Always Stay, Mary

In the past years, I have developed somewhat of a fascination with Mary, the mother of Jesus.  It began while I was reading Anne Rice's Christ the Lord, Out of Egypt.  A fictional account of Christ's childhood, the book is narrated by the young Messiah.  The book raises thought-provoking questions:  what happens when a "human" child has the power of God?  At what point did he begin to grasp his destiny?   But throughout the book, it was Mary I found myself thinking of as I would turn off my bedside lamp and reflect on what I had read. 

How was she treated by her family and peers when she became pregnant? 

What was it like to shoulder such responsibility, to be the mother of the Savior?

How much did she tell him about her pregnancy?  His birth? His father? The prophesies of old? 

How did it change her relationship with Joseph?  Did he have secret doubts?  Resentment?  Was he afraid to touch the vessel that carried the Christ?

It wasn't very long after reading the book that I conceived my own child and became the mother to a sweet baby girl.  Having a little one of my own has changed the way I perceive and react to a great many things:  women who miscarry, parents who lose children, children who are abused.  These are things that have always saddened or angered me, but now I experience a different degree of heartache than before.   I am also now acutely aware of how physically and emotionally exhausting motherhood can be, even in the best of times.   I constantly question decisions I've made as a mother, praying I haven't somehow damaged my child.  On a daily basis, I experience an entirely new level of worry and anxiety as I simultaneously  try to keep my daughter safe and allow her to grow and explore new experiences.  I lie awake at night, contemplating everything from her own individual future to the future of our society and how she will be affected.   And it's all because I'm completely in love with this little person, in love in a way I cannot begin to put into words.

Which brings me back to Mary.  I have to imagine that she struggled with her own anxiety throughout the pregnancy and during her son's childhood.  Did she lie awake at night worrying when she didn't feel him kick for awhile?  Would she sit beside him as he slept and watch his little chest rise and fall as he slept?  Did her heart quicken as she saw him climbing trees with other boys?   Did she scold him for neglecting his chores?  I mean, how does one go about disciplining the Son of God?   Did she struggle with favoritism for Jesus over his half-brothers?  Was she more protective?  More tender? 

But more than even those challenges, I think Mary faced a very significant struggle.  This son that she carried, that she birthed, that she loved--did she ever feel he was actually hers?   One might assume she'd feel proud and blessed that her son was the Messiah, that she was "highly favored" and chosen as his earthly (and only) mother.  But I can't help but wonder if it was bittersweet.  I look at my daughter and imagine the life I hope she'll have, a life full of learning and love and adventure and fulfillment.  I think about my grown up daughter and the relationship I want to have with her.  I wonder if she'll marry, if she'll have children of her own.   As Mary looked at her son, did she fully realize that his future was already planned?  That there would be no weddings, no grandchildren?  At what point did she understand that she would bury her child and not the other way around?  

The lives of our children are never certain.  It doesn't matter how well we parent or how much we love them, in the end, it is mostly out of our control.  They may live long lives, lives that make us proud or lives that cause us pain.  Or, as Mary did, we may find ourselves burying the man who was once our little boy.    

 

This woman was chosen to carry the Son of God.  She raised him, watched him grow into a man.  She followed him, believed in Him.  She accepted that she was not as important as his ministry.  She watched him die, stood quietly as he gave her another son. 

 

And then... what?

 

The majority of her life had revolved around  the miraculous birth that produced a miraculous man.  I can't imagine what it would be like to physically stand in the presence of God in human form, to hear him speak, to watch him heal.  But I also wonder if in her heart she sometimes wished--perhaps just for a moment--that they could be a normal family.  Did she secretly long for her first-born to need her, instead of the other way around?  By the time her son left this world, I have to believe she was weary--and a bit lost.  Her questions about his life, his destiny, had been answered.  She no longer had to wonder, Will this be the day I see him last?  That I touch him last?   What did she do at this point?  Was there a sense of relief?  Or was the hole left in her heart overwhelming?  Did she begin a new stage in life, a more mundane existence?   Was it unfulfilling?  Or a welcome change?

 

Some consider Mary a saint.  Others see her as a woman whom God loved but who was ultimately just a vessel.  Regardless of one's theological beliefs, it's not difficult to identify with and admire this beautiful woman.  As a mother, I find her remarkable.  I am inspired by her faith and her courage and her strength, even if I can only base it on my assumptions.  She was human, a woman like me. 

 

A woman like me. 

