I have heard that it’s the “in thing” to be accepting of different lifestyles. That is chic to have gay friends. Everyone is doing it. And I have absolutely no problem with any of those ideals. I just wish it were true for more people.
I am an advocate not because it’s the “in thing” and everyone is doing it. I am an advocate because I don’t believe who you love or how you identify matters in how you are treated as a human being. It makes no difference to me if you are gay, straight, transgender, bisexual, lesbian, white, black, Asian, Christian, Islamic, Jewish. What matters to me is if you are a gracious, genuine and generous person. Whether you work at a local Starbucks or you are a drag queen on RuPaul’s drag race (I am OVER the Heathers and nasty people on that show), I judge you not by the way you look or who you like, but by who..you..are and how your words and actions influence or hurt others.
I am an advocate because I have so many lovely friends from all walks of life. They are dear to me. They are funny, quirky, smart, excellent chefs, fashionable, odd, creative, gentle, strong and fallible. They deserve no less in their personal and professional lives than I do. NO LESS.
I am an advocate because “all men are created equal.” I believe that our founding fathers defined “men” as mankind. The definition of mankind, according to wordnetweb.princeton.edu, is “all of the living human inhabitants of the earth.” We have certain inalienable rights; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That is for all, not for some.
I am an advocate because I believe abusing people who are different is wrong. I believe it takes a hateful, scared person to abuse another simply because they don’t understand their dress, their look, their culture or their orientation. Some say “superiority complex” – Nahhh, I think it’s inferiority.
I am an advocate because, as hippy-dippy as it sounds, I would like to see a more accepting peaceful world. I won’t be wearing a hemp skirt or grilling tofu on an open fire at Burning Man any time soon, but I would love for those I care for to never fear for their safety, to have the same rights that I do.
Should the visiting reader stumble upon this blog and think “yeah, I want to be part of the ‘in thing’”, I say come on, be an advocate, shine your light, raise your voice and join those of us who are truly cool.
Okay, if only Sesame Street had come out with the video “I Love My Hair” thirty or forty years ago! An idea whose time came, stayed and now has arrived.
Oh my Goodness, how can I express the angst over my hair? Oh yeah, I did in the Twists and Turns of Biracial Hair. But the angst as a child is so much harder. Sesame Street puppeteer Joey Mazzarino and his wife (a white couple, yes it is relevant) adopted a little girl from Ethiopia. Their little girl, Segi, started lamenting her hair and expressing how she wanted it to be straight. They expressed to her how beautiful her hair was, but didn’t really understand the hair hang-ups of a little black girl. I grew up hating my hair. I wanted the beautiful straight hair of my Barbie dolls and my friends. Blonde, red, brown, my friends’ and dolls’ hair was a rainbow of color. My thick black mane was oddly curly, thick, frizzy and not at all beautiful or manageable.
When I was a little girl, my mother had many struggles with hair. Unlike my siblings fine or more manageable hair, my hair was thick and prone to tangles. I wore my hair in thick pigtails with little puff-balls. This was the best way for my mother to manage my hair. The worse part came when it was time to unleash the tails. As my mother unleashed the pigtails, billowy coarse thick hair puffed to life. This is about the time I began to whimper because the only time the hair came out was washing time!
Washing time entailed crawling up on a dining room chair and bending uncomfortably over a sink while my mother scrubbed my head with Johnson’s Baby Shampoo! By the way, No Tears my ass! I don’t recall a time when I didn’t cry. Likely not due to the fine folks at Johnson and Johnson, but the uninformed de-tangling techniques of my mother. Though she tried her hardest, my mother couldn’t prevent my tears from flowing. My howls were absolutely pitiful.
