Alexandra Fuller and white supremacy

I have written about Alexandra Fuller before, once after reading Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness, and again after reading and loving Leaving Before the Rains Come (although I cannot find mention of that). Alas. If I didn't, I should have.

Do you know her work? She is a gifted memoirist who has written several terrifically-titled books about growing up in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), the daughter of somewhat dysfunctional, probably alcoholic white Brits who decamped to central Africa and lived and farmed there for most of their lives. During Fuller's childhood, there were just 100,000 whites in Rhodesia and 6 million blacks. Her parents fought for white rule. At age 6, Fuller was taught to use an Uzi and the difference between firing to kill and firing to maim. An effigy of a black Rhodesian was her target.

I have been wholly engaged by all of her work (the first I read was Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, then Cocktail Hour... and most recently, Leaving Before the Rains Come). Not only is memoir one of my favorite genres, but I am drawn like a moth to the brightest light to people who cast an unsparingly honest eye on themselves and then share their truths and lessons learned so that others might better see and understand themselves, might be moved toward such honest reflection, and then might grow and change and share accordingly. Fuller offers us chances like these.

And so last week, just before we headed out of town, when I saw that she would be discussing her new book, Quiet Until the Thaw, at Politics and Prose (my favorite bookstore in DC) on July 5, I marked the date and highlighted it on my calendar. I knew I'd be pooped from travel, knew I'd be tired from the 4th and Jack's birthday, knew we had a full day prior to Fuller's 7pm event. But I also knew I couldn't miss it.

And I didn't. Tom got home at 6, and I hauled it out of the house to get to P&P and secure myself a seat. Front row, y'all! #alwaysastudent

This is not an important observation, but Alexandra is stunningly, naturally beautiful. She glows, radiant with health and wisdom. Which can be disarming.

And then she starts talking, that gorgeous sort-of-British, sort-of-African lilt rolling from her tongue like sensuous waves. If you aren't listening, you might be lulled. If you are, you immediately sit at attention, for Alexandra Fuller is pissed. 

She began with a poem by Freedom Nyamubaya, a woman, a farmer, a poet, an activist, a high-ranking general in the Zimbabwe National Liberation Army. She died in 2015 at the age of 55, but before, she penned A Mysterious Marriage, a tale of Freedom and Independence.

And then she read from Dr. Yolanda Pierce's stunning A Litany For Those Who Aren't Ready For Healing.

Let us not offer false equivalencies, thereby diminishing the particular pain being felt in a particular circumstance in a particular historical moment.

Let us not speak of reconciliation without speaking of reparations and restoration, or how we can repair the breach and how we can restore the loss.

Let us not rush past the loss of this mother's child, this father's child...someone's beloved son.

Let us not value property over people; let us not protect material objects while human lives hang in the balance.

Let us not value a false peace over a righteous justice.

Let us not be afraid to sit with the ugliness, the messiness, and the pain that is life in community together.

Let us not offer clichés to the grieving, those whose hearts are being torn asunder.

You really should read the whole thing. Please do.

Fuller noted that she has spoken at Politics & Prose upon release of each of her books. "I've been here through four presidents, and whatever this is," she said, acknowledging the present. And, "I grew up under four dictators, two on the left, two on the right, and this is that."

We are in trouble, y'all. America is at a crossroads. The KKK has planned a march on Charlottesville, VA, this Saturday and have announced their intent to be fully armed. Purportedly, liberals are attempting to "erase the white culture right out of the history books.” and they need to stand up against this travesty.

People, please. This country was founded by stealing, violently, others' land. Do you know that of the more than 370 treaties and deals and agreements the US has made with its native peoples, it has altered, ignored, and/or reneged on ALL of them? Canada and Australia, among others, have treated (and continue to treat) their indigenous people with equivalent ugliness.

This country was built on the backs of kidnapped people, men, women, and children forcibly taken from their homes and treated as inhuman property whose sole use in this world was to work and be abused for free. When finally we "freed" them, we paid reparations only to their white owners. 

Zimbabwe, once Rhodesia, emerged from the same crucible. White settlers took land, averred it was rightfully theirs because of black inferiority and all, and then fought to the death to keep it when resistance reared its head. 

So many of the dominant narratives around the world reflect this brutal relationship of whites to blacks, light skin to dark skin. And yet we do not listen. We didn't then, we don't now. As Alexandra noted, "There is no such thing as the voiceless, just the preferably unheard."

She tells of growing up the daughter of undeniably dynamic, hardworking people she loved (and loves) dearly. But as she sees now, they are also people who believed in white superiority and worked to maintain its hold on the country they made home. 

