Category Archives: babysit

On the Zoo, Over-Heatedly

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My mom’s five-year old neighbor is one of the most adorable human beings I’ve ever met. (Last summer, while playing Capture the Flag, she came to let me out of jail – an overturned boat in our shared backyard – and she informed me that “that’s what best friends do.” My heart cracked and overflowed.)

For the last six months or so, she’s been reminding me that I promised her that we’d go to the zoo and have a picnic in City Park and that she’d get to meet Carlos. “I’ve never met a cat before; I’ve never met Carlos,” she tells me.

So on Sunday, my mom, my neighbor, and I piled into the car – she wanted me to sit next to her in the backseat, so I did – and headed to the zoo armed with a picnic lunch. It was too hot, so we didn’t last very long at the zoo. We were able to get about 100 feet into the new elephant exhibit, and we didn’t get to see any penguins.

I’m heartbroken – penguins are my absolute favorite things. Here are penguin pictures from Boulder’s Beach in South Africa:

(Can you tell I’m missing South Africa? Always.)

Anyway, the zoo.

We saw lots of sleeping animals – lions, tigers, kangaroos – it seemed like everyone just wanted to be left alone to sleep in the heat. We rode the zoo train. We had ice cream, and our little friend desperately wanted popcorn, so we had some of that too.

After we left the zoo, we went to my house so she could meet Carlos. I was nervous – Carlos is skittish at best around new people, and he’s never been around a 5-year old.

Carlos loved her. At one point, she kissed him right on the nose. He didn’t flinch. We fed him some wet food (is there a better way to get a cat to sit still?), and she got to scratch his back while he ate.

Then we had a picnic in the park, under the big arches.

We had turkey sandwiches, cucumbers, carrots, leftover popcorn from the zoo, and gummy bears. Then we chased each other around with squirt guns and played frisbee until we were exhausted and ready for sleep.

All in all? A great day. I hope that it was everything she imagined it would be.

On the Weekend

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Kids Crafts

I love babysitting. Now that I’m out of college and staring down the possibility of motherhood within the next decade or so, I am looking at babysitting as the ultimate in childhood education. It provides such an insight into the world of parenting. I get to see the kids at their shiny, smiling best and at their absolute, angry worst. I get to watch their minds develop and wonder; they blow me kisses and sign “I love you” when I put them to sleep; we giggle together. Children are truly wondrous.

But more than that, I get to watch different sets of parents actively making choices. Each household does things differently, and all they want is the best for their children. I’m terrified that I will somehow raise children that aren’t independent, free-thinking, and respectful. (See this article in the New Yorker for more on that…)

It’s good practice. It’s good exposure. And I honestly think that for all of my years spent babysitting, I’ll be a much better mother.

Kiddie Pool

Denver has been HOT. Too hot. Whenever the summer gets like this, I always think of that episode of Hey, Arnold! where there’s the heat wave. Don’t ask why, I’m not even entirely sure what happens in the episode.

My apartment does not have air conditioning. The cat is angry about this, and is grateful for the fans we have set up in an attempt to circulate some of the air. So on Saturday, we bought a kiddie pool, some squirt guns, sunscreen, and a plastic jar with a spout and a handle! It’s the perfect combination for summer. Swisher has informed me that now that we own a hose together, we’re pretty much committed to each other.

After the stress that was our first fight last week, I had some more serious realizations: On Saturday, he helped me clean out my room at my mom’s house – she’s trying to reclaim our childhood rooms and I’m resisting. But there was no judgement as he picked through random piles of books and clothes and the knick knacks of my youth. I realized that even though there are things that I’m going to have to accept and learn to love about him, he’s having to do the same thing for me. Helping me clean is always going to be a labor of love (Maddie knows all about this), and one that I will be forever grateful for.

I’m going to try to be more patient and realistic in my expectations, but I also told him that I’m not going to let him slide on anything. I think it was good. Cooling off in the pool was even better. I can’t wait to spend the summer hanging out at the pool I’ve inflated in the empty lot next to my apartment building. (Hah.)

Sky clouds plane

The view from the pool.

City park jazz

On Sunday nights, they do free jazz concerts in City Park. Since it’s within walking distance, last night we made a little picnic of lemonade, bread, cheese, meat, and grapes and headed over with some blankets. It was a lovely evening of lounging on the blankets in the cooling air.

City Park Jazz Denver

(Swisher took this!)

Sadly, as the jazz was ending around 8pm, a police officer (and single mother of a 12-year old daughter) was shot and killed. We heard the gunshots, thought they sounded like fireworks, and then heard the sirens. Cop cars and an ambulance were all over the park. We weren’t very close to the shooting, and we didn’t really feel any sense of panic (I mean, it wasn’t the stampede-effect), but the stream of people out of the park was pretty consistent.

I seriously hope that this crime doesn’t deter people from coming out to the park. It’s such a beautiful place, and having free music every Sunday is a really great opportunity to feel like a part of the community. Maybe next week, they will have some sort of donation center up so that patrons can donate to the family of the slain officer.

I’m sad. Sad for the daughter of the officer, sad for the officer herself, and sad for the guy who killed her. Misplaced rage, or sad displays of masculinity, or something else led to a split-second decision that took a life, took a mother, and changed another’s life forever. This guy, who’s only 21, will have to spend the rest of his life reliving those moments. I only hope that prison for him is not so much a place of criminal education, but instead offers a place of hope and personal growth. (It won’t, but then again, our prison system has never really been about reducing recidivism. It’s more of a profit mill than anything else. I like hearing about places that really work for rehabilitation and optimism than those which breed gang violence and racially divided populations while glorifying violence.)

Night fisbee

When we got home, there were a ton of people in our living room. By a ton, I mean ten, but expecting to see one and seeing ten is still overwhelming. After a while, Mike’s friends wanted to take a walk. Which was perfect, because I wanted to play night frisbee.

Night frisbee has been on my brain for days now. It’s harder, I think, to play night frisbee because all you see is the light, flying straight at your head. The color is nice, but it’s easier to miss. I’m still awesome at it, of course.