After shampooing, out came the comb! I would sit cross-legged on the floor, my mother perched above me on the couch. This position was necessary so she had a good angle, and leverage! Those reading this post who are biracial or African-American, or have biracial and African-American children, just gasped. My hair is thick and when it’s dry, it shrinks up – the natural curl sets in. Trying to push a comb through this hair is like dragging a fork through bread dough: it resists. AND IT HURTS! You think “Linda, what happened when the tangles would not succumb to the comb?” That never happened. If it took an hour, then that’s what it took. I shrieked, cried, begged, gasped for air. My shrieks were met with “Linda Denise, now stop! It doesn’t hurt that bad!” Maybe it didn’t hurt AS bad as all the noise I made, but it was still traumatic.
Dippidity Doo Commercial – Just Dippidity Doo It!
When the struggle was over and the comb went through without resistance, out came the Dippity-Do! Mom would comb that thick viscous gel through my hair and then braid my hair really tight. I swear, I looked freakishly like Joan Rivers does now! Once the little pony-tail twists with little color-coordinated balls were twisted around the ends of the braid, I would be sent to bed: my little head aching from the comb and the tightly-braided pigtails.
Ok, my pigtails were not blonde, but I don’t have any other pictures from childhood handy! You get the gist!
The most traumatic hair experience of my life was the vacation I had to spend with my grandmother. My grandmother, known to me as Mama, was an old-fashioned no-nonsense grandmother. Children should be seen and not heard, play quietly, not get dirty and by no means, should whine or cry unless she provided the reason! The week of one vacation, she gave me one!
It was bath time and shortly after, shampoo time. Mama didn’t have any experience with my hair. My mother, being white, did not have knowledge of caring for biracial hair, but she had washed it several times, so was used to the challenge. Mama was not. If she hadn’t been a devout Pentecostal woman, I believe she would have cussed! If I was crying during the washing, imagine what happened during the combing? She raked through my hair as she would her own long, gray, FINE hair. My hair battled back! In return, Mama tugged, pulled and yanked. It was an epic battle, almost as cool as “The 400.” My shrieks were met with a thump of the comb on my scalp!
After several minutes of tugging, she decided to employ something a lady at church told her about – VINEGAR. She produced a bottle of vinegar and proceeded to generously pour over the tangle. “No Mama please, I’m sorry, Mama stop!” It smelled so bad – and it did not help! I can tell you at this point, we were both crying and praying; she for strength and me for unconsciousness!
Now before I move forward, please take note of the comment I made earlier: my grandmother was a devout Pentecostal woman. This means she took the teachings of the Bible and the church quite seriously. One of the teachings and beliefs of the Pentecostal faith is that a woman’s long hair is her virtue. Thus we did not cut our hair. My grandmother, out of breath, frustrated and clearly unwilling to give up on the tangles in my hair, clasped her hands together and began to pray for forgiveness for the transgression she was about to commit. To me, the combing had ceased so I gave the praying no thought. It was a warning. My grandmother told me not to move. She left the kitchen and returned with shiny silver shears! I began crying. Oh no, Mama is going to cut all my hair off! Mama didn’t cut my hair off, but cut out the tangle she could not conquer. A big thick clump of black curly hair lie lifeless in her hand.
Afterwards my grandmother braided my hair, and of course, one braid was much higher than the other. When my mother picked me up later that week, she looked at me pitifully as my grandmother breathlessly explained to her daughter “I couldn’t get that tangle out Charlotte Deen, so I cut it out. Lord forgive me!”
Curly-haired and unsuspecting of the hair drama to come!
There are more stories, but I don’t believe you, my reader, has the time to digest my many “tails” of whoa! Wiait, just one more. You’ll like this.
At the age of 12, my mother decided to investigate other options for managing my hair. THANK GOD! I was a preteen and those pigtails were not working for me. She talked with an African-American woman at work who suggested a relaxer. After consulting with our pastor (relaxing the hair would also require trimming the hair – which means cutting the hair – so we had to explain and get permission), my mother agreed to the relaxer. For the first time in my life, my hair was going to be in the hands of strangers. Of course because strangers are such a judgmental bunch, my mother decided it would be a good idea to make sure my hair was squeaky clean before my appointment. After scrubbing, de-tangling and braiding my hair, my mother sent me to bed, where I dreamt of long flowing hair.
