New Website!

It’s interesting to look back on these very old posts and see how far I’ve come. Now, you can too — I’ve moved to my very own domain site, which I purchased in 2009 and sat on for several long years. Finally, I’m making use of it. Come visit!

www.secretsociologist.com

What about the President?

I’m sure there isn’t a bride of color anywhere in the US who wasn’t affected by the idiotic comments of Justice Keith Bardwell of Louisiana, about two weeks ago.

Having dealt with racism in its various forms my entire life (from the very overt to the completely subconscious), I am not at all shocked by these types of views. I am, however, disappointed and annoyed, for all kinds of reasons.

I have a strong suspicion that Bardwell’s comments about interracial children are just a cop-out, a  half-assed attempt to justify what is nothing more than blatant racism. After all, what if the couple in question turns out to be infertile? What if they decide to adopt? I just think these statements are too clueless and “See? This is for the greater good!” to be true. They just don’t make enough sense.

First of all, blacks have a long history of accepting mixed-race children… after all, nearly all of us who are African American (that is, descended from slaves) have some race mixing in our history. Yes, there are a few blacks who (often justifiably) worry for the well-being of a mixed child, mostly due to the racism they’ve experienced themselves. But really, how out of touch do you have to be to realize that some of the most famous Blacks in America, rightly or wrongly, are mixed-race themselves? And, it bears pointing out, there’s the President! Wasn’t he voted in by Americans of all races? More evidence, to me at least, that Mr. Bardwell is severely out of touch.

I just think Bardwell is a racist. I also think he is not alone.

When my (white) fiancé was born, interracial marriage was still illegal in 17 U.S. states. No one needs to point out the ugly legacy of racism that we still deal with on a daily basis. If anything, Mr. Bardwell is a reminder, to me and to anyone else entering into an interracial marriage, that it won’t be particularly easy all the time, and that we (and our “mixed” kids) will have some idiots to deal with.

[Curiosities]

I wasn’t even finished watching the CNN replay of the service, and up come the funeral recaps. Journalists and blog commenters all over the place find themselves “shocked” that the funeral was tasteful at all. I know, right? All these black people in one spot, and oh wow! they’re behaving. But singing? And performances? While the coffin is sitting there? Creepy! Weird! Interesting!

When my father died nearly 10 years ago, my then-boyfriend attended the service. He was a Philipino Catholic guy who hadn’t ever set foot in a black church. The first thing he said after the service was, “Wow, it was so loud! Gospel singing, at a funeral?” It was pretty apparent that the mainstream funeral tradition and the African American one were two completely different things.

I remember when Jeremiah Wright brought the “black church experience” into the public consciousness. Sure, everyone had heard of Martin Luther King, but he was a speaker, an orator… people largely ignored that this style of speaking still goes on every single Sunday. The rhythm, the cadence, the manner of celebrating — all of this is familiar to black churchgoers, but not to the public, who remained curious and enchanted and relegated this experience, considered sacred by some, to unnecessary theatrics (of course, for us, the theatrics are an element of the sacred… but that’s another post).

On another blog, it was revealed that one of CNN’s clueless commentators described the repast as an “afterparty.” This reflects both the newscaster’s insensitivity and, on a larger scale, the inability to comprehend that Michael was Black. After so many years of being picked apart and claimed by everyone everywhere, some seem completely shocked that Michael’s death has “returned” him to his roots. As if to say, “Hey, Michael was an ordinary Black guy? But I liked him!”

But of course, despite all Michael’s self explorations and transformations, he was always one of us, always fought for us. I suspect I’m not alone in having to remind myself of this as we collectively mourn him.

Disclaimer

In my previous posts about celebrity grief, I failed to point out something that some would consider a bit weird, given my stance on public grieving: I don’t watch the news. At all. On television I don’t watch much except reruns of my favorite shows & movies, a few comedies, or a “guilty pleasures” like Bridezillas or something. That’s it. I can’t stand television news and haven’t voluntarily watched it since the election (and the election before that) and maybe a presidential address or two. All the news I get is what I read online.

So, when asked if the media “overdoes” celebrity grief, my answer is an unequivocal “yes!” I haven’t watched a single “live news” coverage of Michael; the news spreads faster online anyway. And even online news is bothering me lately (tributes, pictures, custody fights, lurid autopsy details) so I have escaped that as well. I still stand by what I said about people needing to grieve for public figures. It sounds conflicting, but it makes sense to me.

“We want you back”

It’s only now, 3 days later, than I can begin to cry over the death of Michael Jackson. I experience grief for him the way I’ve grieved for people I know personally; shock, disbelief, sadness; the feeling that the person you’ve lost is everywhere and nowhere at once. Compounding things is the tragedy his life became; the complexity of his legacy; the somber lessons about fame, work, and music that we are to learn from his life & death.