After everyone left, Mike, Swisher, and I continued playing on the side of the building. It was such a relaxing night, the perfect end to a very hectic week. (Or the perfect beginning to another hectic week?)

In unrelated news, I love my slapwatch. I do not actually use it to keep time, and so I don’t think it’s been accurate for like six months. (Bear in mind that I’ve only owned it for like 6 months.) Also, my childhood self cheers every time I wear it. Good for her.

On Everything, mostly

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I’ve been avoiding blogging lately. Not because I don’t want to, but because there is so much swirling inside my head and I fear that it will all lump together incoherently and ruin the messages I intend to convey. But I am finding that the longer I put it off, the more everything builds up.

So faced with the incoherent, potentially ruinous lumping or the lack of content, I’ll take the lumping. City Park Statue with Frogs

On Friday night, Jacob and I made dinner and walked around the park as darkness fell. It was cold and rainy, but the air felt good and the conversation warmed my soul. I am grateful for my friendships. My friends are all individualistic, beautiful people. They possess the qualities that I value most in this world, and I respect them immensely.

It doesn’t hurt that Jacob and Carlos adore each other, either. Carlos doesn’t snuggle for just anyone, but he will always snuggle for Jacob. It’s cute.

Jacob and Carlos

(Side note: I got home on Sunday night, and Mike told me that he thought Carlos had died earlier. I was concerned, and upon hearing the story, I just shook my head and looked at the furry creature rubbing himself against my ankles. Mike said that the other black cat that lives in the building had somehow managed to get herself outside my window, and Carlos was howling and trying to attack her through the window. The cat had gotten himself through the blinds and was frantically trying to get at her. I’m just glad the glass held – I accidentally put my hand through one of the panes last  year – and Mike grabbed the cat and took him away from the window. I’m still not sure how I managed to adopt a cat that’s half pit bull. I’m also not sure how he can go from ferocious and wild to loving and needy, demanding that I snuggle with him. I do love him, though, so he should consider himself very lucky.)

in the Mirror

Swisher comes on Wednesday. I can hardly believe that it’s just two days now. I am so excited to not have to take mirror pictures all the time so that I can send them to him. (The great news about unlimited data plans? All the picture messaging you want! It’s allowed us to share experiences, events, mundane pictures, bad hair days, etc.) My phone is filled with pictures just like the one above, and I’m pretty sure that if someone went through my phone, they’d assume that I’m just a terrible narcissist.

I can’t wait. I guess I can, but only because I have to. We’re going to be faced with the immense task of turning our past into a relationship that isn’t long distance. I imagine that it will be an adjustment, but I also imagine that it will be quite wonderful, since both of us are committed to making this work.

I love that he loves me exactly as I am. He loves my curly hair. In fact, he prefers it. He loves my mind, my weird sense of humor, my opinionated nature. I am thrilled by the fact that he wants to cook for me, and has offered to help clean! And best of all, he’s not a purse-carrier (something my family is always quick to ask about). I love that he makes me laugh, and I love how much he teases me.

At Mother’s Day brunch, my Uncle Mike and Aunt Jan were excited to tell me that they had gotten into a debate about something. (Earlier this year, I was attempting to explain that I’d like a mate whose desire for discussion matches mine, and they thought that it was hilarious. “Should we make a list of things to debate about?” my Uncle asked, before adding, “Besides who’s going to make the sandwiches for lunch tomorrow?” I love that thirty-plus years of marriage hasn’t dampened their good-natured teasing. It’s something that I’m looking forward to if I should be so lucky to find a dude who will put up with me for thirty-plus years.)

birth mom!

Speaking of family, I was lucky enough to get to spend my first Mother’s Day breakfast with my birth mom, Lise, who was passing through town with her boyfriend. I haven’t seen her since I was 18 and had just graduated from high school.

(This is us then:)

I was excited to show her the paw print in my eye, since her spirit animal is a wolf and we’ve had a few fascinating (partly creepy, but mostly fascinating) experiences – when I was three, I was on the phone with her and told her that the wolves came to me at night and gathered around my bed, but that I got scared, and when my dad came into the room, they ran away and jumped over the fence. (It was a very intense dream. I had forgotten about the entire incident, but when she mentioned the fence detail, an image rushed through my brain of the blur of wolves and the back fence.) She tells me that the way I told her that story was so unlike a three year old and that she was very comforted by it. When I was 19, I was looking in the mirror in the car and I realized that in the blue of my eye, there is very clear dark paw print that’s set off from the rest of the blue. It’s like I carry her mark with me, and I enjoy that.

My boss, who adopted his four children, says that adopted kids always want to know two things: 1. who are my parents? (or in my case, what do they look like) and 2. why did they give me up? I think he’s right. I know the answer to the second question, and half of the first.

I will never know more about my birth father, but I am so grateful to have an open adoption. I am so glad that I get to see her. I agree with my boss when he says that he doesn’t see much resemblance. As I age, I am more and more sure that I carry a lot of my birth father’s appearance with me. I so badly wish that I could see a picture of him, but there are none. Ah, well. I will settle for the relationship that I have with my birth mother, because I am so lucky to have her in my life (and I’m not actually settling at all).

Both of us are double-jointed, so we showed her boyfriend that at breakfast. He cringed, and both of us laughed. My mom says that there were times when I was little that I would say something, and she’d turn around, half expecting to see Lise there because what I had just said sounded exactly like her. Both of us are unique, beautiful women, and knowing her has helped me to understand a lot about myself. I also love being able to compare our characteristics. As much as I am a product of my environment and therefore carry the qualities of my mother, I am also so much a product of my birth mother and therefore have much of her personality and emotions. i

It’s a beautiful thing. I should also mention that my brother Mike’s birth mother, Jill, is just as wonderful. She always comments on my photos and writes on my mom’s wall on his birthday to tell her that she’s thinking about her. It’s just good. It’s all good.

Mike has actively chosen not to know his birth father. We know who he is, and I wonder if at some point later, Mike will desire to build a relationship with him. But I love and value the fact that he has that choice, and that everyone involved respects his decisions.

