My ONE LOVE life

If the world could vote?

I haven’t been an active writer these days.  You may have noticed.  It’s been quite a time for me,  I was whammied with a major health issue two months ago. I have no desire to lament the details about it here.  But what I have noticed is that stress is the true test of a marriage.

I am happy to report that my amazing husband has been an exemplary pillar of loyalty and support.  I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love with him everyday.  It’s hard for me to imagine how tenuous I felt 8 years ago when we wed, and even 7 years ago during that trying first year.  If ever someone would have told me that we would evolve into such a solid, supportive, loving entity together I would have giggled with delight and curiosity.

In part I can attribute this growth to the true nature of my husband.  He is kind, mellow, and generous in spirit.  I have always seen him as my own personal, living, Buddha.

But the other part is culture.  He comes from a place where being in the moment matters.  It is rare to get a solid response when you ask a West Indian his or her plans.

If asked, “what are you doing tomorrow after work?

The response is often prefaced with “God willing, …(fill in the blank).”

He comes from a place where worry and strife are useless.  “One love“, “irie“, and “no problem mon” are attitudes that plague his culture.

He comes from a family of nine.  One mom and 8 glorious children!  He is the oldest male of the lot and took up a lot of responsibility growing up.  He has no issue with taking off work for 12 days while I fly off to Atlanta!  He has no issue washing dishes (every night), cooking dinner, and not getting angry with me when I don’t.  He relishes in the opportunity to help, to help me, my parents, a friend, or other relative.  It is his way, his culture, his being, so neatly intertwined and openly available to appreciate.

He quietly goes about the world just being all of those amazing things.  He never resents.  He has never said to me, “but I need time to myself too.”

Over the years I have learned from him.  I have cultivated a carpe diem attitude and he has evolved into a responsible, American workforce type…  For what it’s worth the evolution works.  We have found a balance and it seems that the tried and true test of life stress can’t rock this boat, or tip this scale out of balance.  I’ve heard from verterans of the marriage world that 10 years is the real hump.  With less than two to go, I can’t imagine how stellar things will be then!

With the start of a new school year is the beginning of the questions.

When I dropped off my daughter the other morning one of the parents confessed to me that her daughter had said, “wow, I didn’t know that she (my daughter) had an American mom”.

And when I went to pick up my daughter yesterday after school a girl asked her, “Is that your mom?”

“Yes.”  my daughter replied. And the girl mumbled something under her breath.  My daughter asked her what she said and the girl shrugged it off.  My daughter then said, “What? Are you surprised that my mother is white and I am brown?”  The girl nodded and that was the end of that.

When we got home I later asked my daughter if she often gets questions like that.  She said, “not too often.”  Then she added that the other day a girl was making fun of her for having two different color parents.  I tried to keep my cool as I said, “tell me more”.

She went on to explain that the girl told her that she had two white parents and that my daughter was strange for having two different color parents.  She said the girl just blurted it out and ran away.  When my daughter later caught up with her, the girl apologized and said that perhaps my daughter was lucky to have two different color parents.

I’ve noticed that 6 year old girls sure do have a unique way of communicating.

My daughter concluded that she is indeed very fortunate to have two different color parents and that it’s great to be unique.

Sooo I learned something this week. If any of you saw my post from last week it might interest you to hear the update.

Atlanta has grown on me. As soon as I warmed up and started opening up I did not feel so invisible. I made friends, good friends. I even had a black woman friend ask ME about doing black hair styles –my passion. At first I was embarrassed. I thought she was joking. Then I realized that I was carrying a stereotype, a preconceived notion of the South that did not fit my reality. This notion, that I was letting take over my lens of viewing was obscuring my vision.

I am told there is segregation in the South, perhaps it is here. But I do not see it. I choose not to see it. Yes we can choose to shift our vision, to see whatever world view we choose to take on.  In other words, what I think about I bring about…

When I came here I expected to experience black people disliking me. I found it. But as the week unfolded I became more confident within myself, to ask the questions on my mind about race relations. I was embraced with open arms. The conversation was good. It was real, it was open, and thank God it came mid-week so I could experience my new perception. The perception that felt true to my nature and knowledge of the world.

The sludge tainting my world view diluted. When I opened my heart, I saw a reflection of my true vision, a warm loving city embracing diversity with the energy of a grand, warm “Good Morning, y’all.”

So I am in Atlanta this week and wow is there a difference between Southern California and the South. It’s my first visit to the South actually and I really expected to like it.

