The Mami She Deserves
My boisterous 16 month old howls with laughter when she catches a glimpse of me coming through the door. She is untainted by current events. Her heart is pure. She holds no ill feelings toward anyone. The only thing that I know she strongly dislikes is the hot sun beating down on her face. She still expects mami to dance meaningfully to the tunes of Missy Elliot with her and to read to her before bedtime. What I did during the day, prior to walking in through the front door, doesn’t matter to her. Some days I sit in my car a good 5 minutes to get right before I see my girl. I don’t want her to see my tired eyes, or smell the whiff of rage that escapes my pores, especially as of late. I know that her touch, her kisses, and her laughter are the antidote to the poison that penetrates my body when I’m out walking through the world.
The urge to protect and shield her from what I know exists is ferocious and unlike any feeling I’ve ever experienced. It’s primal. But in due time, she will be taught the truth about her country and her people. She is someone her great grandparents never even imagined. She exists as a reminder of the promises that this country has made to the world; that the US can be a safe haven for those seeking liberty. Her family heritage is one of survivors--from genocide, brutal colonization, immigration. And here she is, standing strong on her own, not afraid of the power in her voice. Firm in the opinions she already expresses, staking her place here on earth.
All too often, this country has fallen short from living up to its own ideals. Even as the US military went across a sea to fight Nazis and fascism, it failed to look inward at the Jim Crow south it created. There are books filled with the painful history — 400+ years of barbaric actions intentionally targeting those who dared to be born any shade other than white. Some of these atrocious actions are not things of the past, we see it happening in real time. Even as we have access to the patterns that have led us here. Even when we have facts easily accessible and at our fingertips, so many choose to abscond the truth and continue to believe the legends they’ve been told because it’s convenient for what they want to believe is true. The oppression is systemic and therefore recycles itself and takes on different incarnations, but don’t be fooled. It’s all from the same playbook. And it’s terrifying.
This country has created an intricate web to strangle the life from those for whom this nation was not built. When we are lucky enough to contort ourselves and narrowly escape the web and survive, we’re weary and carry within us, the trauma endured over generations and passed on, perhaps even in our DNA. For me, this has been nearly paralyzing. I find myself figuring out how to build sturdier boundaries between myself and them (white folks). I find myself going out of my way to avoid them. Every time I see someone that I assume voted for 45, I make up entire narratives about them. I tell myself that it’s my survival mechanism — avoidance. Truth be told, it’s my excuse for the judgement I make of others. But it doesn’t feel natural to me. And it’s not what I want to teach my child. After all, she presents as white. She’ll reap the benefits of white privilege.
Paulo Freire talks about dehumanization and says that while this is a historical fact, that “in order for this struggle to have meaning, the oppressed must not in seeking to regain their humanity (which is a way to create it) become in turn oppressors of the oppressors, but rather restorers of the humanity of both.” He goes on to say something that kicked me in the gut, “This, then, is the great humanistic and historical task of the oppressed: to liberate themselves and their oppressors as well.” Damn. This makes me think of my girl. How I’d hate it if anyone judged her the way I’ve judged others with the same skin tone.
When I am able, when I feel strong I go to rallies, events, and meetings to be among those seeking to end white supremacy. Those who feel as fired up as I do. Perhaps they too struggle with the bouts of doubt, extension of empathy to those who perpetuate what I can only describe as fuckupery. Sometimes though, I feel depleted and struggle to see the humanity in those who don’t see it in me or my loved ones. This leads me to experience what Brene Brown calls a “shame spiral.” And all that makes me feel like a vacuum has come and sucked my spirit and sealed the lid tightly.
And then all it takes for me to come back to and restore some hope that our collective liberation is perhaps possible in my daughter’s lifetime, is seeing the way those courageous visionaries in my hometown toppled a confederate statue earlier; how dozens of people — mostly white folks — attempted to get arrested and showed up in support of our Freedom Fighters; how the community responded in droves to a last-minute request to stand against white supremacy and then held an impromptu and cathartic dance party in the streets of Durham shutting out the KKK. Throughout all these events, I saw white folks following the lead of POC and literally putting their bodies on the line. It takes all of us to break these chains.
I know there is a lifetime of work to do. And this week, I feel it can be possible to make a dent in this lifelong work of justice and liberation. Why? Because for one afternoon, everyone believed in science and collectively marveled while gazing towards the sky. We were rendered speechless at the beauty of her majesty, the moon. The air changed after her performance. The Universe sent an affirmation that light is restored after darkness, and that we don’t need to be scared of the dark. Thanks to darkness, things are illuminated and revealed that we otherwise would not have seen. And we keep pressing forward. After all, my girl deserves a mami who can teach her, through example, how not to hide from or suppress her pain. We address it and only then, will it stand a chance to heal.