Adoption is a beautiful thing. Even though the nuclear family that we were both adopted into would eventually shatter completely, we were placed exactly where we were meant to be. We have been so well loved. Anyone who discounts the forces of the universe and fate would be well advised to look deeply at my life, and at my beautiful family. We are exactly where we were meant to be.

Mom babysitting

Speaking of moms, this is my mother and two of our neighbors. She was so excited to babysit for the little one across the street this weekend, and I don’t blame her. He’s so happy. He was all smiles and he handled the attention he was receiving from the four of us beautifully. I held him and fell in love with him.

And then I ran off to do my regularly scheduled babysitting, which included negotiating story time with a very grumpy four-year old and then trying to talk a seven-year old back into sleeping after the rain woke her.

I had a bit of revelation last night. Unbeknownst to me, dinner plans with my other grandma (on my dad’s side) had been cancelled, and so upon my arrival, I found no one. I went in anyway, and ended up staying for dinner at my grandma’s.

We sat outside while it was still warmish and sunny, and talked. I was guarded, as I always am when I’m there. “Is he Catholic?” she inquired about Swisher, after asking me when he was moving here. I responded that yes, he’d gone to Catholic schools. We ended up diverting, and discussing religion. “What is it with the young people these days?” she wanted to know. I responded that choosing Benedict as our pontiff was a bad choice because he’s obviously not a fan of the social justice that I found to be such a positive part of the church while I was at Loyola.

She asked if I go to mass. I don’t. I went with them on Easter, but I usually just go as part of a family-mandated holiday schedule. The disappointment in her voice was clear. I explained to her that for people my age, the Church (church in general, to non-Catholics) represents a very challenging and hypocritical worldview. I explained that Mike finds god through nature while he’s camping and fishing, and in the introspection that he does while he’s there. I explained that I find god in people. I told her that I find god through kindness and love and acceptance and understanding. I emphasized my belief that god, whatever that means, will not bar me from “heaven” based on my lack of organized religion. I emphasized that love and kindness guide me.

I actually borrowed an explanation from Kelle Hampton, a blogger, who’s book Bloom: Finding Beauty in the Unexpected is on shelves now (20% off at Barnes & Noble, I found on Friday): after her parents divorce when she was a child, she found that the church, which she had previously found to be a beautiful, loving place, became scary in its condemnation of her father’s homosexuality. She writes in the book that church so often gets in the way of god, and I think that she makes that point beautifully. It’s everything I’ve wanted to say about organized religion as an obstacle to god, because people get so wrapped up in interpreting the Bible (or whichever religious text their religion refers to) literally that they forget to live the spirit. People forget to live lives full of love and caring. I told my grandmother that Jesus hung out with lepers and prostitutes, and welcomed all. Why can’t we attempt to do the same?

As dinner progressed, I was happy, but I was also wary. Her focus is not on my career, my baby steps to success, my tiny triumphs, my personal happiness, but is instead is on my eventual marriage and whether or not the guy that I’m dating is wealthy or not. Honestly, I find that people who were raised swaddled in money are often lacking basic life skills, including independence. They can’t do anything for themselves. That was a gross generalization, but honestly, I detest the fact that financial worth somehow equates to the worth of a person. I have watched ruin come to people who must maintain some sort of lifestyle. And I refuse to be a part of that. I wish to be happy.

For a few years now, a rift has been growing between the “other side of things” and me. I’m still not sure what exactly I did to set it off, and to progressively widen it, but I have remained steadfast in my unwillingness to engage in behavior that mirrors the actions of the people whose name I bear, the family that I wanted so badly to belong to. It was last night that I realized that I have no desire to be a part of a family that does not love me unconditionally, but at the base level, it’s about respect. I have no desire to be a part of a family that does not respect me.

I respect my grandfather immensely. He is a wonderful man who is given far too little credit for his progressive thinking and his intelligence. I have always found him to be a wonderful opponent for debating issues, as he is far more patient and wise than most people I’ve ever met. He has a keen political mind and is still incredibly sharp.

I refuse to accept the lack of transparency. One of the things that I respect most about my relationship with my mother is that she is open, honest, and willing to admit when she is wrong. It’s refreshing, and it’s shaped our relationship into something I am incredibly proud of.

I find that the inability to be upfront and honest is what has most affected (and soured) my relationships with most members of my dad’s side of the family. I reached out, and was rebuffed on two separate occasions, and then informed via third party (Grandma) that I was expected to apologize.

It breaks my heart, although I will not compromise my integrity nor will I pretend that I’m not hurt. At the end of the day, I still have no idea what it is about me that’s not okay. Is it that I don’t go to church? Is it that I was offended by my aunt’s suggestion that I start to be more financially responsible for my grandparents? Is it that I have gay friends?

Since December 24, 2010, I have been confused and hurt. I refuse to remain that way and thus have decided that it’s no longer a priority of mine to worry about the things that I cannot control. It feels good to let go. It feels good to accept responsibility for things I can accept responsibility for and make amends, but unfortunately, without knowing what I’ve done, I cannot accept responsibility for the severing of these relationships. I remain the free-spirited, open-minded person that I have been. I remain honest and true to myself. It is out of my hands, and I’m alright with that.

On the weekend

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This was not a wild weekend, but it was still busy. (I find that no matter what I do, I end up exhausted on Sunday nights.) I babysat all day Saturday and in between, did laundry. I managed to get twelve hours of sleep on Saturday night; I guess I must have been tired. My head hit the pillow and I was out. I missed three phone calls during the night – something that never happens. It was so nice to roll over this morning and turn off the alarms and sleep for another three hours. It was like a college Sunday all over again and it was beautiful.

This one has not let me out of his sight this week. I woke up on Saturday and was trying to get some work done, so of course, Carlos found it very necessary to stomp all over my keyboard. Once I finally got him shoved off the computer, he laid next to me and curled his tail around my arm. I guess being loved is never a bad thing. However, the beast taking up 85% of my bed is not the most fun you can have. I keep waking up all the way on the edge with him stretched out happily over the rest of the width. I guess I’ll have to start being more territorial in my sleep.