I’ve written before about the need for celebrity grief. Grieving people in the public eye, or with whom we grew up, is necessary and a rite of passage. Our culture is shaped by people who live their lives publicly, and when those lives end we are required to look at them honestly, grieve respectfully, and see them for the complicated, human people they were. Those who want to place Michael (or anyone who has died, for that matter) in an “either/or” box are missing this crucial point: it’s entirely possible that someone can be complicated, deeply flawed even, and yet contribute something of value to the world.

I took special notice of Lisa Marie Presley’s statement, released on her MySpace page. It’s particularly heartbreaking, because Lisa speaks candidly of wanting to “save” someone she loved from his own self-destructive impulses, and of course, being unable to do so. Lisa says,

I became very ill and emotionally/spiritually exhausted in my quest to save him from certain self-destructive behavior and from the awful vampires and leeches he would always manage to magnetize around him.

I was in over my head while trying.

I had my children to care for, I had to make a decision.

The hardest decision I have ever had to make, which was to walk away and let his fate have him, even though I desperately loved him and tried to stop or reverse it somehow.

How many people die every day that could have been “saved?” What is our responsibility to someone who doesn’t want our help? Relatives & loved ones of drug addicts, alcoholics and other risk-takers experience this all the time. How much of ourselves are we supposed to sacrifice? When do we make the decision to stop saving someone else and save ourselves? Which is more important?

Later in her statement, Lisa says she hopes everyone who worried over Michael can be “set free.” I hope she includes herself. And in her case, God bless her, she’s witnessed the same type of death twice, which is two too many for any one lifetime. It doesn’t seem there’s anything anyone could have done.

Perhaps most upsetting is how young Michael seemed; how terribly naïve; how full of energy he appeared to be. Watching him dance and jump and move and laugh is heartbreaking, knowing, simply, that he was so alive and now he isn’t. It’s always a little easier knowing someone died after they were “ready”; when they had made preparations and accepted that their time was over. I don’t think Michael ever could have been in this category as he seemed way too committed to his Peter Pan existence.

And here he is, literally singing to his inner child:

Between Two Small Worlds

Today there was a great post on Racialicious about Blacks & Latinos, specifically, Afro-Latinos. Explored in the post (and ensuing discussion) were issues of self-identification, cultural pride, what “recognized” Hispanics/Latinos think of Afro-Latinos, etc.

I love these types of discussions because they remind us that race and identity aren’t clearly defined, especially when you are a subset of two minorities. As a black person who speaks fluent Spanish, I can identify with this and detailed a few of my experiences in my comments. Speaking Spanish (and my affinity for the language & its cultures) means that I have given myself a global view of my experiences as an African American, and for that I often feel like an anomaly. I live in Texas, which doesn’t help — people here, white or black, still call Mexicans “Spanish”.

Strangely enough, the only time I’ve ever felt comfortable in this cultural divide is when I traveled to Puerto Rico late last year. Being a Spanish speaker and a black person was no longer an anomaly (and neither was being a full-figured woman) and I believe it was the first time I ever felt completely accepted and included. It was a great feeling, and one of the main reasons I want to go back.

A Racialicious reader asked me about my experiences in Puerto Rico, and my answer to her got so long I decided to make a post out of it. Thanks for your question, Xey!

I’m also an African-American Spanish-speaker (studied Anthro and Foreign Languages), and coincidentally, I’m planning a trip to PR with one of my A-A female friends who also speaks Spanish. Small world. Got any pointers, tips for travelling in PR?

Hey, congrats on your upcoming trip!

Hmm, tips for traveling… well if you are speaking in terms of general travel advice (where to stay, etc.) then I don’t have a whole lot to offer; I stayed in San Juan the entire week I was there, but plan to visit the whole island the next time I go.

Socially, I noticed that I was treated more like a “local” the more relaxed I was. I spoke Spanish very freely (instead of the usual “I hope I’m not making a mistake” mode I’m often in) and got more comfortable with myself. It happened very organically, and my favorite moment was when a white tourist came up to me, speaking his very bad Spanish. I was very excited about that, as I haven’t ever traveled anywhere I was not seen as an “other.” In PR, I found it very liberating to be in a place where the standard of beauty included me (I say this as a woman who is also full-figured; this may not be an issue for you or your friend).

Also, I was in San Juan with my white fiancé. I wasn’t in a tourist area, but was staying in a rented apartment in a residential area that seemed quite upscale to me. The general perception was that I was a boriqua who had brought her boyfriend to the island. However, I was there for a full day before his plane arrived, and I did notice that I was treated differently as a single black woman than as a black woman with a white guy, although I was assumed to be a “native” in both cases. I’m not sure if this is because of the racial/color issues inherent in PR society, if it was because it’s more acceptable to be with a man–any man–than to be a single woman, or if it was a class thing and people were being nice because they thought we had money. I would love to explore this more, given the chance. But I also loved that we were freely spoken to by black Puertorriqueños, and I felt embraced by them in a way I don’t often feel from blacks in the US.