There's a song I love by Patty Griffin entitled "Mary."   Some listeners may only interpret the song literally, about Mary, Mother of Christ.  If I'm not mistaken, Ms. Griffin wrote the song for her own grandmother, presumably because the two women shared a common past.  It's a beautiful song, both musically and lyrically, and describes so many strong, sacrificial women who have influenced and enriched the lives of those around them while putting their own needs second.

Mary

Lyrics and Music by Patty Griffin

Mary, you're covered in roses, you're covered in ashes

You're covered in rain
You're covered in babies, you're covered in slashes
You're covered in wilderness, you're covered in stains
You cast aside the sheet, you cast aside the shroud
Of another man, who served the world proud
You greet another son, you lose another one
On some sunny day and always stay,
Mary

Jesus says, "Mother, I couldn't stay another day longer"

Flies right by me, leaves a kiss upon her face
While the angels sing his praises in a blaze of glory
Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place

Mary, she moves behind me
She leaves her fingerprints everywhere
Every time the snow drifts, every time the sand shifts
Even when the night lifts, she's always there

Jesus says, "Mother, I couldn't stay another day longer"

Flies right by me, leaves a kiss upon her face
While the angels sing his praises in a blaze of glory
Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place

Mary, you're covered in roses, you're covered in ruin

You're covered in secrets
You're covered in treetops, you're covered in birds
Who can sing a million songs without any words
You cast aside the sheets, you cast aside the shroud
Of another man, who served the world proud
You greet another son, you lose another one

on some sunny day and always stay...

Mary

Photo Dump

It's been busy since the first of the year. 

 A friend got married.

My sweet mother celebrated 65 years on this Earth. 

Peanut celebrated her "half birthday" and ate her weight in ice cream. 



Half birthday binge

Post binge

Love has been in the air



 And I fall in love with this little girl more and more every day. 

Can't wait for the rest of 2012.  I sure am loving life. 



Opening Up

So James Lipton and I were hanging out at Burger King the other day, splitting a Whopper Jr. and a jamocha shake we snuck in from Arby’s.  Jimbo has been hounding me for months to answer the questions on his ridiculous Proust-esque questionnaire, so I finally acquiesced to his wishes and gave it a shot.  What follows are my mostly truthful and uncensored responses.  Please direct all complaints and grievances to management. 

What is your favorite word?  My toddler would swear it’s “no” and “stop.”  Based on my blog, it’s “ridiculous.”  To be honest, I use that word entirely too much.  It’s ridiculous how much I use the word ridiculous.  I also like variations like redonkulous and Rickdiculous.  Oh, and re-damn-diculous for special occasions.  Considering my previous profession, I should probably find a more impressive word to label “favorite.”  Or at least choose something that’s super fun to say, like “fiduciary” or “homogenized.”  What about “bifurcate”?  That sounds a little dirty. 

What is your least favorite word?  “So?” (but only with the question mark) 

What turns you on, creatively, spiritually or emotionally?  Rawness.  Music that is raw.  Art that is raw.  People who are raw, who will rip out what is inside and display it for the world to see, especially in an attempt to promote solidarity or understanding. 

What turns you off, creatively, spiritually or emotionally?  Celebrated ignorance.  It makes me want to strap a bomb to myself.  Or to someone else.

What sound or noise do you love?  My child or my husband laughing.  If they’re both laughing at the same time, there’s a chance I may explode from sheer happiness (which is much preferred over exploding due to having a bomb strapped to me). 

What sound or noise do you hate?  In my past life, it was the sickening sound of the copy machine malfunctioning.  It was usually either THUMP or squeeeeeaaal followed by the three beeps of death followed by groans and not-quite-under-their-breath cursing from the teachers behind me.    These days, I’ll go with any loud noise during my child’s nap time.   

What is your favorite curse word?  I’ll give you a hint:  I didn’t learn it from watching basic cable.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?  Prop mistress.  Or professional napper.

What profession would you not like to do?  Storm chaser.  [Favorite curse word] a bunch of that.  I’ll be in my hidey hole if you need me. 

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?  “I won’t hold that against you.” 