Laundry! Laundry! Laundry! Loads and loads and loads of it! (The worst part is putting it all away, and so far, I’ve done absolutely no hanging up or drawer opening. Uggh, Monday night, then.)

Sometimes, I do laundry in my prom dress. I also have a big puffy white dress that I bought in college that’s perfect for playing dress-up with my 5-year old neighbor. Today, we played a little bit in our dresses and then had a tea party outside with strawberries, whipped cream, cookies, and tea. It was lovely.

From the New York Times, On Nannies

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I’m going to blog to you about this article later, but I’ve got piles and piles of work to do before that can happen.

At least you’ll be prepared!

From the New York Times (link follows story):

IT’S THE ECONOMY

The Best Nanny Money Can Buy

Illustrations by Jillian Tamaki
By ADAM DAVIDSON
Published: March 20, 2012

It took Zenaide Muneton 20 seconds to convince me that she was the perfect nanny. Short and dark-haired, she has a goofy, beaming smile and knows how to make everything fun for a little kid. Time to brush your teeth? She shakes her hands and does a pantomimed teeth-brushing dance. Bath time? She pumps her arms up and down in a going-to-the-tub march. After I told her I’d love to hire her, she smiled and thanked me.

Then we both laughed, because there is no way I could possibly afford her. As one of New York City’s elite nannies, Muneton commanded around $180,000 a year — plus a Christmas bonus and a $3,000-a-month apartment on Central Park West. I should be her nanny.

I began researching this bizarre microeconomy shortly after my wife and I started looking for someone to watch our son for a few hours a week. We met with several candidates, all of whom had good references and seemed fine with him. Still, we weren’t sure how to judge them. Should we hire the one who seemed to be the most fun? The most experienced? A native English speaker or someone who could speak a foreign language to him? Someone with a college degree? A master’s?

We had no idea. But I began to wonder if price conveyed any important information about the nanny market. All the candidates we spoke with charged about $15 to $18 per hour, which, though standard in our Brooklyn neighborhood, seemed like a bargain when I learned that some nannies charge considerably more than double that rate. Would my son suffer with a midmarket nanny?

This fear led me to the Pavillion Agency, which specializes in finding domestic workers for New York City’s wealthy. Pavillion introduced me to Muneton, 49, who grew up in “a very poor family” in São Paulo. In 1990, she befriended a young American woman who had relocated to Brazil. When Muneton invited her to her family’s home, the woman saw her natural ease with children and suggested that she move to America and become a nanny. Within a few months, Muneton was caring for the children of a rich family in South Carolina for only $100 a week.

When Muneton started working through Pavillion in 2002, however, she increased her salary to $85,000 a year. As she gathered sterling recommendations, she began increasing her pay. Eventually she worked for some of the country’s wealthiest people, whom she accompanied on private jets to many of the world’s most exclusive resorts. Today, she says, “there are no more poor people in my family.” Muneton bought a nice house for her mother, a condo for her sister and a taxi cab each for two of her brothers. She also owns a beach house in Brazil, a penthouse in Miami and two properties (a six-unit building and a duplex) in Los Angeles.

How does a nanny earn more than the average pediatrician? The simple answer is hard work — plus a strange seller’s market that follows a couple of quirky economic principles. A typical high-priced nanny effectively signs her (and they are almost always women) life over to the family she works for. According to Cliff Greenhouse, Pavillion’s president, that kind of commitment is essentially built into the price. Many clients are paying for the privilege of not having to worry about their child’s care, which means never worrying if their nanny has plans. Which, of course, she can’t, pretty much ever.

And, alas, it seems that there just aren’t enough “good” nannies, always on call, to go around. Especially since a wealthy family’s demands can be pretty specific. According to Pavillion’s vice president, Seth Norman Greenberg, a nanny increases her market value if she speaks fluent French (or, increasingly, Mandarin); can cook a four-course meal (and, occasionally, macrobiotic dishes); and ride, wash and groom a horse. Greenberg has also known families to prize nannies who can steer a 32-foot boat, help manage an art collection or, in one case, drive a Zamboni to clean a private ice rink.

And then there’s social climbing. “A lot of families, especially new money, are really concerned about their children getting close to other very affluent children,” Greenhouse says. “How do they do that? They find a superstar nanny who already has lots of contacts, lots of other nanny friends who work with other high profile families.” There are the intangibles too. “I’m working with a phenomenal Caribbean nanny right now,” Greenhouse says. “She is drop-dead beautiful. Her presentation is such that you’re proud to have her by your children’s side at the most high-profile events.”

My wife and I don’t care about any of that stuff. But it’s hard not to wonder if the nannies who make twice as much an hour as the ones we’re considering are also twice as good. Nannies can be evaluated in the same way as what economists call “experience goods” — like wine, whose value can only be determined after experiencing it. When it comes to experience goods, price can be useful to reject anything below a certain minimum. After all, a $3 bottle of wine or a $5-an-hour nanny are pretty sketchy.

But price is useless — or worse, misleading — in differentiating among the adequate. I’ve often assumed that a $40 bottle of wine is twice as good as a $20 bottle even though the American Association of Wine Economists has essentially proved that the price of wine has almost no bearing on enjoyment. When nonconnoisseurs buy an expensive bottle, they’re acting like new parents hiring a nanny: they’re basically paying for a false sense of assurance. Or hoping to impress somebody.

Actually, nanny prices might be even more misleading than the wine market. They also bear resemblance to “credence goods,” an economic term for something — whether a jar of vitamins or an auto tuneup — whose true value can never quite be determined. You’re more likely to overpay for a credence good in the hope that a higher cost increases the likelihood of a benefit.

So if economics can’t fairly convey the price of a nanny, what does? Jeanne Brooks-Gunn, a director at Columbia University’s National Center for Children and Families, reassured me that academics know, roughly, nothing about how nannies impact children. There has not been any sort of serious study on nanny quality, she says, because it would be nearly impossible to get permission from nannies (often paid under the table) or their employers. Also, most child-development research is dedicated to at-risk children, and the kids of people with the resources to hire nannies don’t typically qualify.