Let’s stop: Again, readers that have had relaxers or are hairdressers with experience with relaxers gasped as soon as they read that my hair had been thoroughly washed and combed 24 hours prior to relaxing. For those of you without experience, here’s the 411. In the late 70s (and farther back than that), hair salons used lye relaxers. Lye is a powerful chemical - it is potassium hydroxide. It’s one of the strongest bases in nature and has been used for tanning hides and is found in drain cleaners. A relaxer straightens the hair, altering the cortex of the hair, thus loosening or relaxing the curl. It can burn the scalp – which even no-lye relaxers can do IF YOU SCRATCH YOUR HAIR OR WASH IT BEFORE APPLICATION. Yes, that’s right. That next day, at the hair salon when the kind hair stylists applied the relaxer, I howled louder than any coyote. When the hair stylist discovered my hair had been washed, she stroked my head and said “poor baby. I will talk with your mom when she picks you up.” She did and my poor mother almost cried right there. My head was sore as hell and I think that was the key driver having my favorite lunch and getting a new dress.
I Love my Hair Now!
Even though I love any occasion that requires me to don a wig, I really do love my hair now. It took a long time for me to get there. It’s tough for little girls of color. The standard of beauty throughout my teenaged years, and still even today, was straight, flowing blonde hair. I continued to envy my friends’ beautiful golden manes into my 20s. Because even with relaxers, I always struggled with my hair, sometimes appearing frizzy and unkempt in school pictures. All the boys loved my girlfriends beautiful hair and seemed to flinch at the idea of touching mine. I admit that even now, I have hair-envy days. But I have come to love the diversity of my hair. I can wear it red or blonde or black. I can wear it straight on Monday, in an updo on Tuesday, gelled back on Wednesday and curly on Friday. I have women, black and white, approach me at stores or at the office, and compliment my hair.
What every little biracial, African-American or ethnic needs to know: your hair is what makes you the unique and wonderful individual that you are. Don’t lament the hair God gave you, celebrate it with bows, ponytails, curls, headbands. Celebrate those gorgeous strands, uniquely yours!
The Sesame Street song says it best:
“I wear it up. I wear down. I wear it twisted all around. I wear braids and pigtails too. I love all the things my hair can do. In barrettes or flying free, ever perfect tresses you’ll see My hair is part of me, an awesome part of me I really love my hair!”
This post contains themes of Girly-Girl-edness. Reader discretion is advised (if you don’t like girly stuff!)
Before I begin, some definitions for you:
D’OH – means OH SH*T! The phrase is attributed to Mr. Homer Simpson (an idol of mine!)
SCRAATTTTCH – represents that sound you hear when you drag a needle across a record. For those of you who do not understand “record” – refer to Austin Powers in “Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery” placing a CD on a record player! It’s that sound.
Peter, Paul and Mary - This may be more of a stretch for some folks – even me actually I never had one PP&M record. Peter, Paul and Mary is a American folk-rock singing band from the 1960s. They sang a song called “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane.” Amazingly, I just learned prior to writing this post that John Denver wrote this song. And, if you don’t know John Denver, I am soooooo not going to try now to explain. Just google it.
Like Peter, Paul and Mary, this girly girl’s bags are packed and ready to go! I’m leavin’ on a jet plane…for GOOGLE. That’s right, I am going to the mecca of the internet world. How can you say internet and not somehow think of Google, googling or YouTube…honestly!
Anyway, I am on my way to Cali, standing online at the airport when D’OH! the computer instructs me to see an agent. You all know what that means, right? It ain’t good. Well, I won’t bore you with the details (that’s another post), but my luggage is checked, and I am not. At least until 3pm.
I think, ok, I will go home for a bit and then come back. It will be an easy breezy check-in when I return - my bags are checked. I make the trek back to the parking garage without a thought in the world as to where my car is parked because I did park there. But I cannot find it. It’s humid and cool and my hair begins to swell. If you haven’t read my post “On the Twists and Turns of Biracial Hair,” then I can tell you that this is not good. The longer I search, the bigger and frizzier my hair gets.