Many Americans find themselves part of the same familial tradition. Each of us can accept that and attempt to disable our own role in the perpetuation of a racist society or we can continue to ignore and enable it. Where did the birtherism movement come from if not from whites attempting to discredit America's first black president thus invalidating his success and maintaining a hold on their own power? Where does our racist criminal justice system emerge and grow from if not an attempt to keep the black man down? Where did redlining come from if not an attempt to keep blacks out of "white" neighborhoods? (It should be noted that Donald Trump and his father were both sued for discriminatory rental practices and proved to have racially profiled and refused black applicants.) What is the gargantuan wealth disparity in our country but a systemic effort to privilege a few at the expense of many?

As Fuller read and Huxley said, "Liberties can never be given, they can only be taken away." Further, Alexandra observed from years of personal experience that a sizable "wealth disparity in any country is an arrangement between the government and the military." The socioeconomic gaps in America aren't getting smaller. I'm just saying.

Ultimately, she did talk about Quiet Until the Thaw, a novelistic effort to further deconstruct the primary narrative surrounding white and native Americans. At this point, "I would prefer my audiences sweating bullets...This is no time to be complacent. Never mistake your comfort for your security...Read, write, think, question."

I bought the new book and she signed it (as well as the copy of Leaving Before the Rains Come that I'd brought), and I had the chance to thank her for being an important presence in my life. To thank her for writing books I needed to read. "Well, I needed to write them." she replied with a smile.

I smiled in return before leaving, too late to avoid the precipitation blanketing DC that night. As I walked to my car, rain drops spattering my face and dress, I gave thanks for meeting Alexandra briefly, for living in a place that enables easy access to fascinating people who broaden and inspire my world, for my parents who taught my sister and me that the world is big and we are but bits in it, for my husband who got home on time so I could go do something exciting. I gave thanks to all of those working so hard to resist the craven, ignorant, cruel wannabe who is leading this country nowhere good, and I renewed my commitment to asking the hard questions, answering them honestly, and doing the work that needs to be done. 

A lengthy mish-mash

No time to think, not a second. 
A pulsing migraine, my unwelcome guest for five days now.
My littlest one at my side always; beloved and welcome, but also I yearn
for space and quiet and no more talk of farts or Pokemon.

corn, favas, summer squash, tomatoes, goat cheese and pear-balsamic

I'm tired, worn, behind. I'm angry and hurting about Charleston.
I'm shrugging under the weight of the horrible Groundhog Day'ness of it.
Heavy in the sadness that still nothing will be done. And this will happen again.
Shocked and grossed out and dismayed by the ignorance out there.
Such determined, righteous ignorance.
Underscored completely by the fact that while other flags were lowered to half-mast,
the Confederate beast flew high. Higher than them all.
With every gust of the wind, a slap
in the face to those who lost loved ones, long ago and on Wednesday.
An ugly reminder of the second-class way they are seen and treated.

Father's Day should be celebrated later in the year, I think to myself.
Every year. At least until the kids are older and need a bit less from Mom.
In June, they are only just out of school and we are working to recalibrate
in the midst of changing schedules and more time at home.

Daddy and me, a month in

What is steady in all this mayhem are meals. Three squares a day.
Making them count, simply to magnificently, tethers the morning, middle and evening.
They are nourishing anchors of love and pause. They are moments to stop.
Chew slowly, I think. With your mouths closed, please. Savor.

Last night, after a demoralizing online debate with a classmate (about racism -better than it was!-and guns -"we don't have a problem!"), I could only think to cook. 
My head pounded in my temples, a throbbing drumbeat I could not escape.
A shrimp boil is surely the answer.  
Other than having grown up in Louisiana, I cannot explain the utter randomness of that,
but out we went for three pounds.
Then boil it, I did. 

I called Tom home from work early. The four of us sat and peeled and dipped.
Jack continues to assert that he doesn't like shrimp, but he's a hell of a peeler,
and even enjoys it, so I'm happy to have him on my team.
More for me, I think. Thank you, baby.

I wonder if these perfect Gulf treats bring me back to a more naive time.
A simpler one when I was young and not as outraged by injustice,
when it seemed we, there, all just got along.
I question the veracity of my memories now. I hope, but I don't know. 
In each bite of shrimp, dunked deeply into excessively horseradishy cocktail sauce,
spiked generously with lemon and Tony Chachere's,
I wish I had Saltines in the house, and I wish for less hate and less violence and less division.