Brooks-Gunn did, however, have some advice for what can make a good nanny. The single-most important characteristic is the extent to which a nanny is responsive to the child’s mood and interests. Brooks-Gunn said that when she chose a nanny, she simply handed her son to every candidate she interviewed and chose the one who responded most sensitively.

After our talk, I spoke with one of her graduate students, Erin Bumgarner, who moonlights as a part-time nanny for around $17 an hour — the same amount that Park Slope parents pay to immigrant nannies with no college education. I couldn’t think of any other field in which people with such disparate educational backgrounds could make the same amount. But Bumgarner told me it makes sense. She is willing to work for only parents she likes — she already quit one well-paying job for this reason — and who allow her to focus on her school work. The value of that is also built into the price. Even if it costs her a Central Park West apartment.

 

source: The New York Times 

On Black Babies Who Grow Up to Become Black People

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I know a white woman with a black daughter.

I babysat the daughter when she was just a baby. There was a terrible incident with a sweet potato and a microwave and smoke. The baby cried when I put her on the porch so that she would be out of harm’s way while I dealt with smoke detectors and disposed of the blackened mass in the microwave. (Talk about a moment of sheer panic!) The baby cried. I soothed her tears, read her stories, and distracted her. She smiled. By the end of that warm summer evening, with all the windows open to air out the rancid smell of burnt potato, that beautiful baby was laughing. Oh my god, her laugh. I’ll never forget it. It’s loud and clear, the epitome of pure joy. It bounces off the walls and fills your soul with the kind of happiness that you couldn’t ever buy. She lights up when she laughs. She’s clever and quick; she loves to dance around, loves to read, loves to play. I’ll never forget the sight of her in her footed pajamas jumping around, playing hide and seek with me. She giggled when I popped up, then I hid again, and reappeared. Her face cracked. The laugh spilled out into the coming night. My heart overflowed.

The woman adopted the baby and brought her home and loved (loves) her, just like my parents did with me.

But that baby is black.

It’s the first thing that many people comment on. I know, because I’ve read her mother’s posts. I’ve heard the annoyance, felt the pain. The comments don’t just come from white people, either. That mother is attempting to do the best she can for that beautiful child. To her, diversity is important. They have all sorts of friends who come in all sorts of colors. They do colorful things, eat colorful foods, live a colorful life. And no, I’m not just talking about racial diversity. I’m talking about life. They lead a beautiful, charming life.

So who cares?

Well, this mother cares. Knowing that her daughter is exposed to everything is important to her. She wants to educate her and show her the world. All of it.

And apparently, a lot of people care enough to comment. Even if they don’t think they’re doing it. They say critical things. They ask rude questions.

The baby will grow up. The baby will become a young woman. She will go to college. She will become an adult. She may even have children of her own someday. She’ll have the support that she needs; she’ll have all the love in the world behind her. She’ll face challenges, of course, as all babies who grow up do, but she’ll also have to learn a lot about race and our country. She’ll some day face adversity. She might even face hatred.

That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?

And while we all sit there and talk about how we have such diverse friend groups, and how it’s such a shame that racism exists, we’re not doing enough. We can do better. That doesn’t just go for white people either. Everybody needs to be better. Everybody CAN be better. It just takes a step or three in the right direction and pretty soon you’re on a better path.

No one should ever have to face the prospect of explaining racial inequality to their child.

We’re not afraid of black babies. (You all know that I’m such a huge fan of babies anyway, but oh my god, they’re ALL so cute!) No one is afraid of toddlers, or children. Those babies grow into gangly adolescents, with long arms and silly haircuts. Those babies listen to music that you’d most likely consider noise. They struggle to find their place in the world. They dream and laugh and love. They learn, they grow, they get jobs. They go to concerts. They go out to eat. They watch tv. They are exactly like all the rest of the young adults in the world.

But once those children start to grow up, start to become adults, people start to get a little nervous. They edge away on the bus; they hold their bags a little tighter; they look at their feet instead of making eye contact.

Do you do that, even unconsciously? If you do, you might want to reexamine your approach. Because when someone does that, they’re doing the worst thing that can ever happen to a child, an adolescent, or a young adult. When they do that, they’re invalidating everything that that child/adolescent/young adult/adult knows. They’re sending them the message that they’re afraid. Of them. They’re sending the message that they assume the worst. From them. They’re sending a message. That message says, “You’re not equal. You’re not okay. You’ll never be good enough.”

You don’t want to send those messages, do you? Of course not. You’re a good person. But good is relative. Be a better person. I hate to quote the Marines here, but “be all that you can be.” (That is the Marines, right?)

I promised myself I wouldn’t dive into a sociological rant, and I’m doing my best not to. Black doesn’t just have negative social implications. There are negative employment, economic, educational implications. We must stop this. We must fight to change the way we view color in our society, in our world. We must act. That doesn’t mean you have to join a diversity club or march around Civic Center Park on a Sunday with a giant sign. All you have to do is start implementing small changes in your own life. Trust me, they’ll ripple out around you like you’d tossed a stone into water. Everyone’s ripples can create giant waves of change. (So what if that’s a lame metaphor?)

The next time you get nervous on a bus, or in line at the grocery store, or wherever, think about this: the person you’re not looking at was once a baby. That person has a mother and a father. That person has family, maybe brothers and sisters. That person has hopes, and dreams, and inside jokes with people. That person has a beautiful smile. By humanizing the person you’re edging away from, you might be able to open channels of communication, create the possibility of love in your heart. Start thinking of them as a dynamic human being. Smile. Ask them how their day is going. You might be pleasantly surprised by their response.