I felt good getting off the plane seeing all of the black faces around me. There is so much green around and the damp hot air feels warm and comforting. Watching the weeds, trees and flowers sprouting up in the most unpredictable places.  It reminds me a little, and I mean a little, of the Caribbean.

Everyone here is just sooo polite. Sometimes I just have to smile when I hear these southern women speak.  It sounds so lovely.

We are all here with a common purpose and a shared vision. We all seem to genuinely enjoy being around each other.

The first day I recognized a familiar accent. I asked the woman where she was from. She said she was from Guyana. Well, Guyana is the Caribbean after all and the culture is so very similar to that of my husband’s Eastern Caribbean culture I felt like I might have made my first friend!

I replied back that my husband was also from the Caribbean. She averted my gaze and the woman standing near to us gave me a once over and asked, “where are you from?”

When I told her I was from California she seemed to relax. I guess I got a pass this time, but it sure made me nervous thinking about my family being here. At one point my husband and I discussed the possibility of moving here and raising our girls in this predominantly black community. This was before either of us had ever been here.

But how would that actually be if we were here together as a family? How would my girls feel when they reach an age where the need to explain their roots? Would my children feel embarrassed of me?

I just hope that my husband and I will be able to instill in them the confidence they need to adequately deal with that sort of attitude toward racial mixing. Although it is more obvious to me now while I am outside my comfort zone and living as a visitor in Atlanta I know that the attitude exists everywhere in the world, including California and the Caribbean.

We don’t live in Los Angeles but occasionally we drive there to go to the Agape International Spiritual Center. It is the most diverse church I have ever experienced. It’s a gorgeous place, a place where we fit in and are fully appreciated and accepted for who we are and what we represent.

So we make the drive of 2 hours or so a few times a year in part to experience the glory of truly fitting in. This Sunday was the first time we brought my mom.

My mom, who is white and raised in the Episcopalian Church, has been a new age woman since I was a teen. She’s into the power of crystals and practices Reiki. I think of her as being pretty open minded, but not today.

As usual, my experience of Rev. Michael Beckwith was earth shaking. His sermons, if that’s what he calls them, really do make the point so beautifully. Each time I attend I feel like he’s speaking directly to me and me alone, out of the hundreds of people sitting around me.

The church is alive with music and glowing people. The kind of people who hold my gaze and infiltrate my body with love and acceptance when they smile.  The multi-color clothing of the choir and the variety of skin tones flashing before my eyes is radiant. When I am there I feel as though I am one with the current of love, peace and gratitude. Everyday should be an Agape day for me!

On our drive home I began to quiz my mom about what she thought of the church. I could see while we were there that she had enjoyed herself and was moved by Rev. Michael’s words.

“Well, he’s not what I expected.” She said.

“What did you expect?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t expect him to be so … dramatic.” She replied.

This was of course offensive to me. But as Rev. Michael says, it’s against the law (of attraction) to dwell in the energy of being offended.

Later my husband said, “I don’t think your mom liked the church”.

We exchanged a look and I said, “do you think she didn’t like it because it was too black?”

“Maybe”, he said. We didn’t discuss it any further. We both know the limitations of my parents and how it seeps into our lives sometimes.

It certainly got me thinking about the condition and expectations some people have on “blackness”. When I say “blackness” I am talking about stereotyping. My husband’s cultural differences do not lend themselves to stereotypical American blackness, so the issue has not really arisen around my parents.

The crowd at Agape is certainly not too black for me. I feel right at home there. To each his/her own I suppose. But I cannot help but wonder how my intercultural girls, raised in the US will fall into the category of “blackness” and will this be an issue for my parents? Will my girls somehow receive an underlying message that they are not supposed to act too black? And what does this mean? I suppose it means that I will always have to be on guard, listening, and protecting my girls.

Issues of racism and stereotyping will occur throughout the lives of my girls. I cannot write my parents, or anyone else for that matter, off because they hold deep seeded, socially unacceptable, old fashioned, racist views. I know it’s my duty to take responsibility for being a part of a family that sets itself apart. We represent. We represent; and that doesn’t go away.

I can’t help but wonder though; do I get a pass for being offended by people like George W. who act too white?

A while ago I heard from a reader who had a few good questions for me to write about.  She wanted to know, if and how my family’s opinion of my marriage had changed over time.

The process of getting used to my new husband did take my parents some time.  And it’s hard to say if it had anything to do with his race or culture, or just my family getting used to me being married and coming back to the US. I had left at age 26, single and only 2 years out of graduate school.  I returned 3 and a half years later a pretty different woman.