The vet came yesterday. Percy was due for a rabies shot, and, as he just turned ten, a senior physical. Percy is always fairly low on my list of priorities, but as he received two shots and also had some blood drawn, his nails clipped and his body prodded; as I found out he's basically blind in his left eye because of an advanced cataract, and minimally so in the right because of a growing one, I was overcome by love and admiration for this sweet little being who just soldiers though each day, nice as get out to anyone who's nice to him.

He doesn't complain much, and he takes discomfort with a laudable acceptance. He is patient and kind, tolerant and pretty flexible really. Don't get me wrong, those "Who rescued who?" bumper stickers still launch me into the orbit of insanity, but I do sometimes find myself in utter appreciation of animals and the way they just get on with it. I see in them some qualities we people could stand to emulate.

I think of my Nanny, and as my heart hurts so much right now, I keep thinking of her and her grace. Her steadiness. Her tolerance and her willingness to grow and change rather than remain static and become entrenched. It gives me hope.

When Barack Obama was elected President, Nanny initially found it hard to envision a black First Lady. She was born in 1921 in Louisiana and was of that age. She grew up pretty poor and didn't go to college, but was guided by her heart, an expansive, accepting, powerhouse that was always willing to evolve. 

She soon came to love and admire Michelle Obama, as she had loved and advocated for the gay men in our family and the less fortunate in our community. As she had always stood up for me and accepted me for just who I was. 

Nanny taught me a great deal during the many years we had together, about what is and isn't important, about what does and doesn't matter at the end, about how important it is to stand up for what is right and just. Even if you do it in your own, quiet way. Like she did.

I don't want to be as quiet, for that's not really me, constitutionally or otherwise. But I gain strength from Percy's stoic acceptance and Nanny's singular decency, from the Charleston survivor's forgiveness and all of those who are standing up, right now, in their own ways.