When I was sixteen, I started working at a local Dairy Queen. As we were about to close for the night, our cleaning guy Melvin would come in. Melvin was a middle-aged man with a raspy voice and rough hands. He had a wife and a ten-year old daughter who was at the top of her fourth-grade class (I know because I double-checked – and sometimes helped out with – her homework). Melvin and I would sit on the concrete sidewalk outside the store for a while after we closed. He’d always pull this beat-up orange cushion out of his van and sit on it, while lecturing me about my own sitting habits. He told me that if I continued sitting on the ground with no cushion, I’d get hemorrhoids. (For the record, he was wrong.) He taught me a lot about love. When I was seventeen, and in love with a boy who was never going to love me back, he watched my heart break and told me that I deserved better. I loved Melvin. I was always happy to see his headlights pull into the parking lot. I felt safer when he was there. (I was robbed at gunpoint when I was seventeen. The robber was white.) He had a beautiful laugh; he told wonderful (if entirely inappropriate) jokes; he was the best cleaner we ever had. After he left, we couldn’t replace him. No one was the same. Melvin died a while ago, of lung cancer. He was a black man. But more than that, he was a wonderful man.

Let me tell you this – your life will be a sad and lonely place if you don’t let people in. It’s not about what they look like or what they do, it’s about who they are. Everyone has something to give you, something to share with you, something to teach you.

Everybody was a baby once. Everybody has loved, lost, and learned. Everyone has stories to share and jokes to tell. Everyone is dynamic in their own way.

Speaking of babies, here’s the story that inspired this: A black baby who grew up to be a young man, is now dead because someone is an idiot. 17-year old Trayvon Martin lived in a gated community in Florida with his dad and brother. During the NBA All-Star game in February, he went to buy some skittles and an iced tea. On his way home, the neighborhood watch guy – one George Zimmerman – followed him, questioned him, and ultimately, shot and killed him. Trayvon had nothing wrong. Following his murder, Zimmerman wasn’t arrested. He’s been receiving death threats. He says that he killed Trayvon because he looked “suspicious.” Yep. That terrible word.

I’ve been loosely following this story, but I think that this post says so much: (The post was written by a white blogger.)

White People, You Will Never Look Suspicious Like Trayvon Martin

Posted March 19, 2012 by Michael Skolnik

I will never look suspicious to you. Even if I have a black hoodie, a pair of jeans and white sneakers on…in fact, that is what I wore yesterday…I still will never look suspicious. No matter how much the hoodie covers my face or how baggie my jeans are, I will never look out of place to you.  I will never watch a taxi cab pass me by to pick someone else up. I will never witness someone clutch their purse tightly against their body as they walk by me.  I won’t have to worry about a police car following me for two miles, so they can “run my plates.”  I will never have to pay before I eat. And I certainly will never get “stopped and frisked.”  I will never look suspicious to you, because of one thing and one thing only.  The color of my skin.  I am white.

I was born white.  It was the card I was dealt.  No choice in the matter.  Just the card handed out by the dealer. I have lived my whole life privileged. Privileged to be born without a glass ceiling. Privileged to grow up in the richest country in the world.  Privileged to never look suspicious.  I have no guilt for the color of my skin or the privilege that I have.  Remember, it was just the next card that came out of the deck.  But, I have choices.  I got choices on how I play the hand I was dealt.  I got a lot of options.  The ball is in my court.

So, today I decided to hit the ball.  Making a choice.  A choice to stand up for Trayvon Martin. 17 years old. black. innocent. murdered with a bag of skittles and a bottle of ice tea in his hands. “Suspicious.” that is what the guy who killed him said he looked like cause he had on a black hoodie, a pair of jeans and white sneakers.  But, remember I had on that same outfit yesterday.  And yes my Air Force Ones were “brand-new” clean.  After all, I was raised in hip-hop…part of our dress code.  I digress.  Back to Trayvon and the gated community in Sanford, Florida, where he was visiting his father.

I got a lot of emails about Trayvon.  I have read a lot of articles.  I have seen a lot of television segments.  The message is consistent.  Most of the commentators, writers, op-ed pages agree.  Something went wrong.  Trayvon was murdered.  Racially profiled. Race. America’s elephant that never seems to leave the room. But, the part that doesn’t sit well with me is that all of the messengers of this message are all black too.  I mean, it was only two weeks ago when almost every white person I knew was tweeting about stopping a brutal African warlord from killing more innocent children.  And they even took thirty minutes out of their busy schedules to watch a movie about dude.  They bought t-shirts.  Some bracelets. Even tweeted at Rihanna to take a stance.  But, a 17 year old American kid is followed and then ultimately killed by a neighborhood vigilante who happens to be carrying a semi-automatic weapon and my white friends are quiet.  Eerily quiet. Not even a trending topic for the young man.

We’ve heard the 911 calls. We seen the 13 year old witness.  We’ve read the letter from the alleged killer’s father.  We listened to the anger of the family’s attorney.  We’ve felt the pain of Trayvon’s mother.  For heaven’s sake, for 24 hours he was a deceased John Doe at the hospital because even the police couldn’t believe that maybe he LIVES in the community.   There are still some facts to figure out. There are still some questions to be answered.  But, let’s be clear.  Let’s be very, very clear. Before the neighborhood watch captain, George Zimmerman, started following him against the better judgement of the 911 dispatcher.  Before any altercation.  Before any self-defense claim.  Before Travyon’s cries for help were heard on the 911 tapes.  Before the bullet hit him dead in the chest.  Before all of this.  He was suspicious.  He was suspicious. suspicious. And you know, like I know, it wasn’t because of the hoodie or the jeans or the sneakers.  Cause I had on that same outfit yesterday and no one called 911 saying I was just wandering around their neighborhood.  It was because of one thing and one thing only.  Trayvon is black.

So I’ve made the choice today to tell my white friends that the rights I take for granted are only valid if I fight to give those same rights to others.  The taxi cab. The purse. The meal. The police car. The police. These are all things I’ve taken for granted.

So, I fight for Trayvon Martin.  I fight for Amadou Diallo.  I fight for Rodney King.  I fight for every young black man who looks “suspicious” to someone who thinks they have the right to take away their freedom to walk through their own neighborhood.  I fight against my own stereotypes and my own suspicions. I fight for people whose ancestors built this country, literally, and who are still treated like second class citizens.  Being quiet is not an option, for we have been too quiet for too long.

