenting.  We don’t have the answers ourselves, but I’m sure someone out there does. 

So please, post your questions, concerns, insights or stories to this post.  You never know, whatever you might have to share might be something that someone else is thinking of but didn’t know how to say it.

Thanks,

Nay

Making the Grade

Midterms was this week for the girl and the boy.  Both are the last quarter of their freshman year accept Cricket is in college and J2 is in high school.

Achievements: Cricket didn’t make the Dean’s List (whimper) but she does have a high GPA (3 point something).  She’s in different activities, making friends and has more than acclimated to school.

J2 did well in wrestling but was short of making it to state.  As for grades… summer school for one class.  Science. 

At the beginning of the year I talked to J2 about GPA and how important it is to have a good one to get into college.  I thought he was feeling me, but maybe I didn’t stress enough how none of his classes should dip below a C.  His GPA is holding at 2.0, which is the best it’s been in years.  But when you send off the transcripts for college no one cares that you aced your gym classes. 

This is still his freshman year, we can turn things around in one summer (I’m an optimist).   But for other parents of Blasian teens our there, especially boy teens, I’d like to know how your family handles it.  Do teachers overestimate your kid because of his Asian heritage or underestimates because of his black background?  And in an American culture that regales underachievers how can we make getting good grades cool?

Protection for a mixed child, Unbelievable!

On April 5, 2007 we boarded a Hawaiian Airline bound for another country (a U.S. Territory).  All of our household goods and vehicles were shipped approximately a week prior.  Here we were, heading to our new home on the Island of American Samoa. 

My husband was born in San Francisco, but raised in American Samoa.  That is where his family is.  Dad, mom, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  So he was actually returning to a place that had always been home for him.  As for me, all of my family were in the states.  Plus being that I am not Samoan, this whole culture experience that I was now being emerged into was somewhat overwhelming.  Respect, respect, respect…. The bases of the Fa’a Samoa (the Samoan way).  Yet there always seemed to be exceptions.  Respect the elders, but they don’t have to respect you (the child, the young one).   Having an opinion was a sign of disrespect.  You are to sit, listen, and accept what is being said.  If you agree or not.  Something I definitely did not get.

We left the busy chaotic freeways, major stores, and state of rush, rush, rush to a place that had only two lanes, one for coming and one for going.  No street lights, only occasional stop signs, no street names, or addresses (everyone has to have a PO Box), and not one major store in sight. Meaning, no mall, Target, Mervyns, Walmart, Kmart, Kohls, nada…. There are many small mom and pop stores, mostly ran by Asians.  I must admit, there is a surreal amount of peace in the atmosphere there.  A very relaxing calm around the Island.  That is what I miss.

August 12, 2007 was the first day of school.  It was also our son’s 5th birthday.  He was starting kindergarten at Manulele Elementary.  His teacher actually taught my husband’s sister, and she is from the same village; Nuuuli.  I guess I need to explain that.  There are many villages on the Island of Am. Samoa.  I kind of describe them as gangs (although my husband doesn’t like that) but in a way it’s like “what village are you from?”  Yet for the sake of understanding I will say the villages are like cities.  Much smaller of course and normally you know everyone in your village.  There is a high chief of the village.  Then the chiefs have the men under them, and so forth. Kind of like the chain of commands with the chief being the President of the village.  Each village has its chief.  My husband has two uncles who are the chiefs of two separate villages.  Having a chief title gives you a title name.  So one uncle is the Levu which is over Nuuuli, and his other uncle is the Fagaima over the Tafuna village.  One thing I did see is your last names tells what village you are from, what family, and your status.  Well, my son’s teacher was from the same village, and also attended the same church.  So she took a little more liking to our son.

The first day of school he cried.  The second day of school, he cried.  Yet by the third day he was ready to accept his role as a kindergartner.  Before entering the classroom, students are to remove their shoes.  Something my son never did.  And he was the only one in class that wore his shoes the entire school year.  Education at school consisted of an hour of learning the Samoan language.  I miss that my kids are not currently learning the language now, because my son was actually understanding it.  One thing I will say that I DO NOT like about the Department of Education out there is corporal punishment was banned in 1998, yet some teachers have been known to still hit the children with switches wrapped with tape.  I was a witness to such a thing happening to a kindergartner (5 years old). I reported it to the principal, police, news, social services, and around ten other people/agencies and NOTHING was done. 