I finally find the car and wonder why I don’t have a flask like the paranormal lady in Poltergeist! Oh well, I can go home and fix myself up! SCRAATTTTCH! Make-up bag, curlers, fave curling iron are already packed, ready to go and I assume are waiting patiently for my arrival in Indy, or Atlanta, or San Jose (final destination). What is a girl to do? Then, I realize, “that’s right, I AM A GIRLY GIRL! I have back-up supplies (seen in the above photo).
AM I REALLY GIRLY-GIRL PREPARED?
I evaluate the situation. OK, everything that is essential to the Girly-Girl is packed. Curlers, serums, setting lotions, tooth brush/paste, big barrelled curling iron. What do I have on hand? OK, I do work out, so that means I ALWAYS have some extra supplies. I scour my old Nike gym bag; extra brush, some lotions. Not as much as I thought then…..
OH YES, my “9-1-1 Girly-Girl Repair” BAG in the Car! (seen below)
The 911 Bag You Keep in the Car
Ladies, Ladyboyz, and those who aspire to Girly-Girledness: If your make-up supply runs low and you need to replace a few things, don’t throw the empties unless they are totally empty (or you can recycle them for more stuff at MAC – 6 empties gets you a free gloss or lipstick). I keep in my car: a make-up brush, some blush I got tired of, some cheap mascara I bought at CVS, an eye pencil I didn’t really like after all. I keep all of these in one of those cheap plastic cases in the side door of my car. Things are looking up! I do have lip essentials because, of course, lipstick/gloss is in that handy ziploc bag in my purses.
I am in a better position, but what else?
TIME TO RAID “THE DRAWER”
My hubby makes fun of me for all the “girl stuff” I have. (“How can you say you don’t have anything, look at those drawers in the bathroom?”). I never hear THAT enough. Oh yeah, I do hear some things he says! So now, I inventory:
I have curlers, no curler clips, but I have a set of bobbypins. So I can roll my hair.
I have extra setting lotion (because you never use a whole bottle, 3 parts to 1 part ladies).
I have the complementary make-up case from CLARINS when Nordstrom at the Fashion Mall first opened!
I have the 911 Girly Girl care bag.
SCRAATTTTCH! WHAT IF THE HAIR DOES NOT COOPERATE?
Ok, so I did say I had curlers, but not my FAVORITE CURLERS. Just curlers I don’t use much anymore. If the curls come out too tight or too lose, what do I do for a curling iron? I packed the favorite large-barrelled curling iron! THE DRAWER (seen below)
Ok, we all have a drawer! We have junk drawers in our kitchen (we have two – we are progressive!). BTW Men: if you decided to read this, don’t lie, you know you have drawers in your toolsheds, bathrooms, or secret secret rooms we don’t know about (oh yeah, by the way, we know). My drawer is appliance heaven! (for hair mind you, other appliances shall remain nameless and unreferred to in this post). I am feeling good now, really good!
WHAT ABOUT THE HAIR DRYER?
Conair Hair Dryer: Tools of the Biracial Hair Trade
If you have not read my post “Twists and Turns of Biracial Hair” you will not get this reference. But here’s the deal. I don’t dry my hair with a blow dryer unless I am travelling…WITH MY CURLERS and setting lotion. It takes too long. I keep a Conair standup hair dryer under an end-table in my living room (it goes away when company comes!)