-Michael Skolnik

Michael Skolnik is the Editor-In-Chief of GlobalGrind.com and the political director to Russell Simmons. Prior to this, Michael was an award-winning filmmaker. Follow him on twitter @MichaelSkolnik

Read more: http://globalgrind.com/node/828497#ixzz1phB5TcWR

On my toes

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Life goes on, whether or not you’re ready to go with it.

The past few weeks have been a blur of wonderful newness, of comfort and bliss. They’ve also been full of stress, cancer, death, uncertainty, and pain. But that’s how life goes. Sometimes it throws everything at you at once, just to make sure you’re on your toes. So that’s where I’ve been. On my toes.

The first funeral was on Friday. I put on the black dress only to find that I had shrunk (or it had somehow stretched two sizes) and it wouldn’t be suitable. So instead, I found another black dress. This one still fits. (I really do need to start with this eating business. I’m a little bit bony.) I wasn’t going to go, and I didn’t tell Dad that I was going until I was on 6th Avenue, headed west, but I feel like I was in some ways obligated to go. It was good. Merrilee was such a funny person, and the last time I saw her was at Jeanie’s graduation party earlier this summer. It was good to meet the people who meant so much to her. They had pairs of nose glasses that she used to wear on a board, along with pictures of people wearing the nose glasses. It was good that I went because that meant that I got to chat with Jeanie while Dad talked to everyone else. On a nearly irrelevant note, they had mini quiches. I am such a fan of any party that has mini quiches.

But mini quiches aren’t the point. (Unless they are? Wouldn’t it be so nice if the entire meaning of life could be reduced to mini quiches? I could get down with that.)

Life doesn’t last forever.

Marshall died late Thursday night. He is now listening to the harp music at the great golf course in the sky. (What? It could totally happen. Maybe my personal heaven is bubble baths and wine.)
I sat next to him at Thanksgiving and watched as Juanita fussed with him about whether or not he was happy and comfortable. I was really touched by the fact that after so many years together, they were still taking care of each other. He was constantly aware of her presence and she always made sure that he had what he needed – although there was that one time when someone was missing a cup of coffee and she just grabbed his and said, “Here, have this one.” That’s the kind of love that everyone should be looking for. It might not always be the most effective, but at least it’s real.  They are seriously the best non-grandparents I could have had. (Although, now it’s our turn to make Juanita cookies just because.)

Cancer cancer cancer cancer. I’ve not got a lot to say about this one. Seriously, every time I turn around, someone else has it. We’ve got two at work, two on one side of the family. I was talking to Mom about this and she reminded me that this is just a bad spell. I warned her that she wasn’t allowed to get any more cancer just because everyone else was doing it. So we go on. I come from a family of tough people, particularly the women. We’ve got this. We’ll tackle it like we tackle anything else. Everyone will help where they’re needed. We’ll cover the gaps and everyone will emerge alright. I promise. And if anyone wants a healing animal, they’re welcome to borrow Carlos for a few weeks. Nothing will make you want to heal like having the very grumpy Carlos around. (He’s currently at the bottom of my bed with his his paws wrapped around my foot. I love him so much. Best worst decision ever.)

Got an email from the other side of the family today. God, I hate holidays so much. When I am ruler of the universe, there will be no family obligations unless, of course, you want to. I am already stressed at the thought of them cornering me. I’m already imagining it happen. And I’m already tense and terrified. Gross.

The grad school application is limping along, coming together bit by bit.

The giant proposal due at work remains unfinished. Tomorrow will be the ultimate race to the finish line.

But those things don’t really matter. I mean, of course they do. I’d be an idiot not to get my application in, since I still have a month left. And I’d be an idiot if I didn’t bust my ass to get that proposal done. But in the larger scope of things, there is so much more that matters, well, so much more.

On the brighter side, guess what’s awesome?

We went up to Keystone yesterday. Day 5 of snowboarding this season. I’m starting to get it. I did a Blue run with the boys then headed back up to find Emily. Spent the rest of the day on some long greens. It was good. Kevin and his brother came down from Vail to meet up with the group. The boys that we went up with are fun – one of them is in town from Boston, and he’ll be on our New Year’s trip. I’m starting to be able to do my toe side stuff, which means I’m actually able to snowboard properly. Pretty soon I’ll be doing sweet jumps! (That’s actually what I dream about.) Mom, best Christmas present ever. Without your insistence, I’d never be doing this. And I think it’s pretty rad. Also, pass is officially paid for now. Be stoked on that.

I have a boyfriend-thing going on. That was unexpected. I blame the Real World for making me question our relationship situation. So I asked him if we were dating. He said yes. Apparently, that was enough of an exclusivity conversation for him. (We later discussed all of this and figured everything out. It was very reminiscent of our first date.)
I am so ridiculously happy. He’s wonderful. He’s smart, funny, sarcastic, sweet. We are different enough that it will continue to be interesting for me. But we are similar enough that we just mesh well. He takes good care of me. The thing that I think I like the most is that he’s up for anything. When I’m like, let’s go to this concert (I’ve done that twice so far), he’s always open to it. He likes the random adventures that I like, which is good.

Broncos game today. I realize that the tickets came to us in the midst of sadness, but on the plus side, Mike and I are sort of going on a double date. I am bringing Kevin, who is awesome and driving back from family vacation in Vail in time for this. Mike’s bringing a girl! I think I’m probably more excited for this than I am anything else.

This is not one of those “live every day like it’s your last” posts, because those are dumb. But seriously, if you’re not doing something awesome, or something that you love, or something that’s wonderful, what are you doing with your life? After babysitting, I slept for nearly twelve hours last night. (that’s the something wonderful I was talking about.) That was exactly what I needed to do after being an idiot and going out with Katie before I went snowboarding. So today is marching forward and if I don’t hurry, I’m going to miss all the excitement.

I almost forgot: I started writing about being on your toes and life and then I looked down and remembered all the bandages on my toes. Yesterday morning, sometime in the pre-dawn hours, while I was frantically searching for snowboard gear in my room, I somehow managed to step into the side of a laundry basket, taking skin off of two of my toes. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw little bloody toe-prints. As it turns out, sometimes being on your toes doesn’t quite work out the way you’d planned.