Needing to Want

“Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say.”    --Edgar A. Poe

I’ve been struggling to write—to start writing, to finish writing, to post what I do write.   At the risk of sounding smug, this is a personal hazard of being happy.   I’ve said for years that writing is my best therapy (and it’s cheaper).  At least 90% of anything substantial I’ve ever produced was a result of some sort of tumult in my life.  I hurt, so I write.  I rage, so I write.  I’m lost, so I write.  Right now, though, I’m in a good place, and it doesn’t feel temporary as it has so many times in the past.  I don’t feel like this peace and contentment is a fluke or something precariously hanging in the balance, dependant on a set of carefully constructed circumstances.  It feels real, tangible.  The downside, of course, is that my writing is suffering.  Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade my life right now for the ability to write the best-selling book of all time.  I do miss writing, though.  It’s frustrating to sit and stare at the screen, the cursor blinking, taunting me.  When I do finally manage to slap a few paragraphs on the page, I can’t finish.  I either find myself overwhelmed, unable to organize my thoughts into anything coherent, or I hit a mental wall and give up altogether.  The two or three times lately that I’ve finished something, I’ve lacked the courage—or maybe the conviction?—to post it for others to read.   

When I’ve experienced writer’s block in the past, I’ve just ridden it out, knowing that a time would arrive when writing would be both possible and necessary.  But this time, as cliché as it sounds, I feel like I’ve started a new chapter in life.  Hell, maybe I’ve started a new book.  It’s not that I’m so near-sighted that I believe life will be hunky dory from now on.  I know there will be pain and heartache and challenges and trials.   I just don’t plan on bringing all of that shit on myself and on those I love anymore.  Being happy and peaceful is the best high I’ve experienced.   Life is hard enough without me making drama and discord.  

So here is where I stand as far as writing: do I set it aside and only return to it as a crutch when life does get difficult or do I somehow find a way to channel these feelings into words? 

I can barely remember a time in my life when I didn’t write.  As soon as I learned to put letters together and form words, I was scribbling songs and stories.  And while I don’t consider myself to have any kind of remarkable talent, writing is my only ability for which I have even an ounce of pride. It is a gift passed on to me by my father.  What right do I have to just pretend it no longer exists?

No, I can’t just stop writing.

But on the other hand, I don't know if I can write just for the sake of writing.  I have to feel it.  Anything significant or meaningful that I’ve ever produced—anything I’ve composed that spoke to even one person—poured out of me.  Writing is liberating for me, my sidewalk back to sanity.  It’s how I deal with darkness and doubt.  Whether I am raging or drowning, writing saves me.    It’s a way of talking to myself without feeling like I’m losing touch with reality   I am thankful that I have the ability to write when I need to write, when it is crucial for me to stay grounded through words.  But why, when I am at peace, is the rope on my creative bucket too short to reach the water in the writing well?  Why, when I so desperately want to write, am I unable to do so?   The emotions I’m feeling right now—the joy and fulfillment and serenity—are just as powerful as what I’ve felt in darker days.  I’ve longed to experience these emotions, to feel this alive.  My heart feels like it’s going to explode sometimes. Why can’t I channel this into my writing? 

I’ve always written selfishly, drawing from whatever is going on in my life in an effort to get through it.  It’s never my intention to produce something that speaks to someone else, though I feel blessed when another person connects with my words.  Maybe my writing needs another purpose, one that isn’t so damned self-centered.  Maybe I have something to say, something to share. 

I just don’t know where to begin. 

Recap

Since I’m a terrible mom, I totally dropped the ball this year on keeping up with Amelia’s baby book/calendar.  However, I did document pretty much everything on Facebook, so I went back and started pulling important dates and events from there.  In the process, I’ve reached the conclusion that pretty much all I talk about is Amelia and the weather.   I have also decided that if someone only knew me through Facebook, they’d think I’m pretty weird (then again, most people who know me outside of Facebook think I’m pretty weird).   Just for fun,  I compiled a few of my random, non-Amelia/weather related statuses from last year.  I also threw in a few completely unrelated mobile uploads I posted to Facebook.  Enjoy… or completely ignore.  I’m okay either way.

Amber …

...is going to celebrate National Cheese Lovers Day. What's the equivalent to a cheese hangover? Oh yeah... constipation

…is counting the minutes until either John wakes up or Amelia naps. Between her fussing & my coughing, we kept the sleep fairy away last night. I'm so tired.

…is full of greasy goodness and Coca Cola. Not my finest moment but definitely a tasty one.  

…learned a few things tonight: 1) even vampires have hearts, 2) some people SMELL crazy and 3) dry humping is not always a safe alternative to sex.

…needs a nap.  And a drink.

…is conducting an experiment on the correlation between bladder fullness and perceived cleanliness of gas station restrooms.

…just heard the guy beside me at the red light sneezing. Neither of us had our windows down.

…is a bit puzzled by the young lady in Kinkos who requested her resumes be printed on pink paper.

…thinks the world needs more Asians.  Wait…what’s that you say? Oh, I see.  Well then, the world needs more DAVES.