DOES THIS PROVE I AM TRULY A GIRLY-GIRL
I think that it does. I have backup tools for my backup tools. Plus, I didn’t reveal the goodies I keep in the closet! Plus, look, I have a stand-up hair dryer, appropriately named “The Precious.” Being a girly-girl requires that you are prepared for the worst. If all your stuff is lost or packed or if you are stuck on the side of a highway, you must ALWAYS have some sort of support. Most would say that support is a GARMIN, or NORTHSTAR system. I agree, but if you are a girly-girl, you need to keep some essentials within reach. A little gloss, some mascara, a brush and some toothpaste and a toothbrush. Bad breath is never a good thing. Fresh breath and a clean smile can always save the day if you have nothing else. Keep extras of toothbrushes, go to the CVS and buy those little kits for $2.49. Buy a little squeezy tube of breath freshener at Walgreens for $0.69, a cheap tube of gloss and keep those perfume samples stashed away in a place in your car.
I think an appropriate end is this little tune from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Flower Drum Song:
When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl! (And I LOOOVE being a girl girl!)
It’s a cold blustery, cloudy winter day. The temps are down in the 20s, the wind is gusting and your body is frozen from scraping ice and snow from your windshield. Your hands are pink and aching beneath gloves not made for Indiana weather. As you shiver in your car, your mind turns to the viscous saucy chili you enjoyed at lunch time. Your body warms to the memory of those lovely spoonfuls of beef, sausage and chunks of perfectly cooked tomatoes. God, you can’t wait to get home!
You park your car and all memory of the steaming spice-laced chili dissapates as the icy wind blows against your face. You just want to get inside! You press against the door, the last remnants of winter’s icy hands grab at your coat. Then, the heat hits your face. You hold your breath. Ahhhhhhhhh…it’s good to be home. As you pull off your scarf, you exhale and drop your coat on the nearest chair. Then, the aroma hits you. It tickles your nose and your throat. Yes, that lovely smell of slow-roasted pork assaults you. You close your eyes and inhale. Your senses are alive with the spices of green chiles and lovely spiced tomatoes. You realize that salt has a scent – and it never smelled so good. Every inch of you warms and soon, you forget about your numb feet and tingling hands. All you can think of is that smell…oh my God…that smell. It’s intoxicating.
As you approach the crock pot, you notice the gentle bubbling of the juices from the pork roast. Little whisps of steam from the roast are escaping the lid, like quiet whispers of joy soon to come. Your salivary glands activate and you find that your mouth is watering. Oh, just a small bite. You want to grip the lid and stick your head in the steam, but you hold back…just for a moment…time stops. Then you gently ease the lid off the crock pot. The whisper is gone, the steam hits your face, you inhale deeply and shiver again. You know the condensation gathering on the lid is love given by the roast, so you turn it sideways, so as not to lose a drop to the cabinets or counter. They are undeserving of this love. Your eyelids flutter and the strands of hair at your forehead curl as you stand above, getting a pork facial. Your taste buds are hungry in anticipation, but still you hold back. You grab greedily in the utensil drawer for a fork, a spoon, any vehicle that will deliver joy to your tastebuds. Ah yes, a tablespoon.
Totally distracted by the aromas wrestling for dominance in your nose, you are oblivious to the quiet harmonies of Harvest Moon (Neil Young) tickling the hairs of your ears. You are focussed. You are determined. Shall you pierce the meat and take a bite? Or should you dip the spoon into those low and quiet bubbling juices? You decide to extend your anticipation, in pleasurable torture, and dip that shiny tablespoon into the abyss of broth. You gaze down at this amber liquid and your tastebuds activate to overdrive. You gently slip that tablespoon into that gorgeous ocean of pork and spices…you don’t want to burn your tongue, but you want to taste the essence of that slow wind of pork and chiles.
BUT THE HEAT IS IMPORTANT…so you blow gently, inhale that aroma and then bring the spoon to your lips. The sound of quiet music hits your ears – how appropriate as you ease the juice to your lips. hooooooooeee….yeah baby, that is some savory goodness, sliding over your tongue. A few drops escape your mouth, your tongue quickly does an olympic grab at those droplets. Your whole body is warmed to the core. You close your eyes and utter a sigh. You wonder how do vegetarians do it?
You savor for a moment, but now, it’s time for the kill.