Racialicious also has some posts on Blacks in Brazil (another place I intend to visit) and I will respond to that another time.

A Sucker for the Bridal Industry

So my coffee table is *covered* with bridal magazines (and one issue of Fitness). On the mantle, on display, are the gorgeous bargain earrings I picked out. I have hundreds of Internet “favorites” in a folder marked, “Wedding.” Oh no! The industry’s gotten to me!

It was only a matter of time. I am an unabashed romantic. I love love, I love the fact that I’m going to be married, and I’m excited that I am lucky enough to be able to plan a wedding, and most importantly, I love my fiancé.

When it comes to the wedding industry, I generally think it’s perfectly okay to be romantic, enjoy “girly” things, and revel in bridal excitement. I think I can do these things and still be thoughtful and intelligent about it; all aspects of planning a wedding aren’t evil (though the industry as a whole can be) and I enjoy many of the traditions & symbols inherent in weddings.

That said, this weekend I watched two horrible products of the wedding industry and actually enjoyed them! (gasp!)

I watched Bride Wars, which by many accounts, is a terrible movie. It could have been a good satire, and passed up a chance to be an intelligent commentary on such things as the nature of womens’ friendships, the bridal industry, and how wedding planning affects relationships with your fiancé and how we perceive ourselves. And it missed on all counts! The movie is a nightmare. Horribly inconsistent, completely impossible storyline, and inane drama. (Although Anne Hathaway is excellent, as always). And still, I watched it–twice! (For the record, my favorite aspect were the depictions of the friendship between the two women; this, I thought, was relatively well done.)

Also tonight was the premiere of the newest season of “Bridezillas.” Am I completely insane? “Bridezillas” is terrible! I swear, those women must be coached, or maybe paid under the table. But I still watch it. And unfortunately, also the “10 Best Bridezilla Moments” that aired before it.

This show is particularly awful; it perpetuates horrible stereotypes, most notably the White Trash stereotype, but also the “Oh No She Di-in’t” Angry Black Woman stereotype and, new for this season, the fiery hot-Latina stereotype. It’s particularly cruel. And still, I watch. The women are abusive and mean — and fascinating. Most of the time, I turn the show off in the middle because it’s so awful. But I still patronize it. Horrible!

What does it say about women when we buy into the Bridal Industry? Are we all, no matter how intelligent & thoughtful, susceptible to the Wedding Industrial Complex? And, why, much to the chagrin of the feminists, do we treat marriage as an exclusive club to which we have FINALLY gained admission?

In other cultures, the wedding preparation is a time of reflection, when a bride gets together with other women and prepares for the next stage of her life. Fully acknowledged are the different emotions inherent in such a change: sorrow for the bride leaving her family; a sense of mystery about the marriage bed; the anticipation of starting a new life & family. These emotions are still felt, despite Americans’ best attempts to hide them, and I wonder if our bridal-planning stage is our expression of that.

Brides are Sex-Crazed [You mean wives can be sexy?]

Every few days, a news story comes out that is one of those “Oh, they must have run out of stories” type of articles. Today’s is an absolutely ridiculous article that paints modern brides as sex-crazed loose women. The headline states “MySpace Generation Brides go for Sexy, Not Virginal” and that just about explains everything wrong with this article.

The article starts out as a trend piece, discussing why brides are choosing to emphasize their sexuality on their wedding day: low-cut dresses, boudoir photographs, etc. It quickly descends into “What is the world coming to?” ridiculousness, with inflammatory language about how weddings are no longer in churches, and how brides are no longer virgins because they live with their partners and oh no what’s wrong everything was SO MUCH BETTER BACK IN MY DAY.

Of course, this is going right over the writers’ heads, but what about the idea that celebrating one’s sexuality in the context of marriage is a healthy thing? For so long we have had this opressive idea of brides as perfect virgins (who were supposed to stay that way, except when the guy wanted to or when you needed some children) and it’s caused all sorts of conflicts and double standards. Now, we have a new generation of brides who are publicly acknowledging that sexuality and romance are essential in a healthy marriage — and we villify them, dumb them down, and insult them with articles like these. :::sigh:::

Pick the Stereotype

Today I found this website, picktheperp.com, where you are shown a crime, then a bunch of mug shots, and asked to match the correct mug shot to the crime. Essentially, they’re asking you to match appearances with crimes, and it brings up a whole host of issues about generalizations, criminals, and the supposed idea of “innocent-until-guilty.”

