Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Love strands
My daughters are part me and part their father. The evidence is in their springy, curly, ready-to-dread hair.
By Susan Straight
[02/17/00]

Torn to pieces
Brothers and sisters in foster care, rarely adopted together, are routinely split and scattered, never to see each other again.
By Nell Bernstein
[02/16/00]

Beware of "women's culture"
Francine Prose issues a stern warning in the New York Times about market-driven pablum for women -- who are as silly, powerless and narcissistic as a gender can get.
By Jennifer Foote Sweeney
[02/15/00]

War of the dust-busters
Cheryl Mendelson may have written "Home Comforts," but my grandmothers could out-scrub her any day.
By Pamela Gordon
[02/15/00]

Dear Jon; Love, Jon
In which a young Romeo pens verses of true love -- to himself.
By Jonathan Poletti
[02/14/00]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I remember in third grade watching my best friend pull my sleeve and say "Look, nigger lips!" as she pressed her bottom lip out and curled her pink tongue up against her top lip. Even though the episode was upsetting, I never felt threatened. Even then I knew I was lucky; it wasn't like I ran gantlets of taunts on the playground, or felt I was in physical danger of any kind.

And unlike other mixed kids, I never felt torn between two cultures. Because in my suburbs, there was only one culture: the hegemonic white one. There were so few nonwhite kids I never felt like I had a choice in alliances. My family never made me choose either. The only black relative who I saw all the time was my grandmother, who was more concerned that I grew up to be a courteous young lady than a conscious black nationalist.

My family was just apolitical, so my new environment and the TV had pretty much free rein on shaping my sensibilities. At the age of 7 I liked AC/DC and slasher flicks; my beauty aesthetics were shaped by the cast of "Dallas." Thinking Charlene Tilton, I asked the stylist to "feather" my hair. I still remember the bemused look when she told me no way.

Even in my conservative town, high school was good to me. People befriended me, listened to me, nurtured my talents. If kids made fun of me, it probably had more to do with my asymmetric hair and black trench coat than the melanin in my skin.

As opposed to being a hindrance, difference was something I embraced at every turn. Different music, different politics -- I was always looking for the other side of the story. Even with my "alternative" persona (before alternative went mainstream), I was elected vice president of my class three years in a row; I went on to become senior class president and was even voted the girl most likely to succeed. From there, I went to Washington to study politics.

But race finally became an issue, in the one venue that mattered to me most: love and romance. I learned early on that all my accolades would never neutralize race when it came to dating white guys. I found it ironic that despite being seen as "most likely to succeed," some parents still saw me as a drag on their (white) sons' social and professional prospects.

I can never forget how my boyfriend David's parents reacted to his relationship with me. (We were 16). "Think of your career," they pleaded. "Think of your future." Even though David was West Point bound, his parents assumed he'd someday return and settle in a big house off Main Street and build his life right next to theirs. But he was from Up North, and in Gaylord, wedding-cake brides didn't come in beige. They worried he'd be shunned professionally, and in a small town, you could only alienate so many people before you were nonviable as a businessperson.

I don't think he meant to hurt me with his parents' opinions, but I could tell he was buying some of it and that was enough for me to break things off (and to make him persona non grata in my home). Once he entered school, where his worldview was no doubt radically broadened, he tried to resume correspondence. But by then, I'd moved on.

Obviously my experiences are unique, and in no way do I mean to discount the pains of the mixed-kid life. But I do think that mulattas don't have to be tragic anymore. The only insurmountable problem for a mixed kid, I think, is the inability of her parents to love her because of her "difference."

I asked my mom if she had ever worried about my "foreignness." She scowled and said, "I was more worried about how I was going to feed you." I wasn't satisfied. "C'mon, not even a little worried?" She ironed some more and then blurted, "It wasn't like I didn't have choices!" Her allusion to abortion shut me right up, and then she added quickly: "You were my child, it didn't matter. I would have loved you if you were green."

To some, this epiphany will seem anti-climactic, like something I should have known in my bones. Others will still doubt. But now I finally know that a child doesn’t have to be a clone of her parents to be an object of love. Just like I knew that a parent doesn’t have to be a facsimile of the child to qualify for her love. Love may not conquer cruel streaks, self-absorption and/or long-distance telephone bills (apologies, James), but it can easily conquer cosmetic difference.
salon.com | Feb. 17, 2000

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

  Get a printer-friendly version

  E-mail a friend about this article

  Backflip this article to find it again

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Search Salon