That spoon you so gently navigated into that ocean now wants satisfaction. It’s not a fork, but it knows its purpose…find and deliver. The tomatoes and chiles are clinging desperately to the meat, which falls apart as you scoop greedily into the meat. DAMNIT…it’s falling apart, you want a bite right now! The spoon lands on a beautiful chunk, the juices cling to the spoon. It’s time!
You wrap your mouth around the spoon and you feel the soft texture of the pork…YES YES…you are oblivious to the love escaping from the pot because the pork is seducing you. That tender juicy flavor, those spices have developed, become sassy, then mellowed. The meat yields to your mouth and you close your eyes.
Winter may suck, but what’s better? Your boots are still on, the mail is in a pile, the answering machine is blinking and your phone is ringing. But for a moment, you understand why the Greek Gods were so greedy, so jealous, so indulgent. They were eating pork!
Words cannot express how I felt when I heard the story of the Louisiana Parish refusing to marry the interracial couple. Supposedly for the purpose of protecting their future children from the pain of growing up biracial in a marriage destined to fail. NOTE: I will use interracial and biracial interchangeably.
Forty two years after the landmark case of Loving v. Virginia and here we are. For those reading this post unfamiliar with Loving, let me give you a brief overview. In Loving v. Virginia, a black woman and a white man were married in the District of Columbia. The Lovings returned to Virginia shortly after their marriage. Upon their return to Virginia, they were charged with violating the state’s anti-miscegenation statute which banned interracial marriages. The Lovings were found guilty and sentenced to a year in jail. However, the trial judge said he would suspend the sentence if the Lovings would leave Virginia and not return for 25 years.
The Supreme Court wrote in Loving that “Marriage is one of the basic civil rights of man, fundamental to our very existence and survival. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the state.”
Mr. Justice of the Peace Keith Bardwell maintains that he did nothing wrong, and after all, they got married, so what’s the big deal? He also went onto say that he has referred other interracial couples to other Justices of the Peace and they never complained. They should have! It is not his place to deny an interracial couple the right to marry because of a concern about future children or the ultimate longevity of the relationship. My husband and I were not married in this country, we were married in the British Virgin Islands. However, should we have married in the United States, I would expect to get married without inquiry into our plans to procreate or to stay together.
As it relates to me and my husband, we made the decision not to have children. That too is a fundamental right – to NOT procreate (Griswold v. Connecticut). How might have Mr. Justice of the Peace Bardwell justified his refusal to perform our ceremony? Perhaps by sharing the statistics that “our” marriages fail? I will make sure and tell my white husband of 11 years (plus 3 years of dating) that we are doomed to failure. Although, regarding my husband’s first marriage to a woman of the same race, how do we explain the end of that marriage?
Children of Biracial Couples
Mr. Justice of the Peace Bardwell told Early Show co-anchor Harry Smith,”I’ve had countless numbers of people that was born in that situation, and that they claim that the blacks or the whites didn’t accept the children. And I didn’t want to put the children in that position.” (direct quote from CBS article, grammar and all).
As a child of a biracial union, I can testify to the trials of growing up biracial. It’s not easy. Some black people didn’t like me, some white people didn’t like me. I did get pushed around and I did get beat up – sometimes every day. I didn’t fit in with groups at school and I endured name-calling, cold shoulders and cruel intentions. I had secret boyfriends (white boys too afraid to come “out” about having me as a girlfriend) and I had fair-weather friends. But I survived. In fact, I did more than survive, I thrived. I believe that I was put here for a reason. That reason may be hidden from me now, but I am hopeful that my walk on this earth has helped someone learn more about tolerance, acceptance or at a minimum, wearing cool boots (more to come on later posts about my obsession with boots!)
It’s not an easy task to walk on this earth. All of us, black or white, or black AND white, male or female, gay or straight, experience trials in our lifetime. Sometimes those trials seem more than we can bear. But we are special enough to be here – thank God (or whatever or whomever is your higher power) no one denied our parents the right to love, marry and procreate. What an empty and uninteresting world this would be without us!