I played the game myself, and I found myself looking at the pictures, making judgments, and thinking thoughts I’d rather not acknowledge. I mean, showing lists of crimes and then saying, “Here, judge these by appearance!” I’m deeply ashamed to admit that I gravitated toward stereotypical answers, and then forced  When the question came up, “Which one has been charged with assault with a firearm?” I had to struggle not to pick the angry-looking black guy… but he looked so angry! I picked someone else instead, but it turned out to be him all along. Dammit!

Or the question, “Which person was charged with never having a drivers’ license?” I thought more about this one–the question wasn’t “expired license,” but “never having one.” Everyone in the pictures looked too old to never have had a license, except the youngest person who also was the only Hispanic. Stereotype! Oh no! This is how it went mostly, and I got every question wrong because I refused to pick the person that “looked” like they matched the crime. It was like I had a block against it.

What’s the point of this? Is it to show us how we make instant judgments? To force us to confront stereotypes? Are the pictures randomly generated, or are they pre-determined lineups? Hm.

The only question I got right was the one where I stuck to my instinct: “Which person was charged with exposing himself?” No matter race, status, or anything else, dirty old men are instantly recognizable!

How Freedom from Fear Changed My Life

part 1

part 2

part 3

Two months after the breakup, I was 15 pounds heavier, exhausted, and living a quiet existence since I wasn’t working at the time. The shock of the loss had taken its toll physically; in two months I’d grown some gray hairs, my skin texture changed, and, inexplicably, I just looked older in general.

But internally, I was feeling better and more clear-headed than I’d ever felt two months after a breakup. I’d done everything I needed to: I focused on myself, I was self-affirming and free from the usual self-deprecation that threatened to grip me. I was probably more confident and self-assured than I was before the relationship itself. But something still wasn’t right; it seems I had one more corner to turn.

I kept going back to accountability. Yes, at this point I knew nothing was fundamentally wrong with me; I’d gotten it into my head that I didn’t deserve poor treatment or to be deserted. So why was I with someone who had the capacity to do that? How is it that I was with someone who didn’t understand what I was worth? And what had been the undercurrent of our relationship that someone could just disappear like that?

These questions made me incredibly uncomfortable; admitting that I might have even the slightest bit of responsibility for the pain I was in was so upsetting to me. But I faced it, and the results were kind of illuminating. Like so many things, the answer was something I hadn’t wanted to admit.

I was afraid! I was afraid of everything. As a single person, I was confident & successful. But in this relationship, I was always terrified. I was always afraid he’d leave (but just aware enough not to show it very much, which caused its own kind of stress). Every morning, I woke up thinking he would get up and leave at any moment, and might even have burst into tears the few times he failed to return a call or email. I tried carefully never to act as though I wanted too much of a commitment, and despite my feelings, never told him I loved him (for fear of scaring him) until it was way too late.

My answer to all of this was to acknowledge the fear, and figure out where it came from. I knew my crazy reactions to his behavior came from somewhere, but couldn’t figure it out until I read something about fear of abandonment.

Without recounting my pages & pages of journal writing, I figured this out pretty quickly. Some online resources suggest years and years of therapy, but I swear, I was changed in an instant. My crazy reactions, my vague sense of dread, everything was explained by this new knowledge–or rather, this new way to frame what I already knew.

I began kicking away fears right and left. Fears about co-workers, fears about friends, fears about family and weight and other things I can’t control… they all melted away.

As for my fear of abandonment, I knew two things: once you unabandon yourself, people are free to come and go in your life as they please (I can’t remember where I found this quote) and that the best way to deal with fear was to face it head on. Armed with these two ideas as my lifelines, I moved forward, prepared to live and think differently.

And I did.

A few weeks after my little epiphany, I reacted to everyone in a different way, and was repaid for it by the new terms created in all my relationships. People at work treated me more respectfully, I started making friends and attracting different people than before. Even my hairdresser stopped calling to make last-minute appointment changes. & taking advantage of my time. Everything improved, and I felt so much better.

About this time, I started paying attention to this guy in my summer class. I’d taken a class during the summer after the breakup, so I wouldn’t have to sit quietly at home with the loss for three hot, workless months. This guy had started suggesting we go to art museums and such, and I blew him off. But I realized all I was doing was being afraid, and once I removed that I thought, “hey, maybe this guy could be o.k.” So I went out with him.

The relationship, of course, was completely different from any I’d had before. Not only was he a completely different guy, but I was completely different. Sure, there were (and are) still some times when I feel afraid. And the first time he didn’t return an email right away, I felt the familiar overblown anger & fear, and was able to let go of it. I knew that I could never again depend on someone else to calm my fears, and I’d remind myself of that when I needed to. And of course, the irony there is that he always returns my calls. Actually, he always calls — I never have to be the one to initiate that.

I think I was always ready to let go of this fear, but this seemed like the last step that unlocked things for me. So one year later, I can’t help but see how far I’ve come, how I’ve changed as a person, and yes, look down at the shiny ring that symbolizes what’s to come.