Now, to move on to the topic of my story…  Through out the school year we had several routine teacher parent meetings to keep us updated on the progress of our son.  Yet one particular meeting has stuck in my head to this day.  Giving me the reason to write about it.  It was in  mid-May 2008.  The last month of school.  Both my husband and I attend our son’s teacher/parent conference.  His teacher began to say how well he has done, and how hard he has tried learning the Samoan language.  He won an essay award for students in his age group.  She began to say how sweet of a child he is, all the while showing us his folder.  We thanked her for all her work with him.  She continued to express how pleased she was, and how much she cared for him.  After all was said and done, we stood up to leave.  She stood up with us.  Then she began to tell us something that made me say WOW….  She said how she loved him so, and that is why whenever he had to use the bathroom, she would leave her class to go with him so no one would beat him up for being Samoan and Palagi (white).  All the while tears have now welled up in her eyes as she told us stories of her leaving her class unattended to be watched by the neighboring teacher.  She continued to say she didn’t want anything bad to happen to him if he went by himself.  She didn’t want the other kids to do anything to him because he was Afatasi (mixed).  I wanted to cry too.   Watching her, her passion, and the fear that something would happen to my son because he was mixed was heartfelt.  I didn’t even bother at the time to say he’s not mixed with White.  At that moment getting in the car, I thought how UNBELIEVABLE!   A teacher, for the entire school year had willingly protected my son for her fear of him being hurt by others because he was mixed.  Once again I say, UNBELIEVABLE~

Blasian in the Babytalk/GMA Cover Contest 2009

http://www.parenting.com/babytalk/covercontest

I finally caving under the pressure to submit Daniel’s photo into the Babytalk/Good Morning America cover contest for 2009. Since he was born I’ve been hearing I need to put him into contests and modeling. I’ve been taking a strong stance against any of these suggestions. Of course I think my son is adorable and would love for the world to see his ultimate yumminess. But I’m sorta conflicted about pitting babies against each other. After all aren’t all babies beautiful in there own way?

Well the answer should be yes. But it seems there’s always some study done which supports popular opinion that mixed race babies are the cutest. So can someone tell me why most baby photo contest tend to showoff mono-racial babies?

Is there a mixed race baby photo contest I’m not aware of that I should be entering? Because I’m not 100% on board with pitting my little mixie against single race babies. I don’t think you can even offer a fair comparison.  I dunno…maybe I just look for issues with everything. After all this is suppose to be a positive and happy thing right? I mean if we get into the finals then we can get some great prizes along with exposure… exposure that will bring the reality of mixed race blasian babies to the masses! *insert diabolic laughter* 

But wait…why is my little one the only blasian baby in this contest anyway?!  I took some time to check thru the photo of babies just to see if I could find another biracial child.  Now I could be wrong cause some of those kids gave me pause… racial speaking…but for the sake of my argument I’m going to say I think he was the only black and asian child…so far.  I can only hope I can talk another mom of a blasian into entering =) .

I feel entering this contest will be a good thing whether we win or not. If we don’t put ourselves and our community out there for society to become aware then our voices and images will remain in the background.  What a shame that would be

Caught Between a Mommy Rock and Hard Place

After a change of plans, I wondered how I could spend the rest of my day. I was already outside and the day was so beautiful and warm. Daniel was enjoying it and looked so cute in his fisherman hat. A true shame to return home now.

So I thought…since we’re already in downtown brooklyn,  we should go hangout on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. That would be a great way to destress, try to tan Daniel and of course get a photo.

On the way I stopped in a neighborhood store for some Arizona refreshment.  I grab my drink and head up to the counter to pay. Ironically it’s a Korean owned store with a older Korean women at the counter. As I’m paying the women starts talking to Daniel.  Then she starts a convo with me

Korean counter lady: What’s the name

Me: Daniel

Korean counter lady:  Oh, it’s a boy

Me: *frown*  yes he’s a boy

Korean counter lady: Oh so cute.

