Don't tell us it isn't real

The year was 2008. After months of following the presidential campaign, I finally gave in and covered my "Ready for Hillary" sticker with one supporting Obama. Yes, I lived in the Bible Belt, surrounded by a pool of political red, but I can't really say as I cared. After all, my political leanings have never exactly been a well-kept secret, no matter where I've lived. 

(Photo compliments of ballotvox.prx.org)

Then one hot summer's night, I was watching middle schoolers playing softball. The one I know best is a born athlete who loves the game, but that night, things began to drag as both teams ran out of pitchers. In desperation, they pulled this girl from her usual spot at second to try to close out the game. It wasn't pretty, but she did it. The final inning came mercifully to an end. 

That's when I heard the guy shouting. He insulted the officials, the coaches, and yes, even the players, honing in quickly on the closing pitcher. Admittedly, the closing pitcher did not have her best game, and admittedly, she was easy to spot, being one of the only brown girls in the entire league. But that does not explain why, on a team of twelve, she and I were the only ones followed to the parking lot, or why we were treated to a fresh level of invective when he saw my Obama bumper sticker. 

Except... Except, of course, it does. It explains it all. We were there. We heard every last ugly word. 

This isn't even close to the worst example you'll ever hear, of course. It isn't even the worst one people close to me have ever lived. But it is one reason why you can't tell us that racism doesn't exist. We can't hear you over the yelling. 

When so-so movies generate big ideas...

Winter is here. It gets too cold and too dark too early, so I find myself watching a lot of films. Because I am old-fashioned and still watch most movies in theaters or on DVD, I happen to think Redbox is one of the best things ever.

(I know, I know... Who would've said even five years ago that DVDs were old-fashioned?! But that's a topic for another day.)

A couple of weeks ago, a few screen touches and a card swipe at our local kiosk produced Black or White, a family-focused drama with Olivia Spencer and Kevin Costner. I like both actors very much, and the little I knew about the story, namely that it featured a multi-racial family, caught my attention. And with a promo code that gave me movie for free, what did I have to lose? Not much.

Unfortunately, I can't say I gained much either, not as movies go. Overall, I thought it was okay, or, to paraphrase a sister book-club member, "it was a movie I saw," nothing more, nothing less. It certainly didn't meet my expectations, although it did have good moments. In other words, it's the kind of movie one usually forgets.

Note the "usually." There was (is) a scene that just would (will) not leave me alone. Most of the film tries valiantly to explore the complexities of race, class, grief, and substance abuse as they are lived by ordinary people in their everyday lives. It is thought-provoking, if not especially well executed. Then, suddenly, the messy mundanity of existence is interrupted by a violent, near-fatal knife attack. The scene is both unexpected and pivotal. It changes the outcome of the film in ways the viewer (at least this viewer) could not have easily anticipated.

For me, at first, this marred the film. The knife scene felt out of place, as though it belonged in a different movie. Then it hit me: for most of us, daily life may be made up of a series of seemingly small decisions, where melodrama never strikes. Yet no one is immune from those split-second crises when everything changes. I am not just thinking of people working in the Twin Towers, the concert goers at the Bataclan, the shoppers on a busy Beirut street, the guests at a Bamako hotel...  I am thinking of people like you and me. We aren't as far removed as we might like to think. I too have faced close-to-home acts of violence that don't fit neatly into the bookish, small-town life I've endeavored to build. Yet as much as they pain me, they teach me too. Thanks to them, I too have found certain beliefs irrevocably changed and made decisions that previously seemed unfathomable, decisions that meant seeking justice not in a court of law, but in the nurturing of hearts and minds.

I don't know what the moral of the story is. Maybe there isn't one. Or maybe it's simply this: our lives are made up of many parts, and we're meant to embrace them all...even those that don't "fit."

When you see a family like mine...

I think this may be the first in a series. Only time will tell. I also want to write some posts on the theme of "Everything I need to know, I learned from an orange cat," but that loss is still too fresh. For now, I'm just letting the muse strike when and where she will until I summon enough energy to impose some discipline on her.

To give you a frame of reference, I am 5'9",  blond, blue-eyed, like an extra in a Scandinavian movie. My three children, on the other hand, were born in India and have darker skin than I do, with black hair and dark eyes. They are also shorter in stature.

 

Here on some tips on what NOT to say, especially when meeting us for the first time.

Question: Where are they from?

Answer: Kentucky.

Alternate answer (available only if I think it's relevant): Kentucky, but they were born in India.

The voice in my head: Stop being so dang nosy. If you had children from India, I bet you'd find a different way to phrase your question.

Question: Are they yours?
Answer: Yes.
Alternate answer (snarky, paired with theatrical scanning of surroundings): Are what mine? Oh my God! Them?! Why do these people keep following me?
The voice in my head: You probably want to know if they're adopted. If you also have a transracial family and/or adopted kids, you might have grounds to ask. MIGHT. Otherwise...

Question: Do they look like their dad?
Answer: Nope.
Alternate answer (highly snarky, accompanied by feigned scrutinizing of children): You know... now that you mention it, they sure don't. Wonder how THAT happened?!
The voice in my head: You want to know personal details about my family and think you've found a clever way to ask. You haven't.

Question: Are they adopted?
Answer: Yes.
(No other answer is necessary.)
The voice in my head: This question is usually fine by me, as long as it's asked kindly and respectfully, and as long as it's not followed by any of these...

Question: Couldn't you have your own?
Answer: They are my own.
Alternate answer: I already do.
The voice in my head: Please tell me you are not actually asking me about my sex life and/or reproductive health. Do you hear me asking you about that?!? I didn't think so.

Question: Did you try magic beans/ IVF/prayer/sacrifices to pagan goddesses?
Answer: No.
Alternate answer: Actually, I chose adoption first. I wanted to be a mother and there were kids who needed parents. It was a perfect fit.
The voice in my head: Why are people so stinkin' interested in getting what I would consider TMI? Seriously! That is so NOT okay!

Question: How much did they cost?
Answer: stunned silence
Alternate answer: Ummmm.... You do know that I didn't BUY my children, right? I paid fees to lawyers, agencies, orphanages, immigration services, and more.
The voice in my head: What in the heck is wrong with you? Who asks that? How much did your pregnancy cost? What about the delivery? What? You don't want to answer? Why not?

I could go on, but you get the point. If you wouldn't say it to a married, heterosexual couple with 2.5 kids who look exactly like them, then don't say it to me. Deal?