My children are colorblind.

I find it interesting that somehow I have managed to raise colorblind children. I never fully believed that it was possible. I was taught that race was something innate in the human species, that each one of us would know what race is and if we were or were not a part of any particular race. I questioned that belief. And now I see proof through my children that race is something learned.

I was ironing my girls hair in the bathroom when I got to asking questions about their classmates. Some girls had straight hair and others didn’t. I wanted to know what kind of hair their classmates had and I asked if they were black. My eldest looked at me like I was funny, not in a ha-ha way and flat out told me there was no such thing as black people! I was stunned and very proud. She was adamant there was no such thing and told me in no uncertain terms that I was trying to pull a fast one on her. She’s only eight years old.

flesh crayons

Race was never a line of thought I feel comfortable in teaching them. So I tried to ask my question another way. Well, what color are they. Tan. Flabbergasted I asked what color am I. Peach. My husband. Brown. To my daughters minds, we are all colored like a box of crayons and it has nothing to do with race.

All I wanted to know was if the girls with straight hair in their class was either Hispanic or Black as this makes a difference in how their hair is straighten and I was wanting to talk about all the different ways hair can be treated to make it straight. But race or call it ethnicity comes up when it comes to hair. Looking back at this, there are others ways to discuss hair issues without consideration of race.

Facing their innocence, and yes it is the innocence of childhood– I dropped the entire conversation. I have no wish to pop this endearing innocence in their lives. They know nothing of hatred, nothing of hating based on race. Oh, but I did at their age.

My parents were extreme. Fundamentalist Christians that had no allegiance to any church but my father as the de facto kitchen table bible thumbing preacher slash head of the household as mandated by God himself. Race was an important issue to my parents. It choose who my friends were. It ruled who I could play with and where I could go. It ruled how I was to behave with others.

Race was also very important to my classmates as well. I was the outsider, not of their race. And it also determined how I was treated, who I could play with and where I could go. I understood at an early age that I was hated solely based on the color of my skin. How is it at ages of six and seven that race is such an important issue?

It seamed a reasonable premise, that understanding race is innate in humanity. My childhood seamed to prove the idea. Until I had my own children to raise. I will never raise my kids to view race as important and I never have. So when just tip toeing around the question makes me so uncomfortable and I find my children colorblind, I have to ask – How did this happen?

Race is taught. Racism is taught at home. From parent to child, it is taught and then reinforced over and over as to where racism exists. What’s worse is the idea of race is false. It is not a biological reality and it never was. Race has been a sociological and political construct designed to preserve power for the cultural “elite” in the United States.

Race is about the business of hate. It creates that boundary of “us verse them” and historically been used to justify inequality and injustice as “morally right.” Race is not a social concept that should be accepted as a reality. It should be confronted for the falsehood that it is and rejected at every turn. Reality is simple. Skin color is not race. Culture is not race. Culture is not skin color. Hate should never be encouraged.

How’s to Not whack a Spider

Never ever kill a spider with your index finger stretched out inside the shoe.

It was the ugliest spider I have ever seen. My guts wanted to puke and all my instincts was to kill, kill, kill. In fact that was quite strange as I am one to move the buggers to a better location. But that thing, well was destined to die.

I asked for a shoe and got handed a flimsy child’s slipon. Without even thinking I whacked that reddish brown disgusting spyder into the next dimension. My hand came back up to hold my finger as a scream was stuck somewhere under my breast bone as I was trying to draw in breath. Ouch.

I’m pretty sure I fractured my index finger.

So I’m sporting a splint and trying to type with my nine other fingers. And don’t you just know my luck, I signed up for Camp Nanowrimo this year. I even have plenty of erotic material to distract myself with; clears throat, I mean to write.

Oh well. I might as well work on some of my other projects. Being down a finger, having pain fuzz out my brain, maybe I can edit?

Oh yeah, I’m really sorry I whacked that spider. I mean it was like it was me or it and I choose me. I guess I need a light some incense and say my prayers. But honestly, that was the first spider I ever met that I lost my damn mind over. How was I to know spiders came in ugly?

Wordless Wednesday

The Last Roll Out

There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation many never come again. But why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal? And they may well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic? Why does Rice play Texas?

We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too.

President John F. Kennedy, September 12, 1962, at Rice University, Houston, Texas

The Blog of the Moment: Inside BruCrew Life

I love to read. From growing up to even now, I’m most often found with my nose buried in a book. This also makes me a horrible blogger. It’s not that I don’t read or follow; trust me my reader feed says otherwise; it’s that I rarely comment.

But when an exceptional blog stands out; when I get excited to see what the next posting is about, I have to share this gem with everyone.

Inside BruCrew Life is one of those rare blog treats.  Jocelyn of BruCrew writes what I call a kitchen blog. She covers food and lots of it! But the most spectacular feature of her blog is the photographs. She takes high quality, vivid photos of the recipes she features. It’s hard not to get excited and run off to the kitchen to whip up those recipes.

I love looking at the photos as much as making the recipes!
So, please take a spin on by her site and enjoy!
I’m sure you’ll fall in love with her site as much as I have.

Inside BruCrew Life