Me:  Thank you. Say Annyeong Haseyo Daniel  *paying and getting ready to leave*

Korean counter lady: Oh he’s Japanese

Me: *blink, blink*  No he’s korean…well really Korean and Black  *pointing to Daniel and then myself*

Korean counter lady: *stares at me* Uh huh

As I left the store I laughed at the thought of the Korean counter lady telling her family about the black women who came into the store with a Japanese child trying to say first he was HER baby and then he was black AND korean.

As we rolled onto the promenade I saw a mixed group of women with children.  One group of mothers with their kids. The other group of babysitters with their kids. Where would I sit? Who can I be friendly with? Honestly I stood there for a few seconds cause I was struck with the option and what it might led to.  

If I sit with the moms will they wonder why a baby sitter is in the mommy section? Will I have to explain in detail with DNA diagrams how genetics work and YES he really is my baby? Hmm

If I sit with the babysitters will they shun me after learning I am not part of the “lets complain about our bosses” club? Will I need to convince them that I’m not a spy and I’m just a regular person like them? Hmm

As I stood there looking at them, they sat there looking me waiting for me to choose an alliance. Hmm.  I’m wasn’t up to dealing with the social politics today so I made my way to an empty bench away from both groups.  There I enjoyed the sun, the smell of the sea and Daniels warm baby kisses.  What a great end to the day.

Counted

I’m all for making statements.  Heck, that’s the reason why I blog, to make statement, let my voice be heard, yada, yada, yada.

And for those who want to state that they are X race along with Y, I’m down for that to.  As a mom to a biracial teen I want him to feel comfortable with who he and where he comes from.

So, why do I have a problem with his?

Public schools in the Washington region and elsewhere are abandoning their check-one-box approach to gathering information about race and ethnicity in an effort to develop a more accurate portrait of classrooms transformed by immigration and interracial marriage. Next year, they will begin a separate count of students who are of more than one race.

Washington Post 23 Mar 09

Maybe it’s because of this:

Many civil rights advocates agree that it’s necessary to document the growing number of multiracial students, but they say these categories will mask valuable information about race that could be used to analyze educational challenges some groups face. They say it would be more accurate to report the data in detail, with racial and ethnic combinations.

“If we don’t know that some multiracial, Hispanic and black students are doing worse,” said Melissa Herman, a sociologist at Dartmouth College, “we can conveniently ignore that they are doing worse.”

Washington Post 23 March 09

Which reminds me a whole lot of this:

There are some bad adolescent behaviors that whites do more than blacks (like drinking and smoking), and there are other bad adolescent behaviors that blacks do more than whites (watching TV, fighting, getting sexually transmitted diseases). Mixed-race kids manage to be as bad as whites on the white behaviors and as bad as blacks on the black behaviors. Mixed-race kids act out in almost every way measured in the data set.

New York Times, Freakonomics Column, 12 Aug 08

When we start to loudly proclaim who we are to the world we also need to be aware what other people do with that information.

Do I think that African American children have a hard time learning in school compared to Asian Americans or white Americans?  Yes.  But then I also know that African Americans don’t do as well as children who are of African descent (Nigerian, Ugandan, Kenya).  So I guess my worry is, when children are multiracial, will they be looking at other factors, too, or will they automatically assume that a child who is Eurasian will have less problems although that might not be the case with a child whose Asian parent is first Gen and didn’t graduate from high school.  Or will they assume that a child who is Black and Native American might have a better time in less challenging classes than his/her classmates?

I guess my problem is, I don’t have a problem with telling what race a child is, I just worry that someone might infer who the child is because of their race.

Who they are means the same.

When asked if I would be interested in blogging for The Sweet Rice Chronicles, I wasn’t sure if I even qualified for something I felt was an honor.  How could I possibly write something people would be interested in reading?  As I sat back and thought about the purpose, I accepted the honor of writing quite proudly.  In fact I realize many of our stories are written on the same pages….

As described in why “The Sweet Rice Chronicles” and the notion of trying to help others through our thoughts and experiences it has brought me to write back quite a few years on my own style first.  Then bring people up today with the now. 