Mr. Justice of the Peace Bardwell does not feel as though he did anything wrong, because ultimately the couple was able to get married by another Justice of the Peace. However, his private bias should not be allowed to guide the performance of his role as an elected official. The Supreme Court held as much in Palmore v. Sidoti. In that case, Anthony and Linda Sidoti, both white, were divorced. The mother was awarded custody of their daughter. One year later, Anthony sought custody of the child after the mother began living with Clarence Palmore, an African-American male. The Florida courts awarded Mr. Sidoti custody of the child, arguing that the child would be more vulnerable to social stigmatization in a racially mixed household. No evidence was introduced that indicated Ms. Sidoti was unfit to continue the custody of the child. In that opinion, the Court shared that “[t]he Constitution cannot control such prejudices but neither can it tolerate them. Private biases may be outside the reach of the law, but the law cannot, directly or indirectly, give them effect.”
Mr. Justice of the Peace Bardwell’s private bias as it relates to “biracial children” is outside of the reach of the law, but his failure to perform his duties as a Justice of the Peace are not. It’s time for elected officials to be held accountable for their actions or lack thereof. Mr. Justice of the Peace Bardwell “shall perform his duties without bias or prejudice.” (Code of Conduct). If he is unable to perform his duties in accordance of the law, then he should be removed from his office. It is no justification that he refers biracial couples to someone else. If his was an acceptable practice, a judge could recuse himself from duties infinitesimally.
Back to Loving
The Supreme Court in Loving held that “there was no legitimate purpose in the statute, independent of invidious racial discrimination.” Now, the last US anti-miscegenation statute was removed from the books of Alabama in 2000, so certainly we are not talking about a law prohibiting biracial unions. But we are talking about a Justice of the Peace refusing to execute his duties “without bias and prejudice” for those biracial couples who wish to marry. He insists he is not racist as he has lots of black friends. Of course, this is also what George Wallace said. (If you don’t remember his early days, google “Speech in the Schoolhouse Door” and become enlightened). George Wallace, years later as a born again Christian, apologized for his segregationist ways at the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. When he was asked if he had changed his mind [about black people], he replied, “No. I have respected and loved ‘them’ always.” Is George Wallace a model for Mr. Justice of the Peace Bardwell?
Getting in touch with my “Biracial-ality”
I am proud of my biracial-ality (it’s a word now)! Though I didn’t have the life of Marcia Brady, I still had and have a life full of love, friends and family. My biracial-ality is an enhancement of my life. It has provided me with valuable experiences and insights that hopefully contribute positively to my relationships and the lives of others within my circle of influence.
Those of us, the doomed biracial masses, should hold our heads high and testify to the benefit of our existence! Because who knows, we could grow up to be the next W.E.B. DuBois, Booker T. Washingon, Alicia Keys, Tiger Woods or maybe, someday, President of the United States of America.
A spin on a James Brown song: Say it loud, I’m Black AND WHITE and I’m Proud! And grateful to be part of the human race.
Lady Justice has her roots in Greek and Roman mythology. She is said to be the personification of divine rightness of law. Lady Justice is portrayed in many ways – sometimes blindfolded, always holding the scales of justice and most times holding a sword.
My Lady Justice, whose name is “She…” incorporates many of the traditional symbols – the sword, the scales, her foot crushing the snake on the book of law. However, “She” is not traditional. “She” is brown, “She” is sexy and strong.
My friend Laura Laforge painted this portrait of Lady Justice for me. I wanted her to be bold, vibrant and brown. So often black women are portrayed in art very ethnocentrically. We are always singing in a jazz club, suckling a baby to our breasts or carrying bowls on our heads through a vast desert. Not this time! It’s time that artists recognize that black women are….well, WOMEN. We are contemporary, gritty, strong, fashionable, vulnerable and real. We are more than icons or the subjects of ethnic prints hung on a carefully decorated “African-themed” room.
You can see more photos of “She” and other art by Laura Laforge on my flickr site.