…has Hobbit feet.

…has bedazzled boobs.  

…thinks there should be an entire movie of nothing but Paul Rudd dancing and looking adorable.

…just ran into a cashier who is so helpful she's completely inefficient.

Did that pickle flip me off?

…is hiding in the shelter with John, Amelia, Momma, Daddy and all the dogs.

…is finally going to bed. Still laughing about air bunnies and Tijuana prostitutes. 

…just finished getting her monthly dose of conspiracy theory.

…is covered in hand sanitizer.

…is now going by Fantasia Silverwhip.

…appreciates the city of Medina for sending me a ticket for driving six miles over the speed limit. Enjoy my 50 bucks.

…insists you cannot punch the handsome off of Anderson Cooper.

…hears the wind howling.  Oh, wait, that’s Amelia.

…is getting the hookup on some skinny pills.

…saw a ninety something year old woman. On her cell phone. In her car. Stopped. AT A GREEN LIGHT.

…was just on the receiving end of a toilet intervention. 

…don’t practice Santeria.

…is giggling at “nudist flutist.”

…has only been tempted to commit arson once in her life. Until now.

…wants to ticket the cop who’s texting while he’s driving.  

…thinks the a-holes on The Weather Channel right now need some solemnity and decency beat into them.

…is in the storm shetler with her farting dog.  We may not survive.

…wishes this old lady would get out of my dance space.

…is in a pissy mood and has no business being in public or around any other human being for that matter. Too bad for me and everyone else that it's grocery day.

…wants to punch Mother Nature in the colon. 

…believes there is no shame in anyone hiding in a bathtub.

…survived the Rapture.

…was mistaken for a meth head earlier today.

…refuses to apologize to the lazy a$$ bank teller just because I have $20 in quarters included in my deposit. 

…sometimes feels like the guy from Looney Tunes who found the singing and dancing frog.

…insists she isn’t trying to force feed her toddler soylent green.

…is gonna be overbese if she don’t stop nomming on these here cheese balls and donut holes.

…bleached the shower. Mutating now.

…is gonna crap rainbows from now on.

…is trying to figure out which parts don't hurt. So far it's right ear and butt cheek.

…has no use for booty sweat. 

…finally owns her kid!

…wishes Kroger wouldn't play "Puttin' on the Ritz." People look at me funny when I channel Young Frankenstein.

…doesn't trust people who always look constipated. Or like they smelled a fart. Or any other permanent facial expression related to fecal matter.

…is digesting a kidney.

...still insists that “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is the stripper national anthem.

...has been eating her feelings all day.  Even my fingernails are gone.

…needs an IEP in decorating Christmas trees.

…needs a hug so much that I almost got out of my car and tackled Santa while he was ringing the Salvation Army bell.  On a related note, where's my Prozac?

...has a holiday hangover.  I just barfed up some tinsel.

   

Pancake Breakfast

It's bitter cold outside, we both slept WAY late this morning, and I still have a holiday hangover.  Definitely a pancake morning.  And since Peanut turns 17 months old today, those pancakes need a healthy dose of chocolate chips. 

This week last year we were excited because she rolling herself over.  Now she's eating pancakes all by herself.  It's almost sad that the time of our lives during which we change and discover the most is one we don't remember.

I love you, Peanut.  I'm so proud of you, today and every day. 

Racist Face

Just so you know, some may find this particular post offensive due to the nature of some of the language.  I feel like the "oomph" of these situations is lost if I gloss over the words that were used, though.  It's like I tell my students when we read To Kill a Mockingbird--how do you expose the ugliness of something if you "pretty it up"?   Oh, and if you find this post offensive because I'm describing you, I wish I could say I'm sorry but I would be lying.  

Not even sure where to start with this. 

Over the years, I’ve periodically found myself in situations where totally random people have—without warning—made racist comments to me.  My reactions to these comments have ranged anywhere from “She’s just ignorant and/or doesn’t know better” to “Shouldn’t he be wearing a sheet?”  A few of these people weren’t strangers, per se, but people whom I saw only occasionally through work or social settings.  I knew their first names and enough about them to make small talk.  However, some of the individuals I’ve encountered were complete and total strangers—people in line behind me at the grocery store, spectators sitting beside me at ball game, guests at the wedding of mutual friend.  All of these particular people shared a common trait:  they knew absolutely nothing about me—my background, my husband’s race, my religious or political beliefs, and so on.  

So why on earth would they make such comments?