I think every single culture has experienced the taste of rice.  Sweet rice, plain rice, buttered rice, fried rice, soy sauced rice, etc… Even those in far off countries and places we only see on the discovery channel; not realizing they even existed until seeing their tribal dance on the screen, have experienced rice.  When the U.S. supplies food for the countries who lack such a necessity, on many of the huge brown sacks has a label that says “RICE.”   It’s an odd connection, but rice kind of connects each individual in this entire world for the simple fact that we have all eaten it at least one time or another.  The sweeter the better…  In this day and age, one would think that so many people have blended families that prejudice and racism could not exist.  Yet even in my own experiences that has not been the case.

I come from a few generations of mixed folks. My mom being Black, Dutch and Jewish.  My dad being Black, Mexican and Hopi.  Now in my era of the 70’s and 80’s were the questions and comments, “what are you”  “is you mixed”  “you don’t look black.”   As a child growing up, I admit that was confusing.  I did not look like the “stereotyped”  black individual.  I did not look like the Black characters that were on television back then. I remember in elementary school, a classmate tell me my mom was not black because she had blue eyes.  Wow, could he have been right?  I never did see a “black” person with blue eyes.   Which took me to ask my mom once again, “what are we?”  Her common reply, “We’re black.” 

In Jr. High I had kids tell me I was Creole.  I had no idea what Creole was or meant.  So once again, “mom, what are we?”  Sounding like a scratched record, “We’re black…”  My question, “We’re not Creole?”  Her reply, “No, Creole’s have French in them.  We are black.”   Explaining that we are black, but don’t look black was hard for some to comprehend.  I can say the benefit of being mixed for me was being able to get along with every race I came in contact with; Black, White, Asian, Latinos, Pacific Islanders, and more.  So growing up I considered myself  Black, mixed; but Black.

I was aware that a certain percent of black blood made you black.  But what if the percentage is so low, near extinction.  Does that old slavery day law/rule still exist?  I bring that  question up concerning a conversation I had with an old co-worker.   My children are half Samoan. During our discussion, I said my kids are Black.  of course going on how I was taught, any amount of Black blood makes you Black.  My co-workers argument was how could my kids be Black when I have a little bit of Black blood, and their dad is of Samoan blood?  His reasoning was that my children have more Samoan blood in them then Black.  And as much as we went back and forth about the race of my children, he actually made sense.  I don’t even know how to break down the percentage as I see other people do when it comes to the bloodline.  But my kids would be half Samoan, and a very small amount of Black.  So that is when I came to the realization that my kids are mixed Black, Samoan, Mexican and Hopi.

On sight you don’t even see the “Black” blood that runs through their veins.  Their last name would have people suspect that they are Samoan.  Their almond shaped eyes would have people assume a touch of Asian.  Their light skin and straight hair would have others believe they are White or Hispanic. 

I have seven children, so can you imagine the stories I have to share.  My children will grow up to be awesome Black, Samoan individuals.  Or Samoan, Black individuals.  No matter which way I say it, it still means the same.

By Any Other Name

I’m always on hypotheticals.  J hates it.  He really does.  But I can’t help it.  I like to think about things; maybe it’s a female thing.

I will ask him stuff like, “If I should die, would you remarry?”  “If I lost my job tomorrow what would we do?” and “Would you stay with me if I got really, really fat?”

“How fat?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It depends on how fat you got.  Like a little bit bigger than now or break the bed fat?”

“Are you saying I’m fat now?”

“Are you saying you’re fat now?”

I fuss at him.  He laughs, deflects and then asks me why do I ask about things that may never happen?  I should learn not to ask but I never do.

So a couple weeks ago I came up with the hypothetical question, “What if I told you I wanted to raise our future child as black?  What would you say?”

He knitted his eyebrows Korean-style and gave me a quizzical look.  “What do you mean by that?”

What did I mean by that?  Lately I have been talking to black moms of biracial kids and hearing them loudly reaffirm, “I’m raising _________ black.”  It sounds defiant, like black solidarity.  It’s like saying to the black community, “Yeah, I’m in an interracial relationship but my kids from it are black.  So what-what?”