At first I would notice everything my parents said and over analyze it, looking for discrimination.  I remember my mom once saying that my husband was her “black angel”.  Of course she meant it as a compliment, but why did she have to add the word “black” in front of angel?  My parents have always thought my husband was nice; and he is.  Everyone thinks he’s nice.  People tell me that all the time.  But the adjustments came in other ways too.

For years my parents struggled just to understand my husband when he spoke, even though English is his first language.

I think for a long time there was disappointment.  My father expected his high achieving, Master’s Educated daughter to “marry up”.  And by this I mean someone who is equally or higher educated than I and able to “provide for me” a lifestyle grander than the theirs.  I suppose on some level all parents want this for their children.  Who wants to see them struggle?

For many years it was hard for me to adjust to that too.

But the comments still bubble up.  Just this week my mother proceeded to tell me a story about some cable guy who came by her house.  She spoke at length about how nice he was and helpful, etc.  He also happened to be African American.  She invited him into the house to seek his advice about a television upstairs.  Then she mentioned that several years ago, this would have made her very uncomfortable.  But now she’s fine, and thoroughly enjoyed the man’s visit.  Imagine that?

The whole incident is heavy and gives good reason to pause. But that’s a conversation for another post.

Having children and moving back home (not to the same house, just the same town) has nurtured the adjustment over the last 5 years.  My parents love being grandparents and adore our girls.  My oldest daughter has been spending the night over there on a regular basis since she was 2 1/2 years old.  They call each other and chat.  My husband even calls my parents and does thoughtful things for them.  They buy him extravagant, thoughtful gifts.  The relationship is as good as it can be given all of our own personality quarks, but who doesn’t deal with that?

There have been tough times for me with his family too.  I had known my husband’s mom and family almost a year before I even met him.  I thought they had fully embraced me, but hurtful racial comments have come up over the years.

Experiencing another culture/another race/a complete stranger all require a certain level of flexibility, commitment, and willingness to self-reflect; especially when the experience is brought into our lives without permission.  The experience of adjusting to differences is unique for everyone.  For me, being dropped into a Caribbean jungle opened me up and required me to change on many deep and profound levels.

The opportunity of time, and the comfort of a home culture to fall back on have impacted the intensity of my parents adjustments.  I am sure the fact that we live so close is a good thing. I am always on guard for the protection of my children.  Ignorant comments pop out every once in a while and I quickly work to mitigate.

I see it as a lifelong journey.

When I joined the Peace Crops more than a decade ago I was signing up for a cultural exchange program. Though people generally join because they want to be of service, that is really only 1/3 of the Peace Corps mission. The mission statement, a 3 point statement, is really 2/3 about having a cultural exchange. Anyone who has served in the Peace Corps quickly comes to grips with this reality as the challenge of finding something meaningful to do becomes an ever increasing philosophical debate. But I digress….

The reason I mention this Peace Corps cultural exchange is because sometimes I feel like my life is a cross cultural exchange program.

Last week my husband joined the US cross cultural program called, an “American Vacation”. We drove more than 1000 miles round trip to spend 7 days residing in a small wood cabin in the forest. It was a place where my family of origin has been going for more than 30 years, the same week every year, to join other families going for more than 30 years, the same week every year.

It’s a place where the greenery rules and the smell of dirt reminds you of an old dear friend. We hung out by the river, swam in the “swimmin’ hole”, and floated on rafts. We participated in square dancing night and kicked up dust for the Hokey Pokey. We sang songs like “God Bless America” in a group around the camp fire and roasted marshmallows, eating s’mores. We hiked the national forest and jumped in to snow melt tucked between the rocks and greenery. The kids screamed at a water snake. We played Bingo and shopped for groceries in a store that sold cowboy hats near the check-out counter. We slept on the veranda and listened to the mix of laughter and the roar of the river 30 feet below. It was pure Anglo-American fun.

My girls were the only children of color. There was of course curiosity but everyone was more than welcoming and openly warm. It had been 12 years since I last visited this annual village of friends. My oldest daughter sang with confidence at the Friday night talent show. And they both taught the camp fire group the Caribbean song, “Brown Girl in the Ring.”

It was a great experience for my husband. He loved most being in nature and living in a small “board house” much like the one he grew up in.

Unlike most same culture marriages our differences are often unique and easily identified. I imagine if most people viewed marriage as a life long tour of a different culture, perhaps there would be less divorce and more room for understanding. It’s invigorating and exhausting sometimes getting to know my life partner’s culture on a daily basis. But it’s empowering to know that we all have the flexibility to define our own culture.