Let me start with what is possibly the best (well, worst) example.  When I was teaching in Memphis, there was a maintenance guy who sometimes worked at our school.  He was what some might call a “good ol’ boy,” but he was friendly enough, often making casual conversation with me when he would come to my classroom to replace the lights in the ceiling or install a new pencil sharpener.  He was also responsible for installing projection screens and for replacing chalk boards with dry erase boards.  This was especially crucial for me since I found out shortly after I began teaching that I have a sensitivity to chalk dust.  Irony, much?   It wasn’t until my 2^nd year of teaching that I discovered it was possible to have my boards replaced, so I placed a request and waited.  And waited.  And… waited.  One day when Mr. Maintenance came by my room to replace some bulbs, he remarked that my dry erase boards had been approved and ordered and that he’d come by soon to install them.  I was terribly excited and could already smell the markers in my hand.  As he worked and I attempted to grade papers, he started chit chatting about a fight that had occurred earlier that afternoon in the hallway.  I politely nodded, commenting that unfortunately some of the kids didn’t know how to handle their problems without aggression or violence.  To which he replied:

                “Yeah, guess you can’t expect much more from a bunch of niggers.” 

I stopped reading the paper I was grading, hoping I had misheard him.  Surely, I thought, surely this man did not just say that to me.  He doesn’t even know me.”  I looked up at him on the ladder with what I can only imagine was an expression of total puzzlement with a dose of horror. 

“I’m sorry, did you just say…”       

“It’s true.  They ain’t got a clue how to act.”

It was so casual, almost nonchalant.  Like he was commenting on the weather or the price of gasoline.  I sat there a moment, not sure how to reply.  Those who know me can attest that I am rarely at a loss for words, especially when confronted with something to which I am vehemently opposed.    And that word is at the top of my list, along with any other language that is used to hurt or disparage people I love.  When my students step foot in my classroom, one of the very first things I drill into them is that I will not tolerate any type of language that is racist, sexist, or degrading in any way.  I have always made it a priority to create a “safe place” in the four walls of my classroom because I believe learning cannot take place when a student is afraid. 

So here was this man, standing above my desks, rather flippantly tossing out a word that—outside of a literary text like To Kill a Mockingbird—was and is completely banned from my classroom—and using it to describe students who sat  in said classroom. 

Completely oblivious to my reaction, he continued working. 

My silence lasted maybe a minute, but it felt much longer.  During that time, I’d like to say I was thoughtfully deciding how to approach his use of this word, devising some inspirational monologue that would both educate and transform him.  Instead, I was totally frozen and flabbergasted, which I guess explains my choice of words when I finally did open my mouth.  

 “I want you the fuck out of my room.” 

I didn’t yell it. I didn’t even snarl.  My tone was completely even and my volume much quieter than normal.

He stopped and looked at me, his turn, I suppose, to wonder, Did she really say that?

“Seriously, get out.  I don’t want you in here if that’s how you see my kids.  Any of these kids.”

He just stood there for a moment, possibly waiting to see if I was kidding.    He climbed down from his ladder and collected his things.  He was talking under his breath, but I couldn’t understand him.  He left my room and never stepped foot in it again. 

C'est la vie...

He also gave my dry erase boards to another teacher. 

After all was said and done, I questioned how I’d reacted. Definitely not my finest moment, and I felt I had wasted a chance to really engage this guy in conversation and try to understand—and possibly alter—his attitude and perception.  Instead, I’d resorted to using profanity and kicking him out of my room. 

What continued to bother me after the actual word had long since been uttered, though, was why on Earth he would use it?  If it had been a slip up—a word he used with friends but was “polite” enough not to use around strangers—then wouldn’t he have been a little embarrassed?  Maybe this word was such a “normal” part of his vocabulary that he didn’t even realize he’s using it.  But then how did he survive working in a predominantly African-American environment?  How did he work with mostly black coworkers if that word might fly out of his mouth at any time?  It just didn’t make sense.  So why did he feel so comfortable using a racial slur, this man who didn’t know enough about me to fill one side of an index card. 

The only conclusion that seemed semi-logical was that he made an assumption:  my skin is white, so I would not be upset by his language.  He felt he was with “one of his own” and that we would be in agreement.  It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to assume this was his reasoning since I’d spent a decent chunk of two years on the receiving end of insinuations and accusations of racism from both students and teachers.  It wasn’t because I did or said racist things; it was because they too saw my white skin and heard my accent and made an assumption, just as “Mr. Maintenance” had assumed he and I were of the same mindset because of our shared skin color. 