But for 18 years I was a mother to a monoracial black child.  So how did I raise Cricket? 

Well…

Okay, I raised her the best way I saw fit.  Would it be defined at the “black way”?  Well, I’m black and I found my way.  I texted my daughter with the question: “Did I raise you black?”

I suspect her answer will be no in a general sense.  I’ve always danced to the beat of my own drummer.  While raising her people always gave me unwarranted advice or askance looks.  As a baby people would say I held her too much or talked to her like an adult.  As a toddler I allowed her to express herself by giving her permission to tell me when she didn’t like things but I explained to her I had the last word.  I put her in African dance classes, ballet, and tap and it was expressed to me through a mutual friend that her father’s family felt I was over scheduling her.  Even as a teen my daughter thought my notions didn’t fully jibe with other African Americans because when she needed to bring food for the Soul Food lunch at school she asked her paternal grandmother, not me. 

“I cook soul food!”  I said indignant.  I have to admit I don’t cook it a lot because I don’t really like soul food.  It can be greasy and fatty and as a child my mother would throw up her hands in surrender when I wouldn’t eat it.

“You cook it,” she acquiesced before pulling the rug from beneath me.  “But it’s healthy and soul food isn’t healthy.  The white girls at the school want authentic soul food not what you make.”

“I’m black, so that makes it authentic!”

Cricket sighs her forever sigh.  It can mean a myriad of things but mostly it means, loosely translated, you are so dumb.  So that is what she was saying, I was clueless.  “You can make it if you want to, but I’m not taking it to the school.”  So for my daughter’s four years at that preppy private school she asked her grandmother to cook greens and fried chicken to sell during the soul food luncheon.  Never once did she even take a biscuit from me (and I know I can make buttermilk biscuits).

It’s odd that I should be at that place, where I’m wondering about the strength of my blackness.  When I was a teen I knew it was strong –hell I could have been the poster child for Miss Black America.  I was going to raise all my kids on the music of Public Enemy and the Last Poets and not dress them in anything but black.   But life gives way to change and although my daughter is familiar with the music of PE (we even got a chance to meet Chuck D once) she is also a big fan of –dare I say it– Hannah Montana as well as TV on the Radio.  Her favorite color to wear is green, as mine as morphed into teal.  So my youthful zealousness of what was black in teens has been tempered with time.

Does my daughter define herself with the definition I have given her?  Ummm, no.  When she was younger I stuck her in a lot of musical theatre classes because she has talent in singing and dancing.  During her sophomore year of high school she deviated from it to play softball.  Softball!  The following year she went back to theatre for the chance to go with her fellow thespians to Scotland but now in college she has returned to sports by dropping theatre and rowing crew.  My daughter would use athlete as an adjective to describe herself although it’s not one I would use.

Culture is similar to that.  Is my daughter black in the same way that I am?  Probably not.  Just like I am not black the same way my mother was.  My mother was a part of the great migration from the South during the 1950s.  She knows about colored only water fountains and what it was like to drop out of school because the family needed to pick cotton for part of the year. 

I grew up in the 80s, post integration society although not fully integrated.  I had friends that were white as well as black.   The civil rights era was still fresh in the minds of my elders; I attended college, listening to conscientious rap, read Soul on Ice and the Autobiography of Malcolm X.

And Cricket?   She went private schools until college; her primary school was all black parochial and her high school all white college prep.  Her friends are diverse but so is her family.  Her brother and sister on her father’s side are half white; her stepbrother and stepfather are of Korean descent.  Her view of blackness will be different from mine.

This is the reply I got:

Cricket: What does that mean?

Me: What do you think it means?

Cricket: You can’t raise me a color so how can I be raised black?

I try a different route: did I raise you to be proud of your heritage?

Cricket: Yeah.

And that is all I can ask for.  When J2 first came to live with us he saw himself as black with an Asian father but now that he and J have become closer he designates himself as “Blasian”.   He found out while he was closing out J2’s web session and saw that J2 claims both sides of his ethnic background.

“So what do you think?” J asked me excited.  “It means he’s growing, right?”

I guessed so.  I just hope people grow with him so he can do it without a hassle.