And so, as the thunder rolls through, and the rain washes down baptismally, and the fireflies light with determined goodwill, I think about what I hope people someday say about me: that I loved and tended to others, that I stood for things as fearlessly as I could, that I lived an authentic life full of shrimp boils and puzzles, heartache and tolerance. That, in the best ways I knew how, I mothered and daughtered; friended and wived; fed and accepted. With grace and strength and a loud voice when needed.
~~~
Please consider watching and reading the following (though if you've read this far, A) thank you and B) I certainly understand if you're whooped.)

Jon Stewart on Charleston
Jim Jefferies on Gun Control in the U.S.
This New Yorker piece on Charleston  
This post on what white people can do: 

White people keep asking "what can I do to help you in times like this? What can I do to fight racism? Where can I start? I want to take action." 
Here's what you can do - collect the white racists in your life. Tell your dad he has to stop making racist jokes. Stop your roommate when he rants against black people in the city. Correct your girlfriends when they talk about bad neighborhoods. Educate your students when they bring in writing that features stereotypical or offensive black characters. 
Stop leaving the hard work of educating white people to the people who are suffering and grieving. Stop leaving it to black people to collect and educate. Don't speak for us but if you abhor racism, get rid of it around you. 
The shooter in Charleston was able to do what he did because no one corrected him or stopped him when he ranted and raged against black people. 
Yes, it's gonna be hard to correct your dad or grandpa but if you want to count yourself as an ally, do this god damn work so I don't have to.

#Ferguson #race #whiteprivilege

Last week, outside the gym locker rooms, I saw a friend. He's a great guy, and I also love his wife. We met nearly four years ago when our children started kindergarten together. They are both incredibly successful professionals and their kids are the sort you meet and think, "What terrific kids!" Which of course also means, "What terrific parents." We started catching up, and I asked if he was still travelling fairly constantly for work. He's been on the road regularly for the past year and told me that pace hadn't yet relented. Hopefully this fall. He must be a million-miler on all airlines by now.

Chit-chat transitioned into a powerful conversation about race in America, and for the next twenty minutes, I mostly listened, entranced and sad.

He and his wife are black. Did you have that in your mind's eye? Or did that make you pause slightly, like the jury in A Time To Kill when Matthew McConaughey instructs them, "Now imagine that girl is black."

We talked about what's happening in Ferguson, the Eric Garner homicide, my friend's own experiences as the victim of bigotry and racism since he was young. He told me about having been called the "n word" too many times to count, about having the police follow and pull him over for no reason and then question his ownership of his own car. He told me about the treatment his wife has received too; ugly, discriminatory profiling.

The albatrosses they now possess, constituted by years of these encounters, have made them think long and hard about how they need to prepare their children to be black in America. As he told me how -emphasizing perfect diction; learning how to handle being called the "n word" should that happen; teaching irreproachable behavior when in the presence of any authority, especially the police - I stood there, dumbstruck and heartbroken. We are definitely not in a post-racial U.S.

Our boys have been friends for years, and the way they walk down school halls or the baseball dugout now might be just the way they saunter through malls or towards a movie theater in another ten. My friend said that even though they (the boys) wouldn't bat an eye, others might. Strangers may "look at them differently. If the police pass ..." and something appears even the tiniest bit off, "nothing would happen to your son, but something could very easily happen to mine." He said everything much more eloquently than that, but hopefully you get the drift. Remarkably, he didn't sound bitter. He sounded resigned, and that crushed me.

For my heart hurt with those truths, throbbing with the painful knowledge that because I am white, I won't have to prepare my kids in the same way. I have read and heard so much, especially lately, about black parents who are scared for their children (particularly for their sons) to simply walk down the street. Who fear for the hateful assumptions others will make for nothing more than the color of their skin. They have had to work, as will their children, harder than white peers for the same, or lesser, outcomes.

Trayvon, Michael, Eric. Black men walking on American streets one moment, dead the next. Killed. I'd be terrified too.

But those are never the worries I have for my sons. I fret about many things, but I take for granted -subconsciously; because I can- that they won't be profiled and judged. That ability to not worry? That is white privilege and it's despicable. That this privilege is another's burden, too many others' burden, enrages me and makes me cringe. It is morally indefensible.

Realizing the time, my friend and I quickly hugged and said goodbye. I thanked him profusely for the gift he gave me in this conversation, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. I don't think I will and I do hope we'll pick up where we left off sometime soon. Discrimination is ugly and divisive, the sort of horribleness that necessarily exalts some while denigrating others. It reminds me of the caste system in India, an antiquated, racist scheme that I I suspect many Americans would condemn, despite the tragic double standard inherent in doing so.

In such an unequal system, the "exalted" must and should play an enormous role in fighting the injustice. It is additional discrimination to put the onus on the denigrated to themselves do better and overcome. Like hetero allies do in the fight for LGBTQ rights, so too must non-blacks rise up in protest of the Eric Garner and Michael Brown homicides. Garner was killed by a police officer. Killed. On a street in a chokehold, begging for breath while some ignorant idiot continued to apply pressure. And for what? Selling cigarettes when he shouldn't have been?

So far, the officers responsible have been slapped on the wrists. They're still employed by the NYPD. The NYPD union protested the claim -despite video evidence and the autopsy- that Garner died from the chokehold, citing instead his being overweight and in somewhat ill health. Mayor de Blasio called for dialogue. What would be different if Garner were white? I suspect much. And by the way, that officer, the one who killed Garner and still has his job? He was accused twice in 2013 of falsely arresting and abusing people. Who's the threat here? The problem?

We all should have a problem with cops like that. We all should expect and demand more. Dialogue should prevent these sorts of deaths. It's a largely empty suggestion afterwards.

Remember Cliven Bundy? That racist, nearly-seventy-year-old in Nevada who has refused to pay grazing fees on federal land for twenty years? Remember him sitting atop his horse, flanked by an equally crazed militia, all of them armed out the wazoo, pointing their guns directly at the Bureau of Land Management agents and screaming about their second amendment rights? Can you imagine if a group of black men sat in their place? I don't at all think it's exaggeration to say that at least one would have been shot dead and the rest jailed for life.

Ours is far from a fair and just society, and after all the years and decades spent fighting for equality on many fronts, it's deeply upsetting to witness events that strongly suggest we have moved forward not an inch. American inequality plays out socioeconomically, racially, geographically, religiously, along gender lines and on and on. At times the future seems so terribly bleak: what can any of us do? What can one of us do? What can I do?

Right now, I can look microcosmically at myself as a white mother of two. I believe it is my responsibility to confront racism head-on by exposing my children to its ugly presence; as they see its injustice and are moved by it, I can try to guide them towards behavior that combats such intolerance.

It is my duty to expose them to the abject poverty in which many Americans live and foster in them desire to work towards its end. It is incumbent upon me to repeatedly remind them just how fortunate they are and to instill in them sincere generosity and eagerness to give back, not out of a sense of obligation but rather the deeply held conviction of what is just.

I want to continue to ask and listen and learn and talk. To stand up alongside and for my brothers and sisters in whose shoes I don't walk so that I see more clearly their paths as they both converge with and diverge from my own. It is my hope that as my children see their mother walking the walk, they are inspired to do the same. And that at some point, the weights of injustice and suppression that debase the fabric of our society are weakened to the point of insignificance and true regret.