Over the years there have been other incidents with strangers, though none quite as appalling as that one.  Sometimes the comments are so offhand, I wonder if people even realize how bad it sounds.  At other times, the comments have been so blatant that my jaw has ended up in my lap.   I’ve learned to better handle people’s comments and to be more reasonable and less reactive.  What has continued to bother me, though, is why people make these comments to me.  Every time it happens I replay the episode in my head, trying to figure out if something I said could be misinterpreted as racist.  

Me (standing in check out line):  “What is going on up there?  It’s taking forever.” 

Random Customer in Front of Me: “She’s probably got a bunch food stamps.  You know most of those people live off the government.”

***************************************************************************** 

Me:  “I’ll bet Elin Nordegren gets a fat chunk of money from Tiger Woods.”

Friend of a Friend I’ve Just Met:  “I don’t feel sorry for her.  What did she expect marrying him? They’re all gonna cheat.”

Me:  “Yeah, those professional athletes don’t have the best track records at fidelity.”

FOAFIJM:  “Well, that, too but I meant a black guy.” 

******************************************************************************

                Me: “I taught at a Memphis City high school for four years.”

                New Colleague I’ve Just Met:  “Weren’t you scared teaching all those blacks?”

Got this in an email from a relative. 
She said, "Guess I failed the racist test
because I sure didn't think 'nuggets' ha ha
WHY ADMIT THAT????

I guess I can see how someone could take what I’m saying and assume I’m racist, but only if they are racists themselves!   You can take almost anything and twist it to line up with your opinions and beliefs, which I have to believe these people are subconsciously doing when I talk.  They are taking my words, running them through some prejudice generator in their brain, and then spouting off a response without even stopping to consider whether or not I might be offended by their assumption.  What if I’m on food stamps?  What if I’m married to a black man?  What if I had a biracial child or had adopted a black child? 

Does it even occur to them that they could be saying something terribly hurtful to me?  

Recently there was another incident when we took Peanut to see Yo Gabba Gabba Live.  We ended up sitting next to a woman and her young son.  She was pretty friendly, though she overshared quite a bit of personal information in a very short period of time (including that she and her husband were in the middle of the divorce which was “for the best”).  We would occasionally make comments to each other about the show, and I took some pictures of her and her little boy since she didn’t have anyone else with her to do it.  At one point in the show, a group of children who had won a contest were allowed to come onto stage to dance with the characters.  During the last couple of minutes of the song, a father on the front row walked to the edge of the stage and deposited his maybe three-year-old onto the stage to join the fun.  I couldn’t believe someone would (A) have the audacity to do that in the first place and (B) allow such a small child to go onstage and be out of his reach completely.  I nudged the lady beside me:

Me:  “Did you see that?  I can’t believe he just put his kid on the stage like that?

Lady:  “It’s because he’s black."

Okay, I thought, she didn’t say that.  The music is loud and I’m partially deaf and I heard something else.

Me:  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

Lady: “Black people always think they can do whatever they want.

I then found myself semi-defending the father on the front row, even though I completely disapproved of his actions. 

Me:  “Ummm… I doubt it has anything to do with him being black.   A lot of parents just have problems saying no to their kids. His little boy was probably begging to go up.” 

Lady:  “No, they just do whatever they want.”

I couldn't hide the disgust on my face.   I took a breath, ready to set her straight.  At that moment, though, I decided that having a good time with my family was more important than attempting to correct this twit beside me. I didn't want to risk getting us thrown out of a kid's show.  This was my daughter's birthday present.   I started singing along and dancing with Amelia, hoping the woman would not say anything else.  After a few minutes, I leaned over and told John what she had said.  He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Why does this always happen to me?  Why do random people think it’s perfectly acceptable to make comments like that to me?”

John sat for a moment and then replied with a grin—


“Well, honey, I guess you just have a racist face.”

So there you have it.  I have a “racist face” that prompts certain people to consider me a kindred spirit to whom they can spew their ridiculousness.  Maybe it’s my big nose or imposing brow or the gap between my two front teeth.  Maybe it’s my actual whiteness, the fact that I could shave my head and pass for Powder.  Whatever it is, something about my face obviously screams, “I’m a racist, too.”

It makes perfect sense now that I think about it.  The resemblance is uncanny.

All joking aside (and I have to admit that we’ve gotten some mileage out of my husband’s comment), is there anyone else out there who experiences this?  Random acts of racial stereotyping or generalizations?  Or even just blatant, in-your-face bigotry from a total stranger?