Have a beautiful day, world, you deserve it.

Odds and Ends. Weekend Edition!

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Oh Friday, the promise of a weekend that will fly by too quickly, that sense of release building in your body, the way your mind floats around, outside, like a lost bird.

I imagine that prisoners must start anticipating their release date months in advance, and I can only imagine the immensity of the first footfalls outside the gates.
That is overly dramatic, but that is how I feel on Fridays.
I’d like to have a quick chat with you, dear reader, about sacrifices.
Because right now, I am considering myself god-like. (And by god-like, I mean Jesus-like – it’s all part of the holy trinity, so I’m technically correct. Full of hubris, of course, but correct.)
I am missing the ONE concert I’d like to see at Red Rocks this year to go to Barney’s Birthday Bash live at the Pepsi Center with three small children. I love them dearly, but I’m so creeped out by things in costumes. Like mascots. And giant purple dinosaurs and their primary colored friends.
So creeped out.
Don’t know I’m going to explain why I’m covering my eyes with my hands and peering through my fingers.
Ah, Slightly Stoopid and Shwayze – I’ve been dying to see you. I guess that want will have to slowly simmer inside me until next year.
I already have the “I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family,” song stuck in my head.
In future news:
I’m excited. S will be here in a week and a half (ish)! And he’s meeting Mom. I think he’s more scared to meet Mike. I told him that I’ll do way more damage to him than Mike ever will. And I’m not wrong.
I’ve not been this twitterpated since, well, the college boyfriend. I mean, that ended poorly, but it was fun while it lasted, which was a good long while. Someone was asking me about my past relationships, and it was weird to think that I spent most of college in monogamous relationships – there was D and H, both of whom lasted between a year and a year in half. For someone with my attention span, that’s remarkable.
But this kid is driving me nuts. Usually in a good way. Ugh. I secretly don’t like this vulnerability, although it’s kind of nice. There I go, reinforcing gender stereotypes. Don’t worry too much, I’m not going to go all soft on you.
Not yet.
I hope you’re eagerly anticipating the Barney recap. I know I am.

Dreams

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It’s been one of those weeks where your dreams are too real. I am living in those moments, making conscious decisions, and ultimately, freely thinking my own thoughts.

That’s the weirdest part for me. The thoughts.
I woke up startled, not quite terrified, on Thursday morning. I’d just had a pregnancy-labor dream. I realize I’ve probably just been reading too much of NPR’s Baby Project (it’s sort of cute; if you’re into that sort of thing, you should check it out).
In my dream, I was in labor, at the hospital, walking around with my mom and wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns. But the strangest part of the dream was that I kept thinking how I was only x amount of time into labor and already bored.
I sincerely hope that someday, my worst fear for childbirth is how bored I am. I reached down and felt my flat stomach and breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos meowed as he usually does when I bother him too early in the morning, and then came up to snuggle me, and I fell back asleep just as the sunlight was starting to creep through the trees that shelter my window from the street.
And last night, again. But nothing like babies this time. Last night I was an assassin. Don’t ask – it was one of those vivid, shifting dreams where it’s suddenly winter and you’re in Minnesota and then you’re creeping around a house/building/warehouse and you’re killing people. I went down a faux-grass (astroturf) slide like a fish and killed a Japanese guy with crazy hair and a nice suit who happened to be a better at imitating fish movements than me.
That was probably really weird for you, so: Imagine a dark room with a giant, twisty slide that’s not a slide at all, but rather an astroturf covered ramp, and in order to get down it with your gun in your hand, you have to flop like a fish. (I’m not even graceful in my dreams. Great.)
This is the prime example of why I’ll never work for the CIA. I’m not graceful, I’m bad at stealthily fish-flopping, and I have a conscience.
Usually, these wild dreams mean I have a lot on my mind and that I’m overtired. Surprise! Guess what? Both are correct.
The Chicago trip was so worth it, but it nearly killed me, even though I got to spend most of Monday asleep on the couch (as much as I hated missing work, it was so nice to veg out and watch bad television).
Anyway, I’m hoping to get caught up on my sleep this weekend. Babysitting means I’m usually exhausted by the time I get done, so there’s little chance I’ll want to go out dancing (which so bums me out – I haven’t had one of those wild, reckless and possible regrettable [just kidding] nights in ages). Which means sleep – definitely necessary since I have to work essentially a full day tomorrow. The 9-5 hours I missed on Monday and then more babysitting!
Maybe I’ll be able to get to the park before I babysit on Sunday. Or maybe I’ll get to work and log more hours! (That’s ambitious – it won’t really happen and we all know it. I’ll sleep, I’ll probably make some pasta, I’ll be slow to get going – and by then, my weekend will be over.)
But I’m excited for real work tomorrow because I am in creativity mode and thus more prone to devoting my attention to the task of brochure creation. We’ll see how it actually turns out.

Odds and Ends and Saturdays

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I got an email from Mama P this morning. You’ll remember Priscilla, my absolutely insanely wonderful host mother in South Africa.
Her emails are always short and to the point. They never say much, but I’m grateful for them. Today she said that the weather is turning cold, and to say hello to Mike and James Dean for her. I laughed out loud when I read the last bit; I had completely forgotten about that. So here’s how it goes:

The night that James was coming to pick me up for our first date, I realized I had no idea what his name was. I knew it was either James or Dean. So we had all just referred to him as James Dean the entire week. I realized that this was eventually going to present a problem, so I called him, and luckily, he didn’t answer his phone. Voicemail clued me in on his real name and that was that. But we still called James Dean.

It’s amazing how much I miss that place. I know it will never be the same, but it will always have a beautiful place in my heart. I want to get back there, to stand at Muizenberg Beach and feel the waves crash against my feet and fight my way onto the train and off again.

However, my life here is growing daily. While I like that I’m learning a lot at my current job, I’m not satisfied with the compensation and have taken on babysitting to make extra cash. (This supports my lifestyle, which you may be surprised to hear isn’t quite as wild as you might think.) Anyway, I’ve got four families in the rotation and the balancing act is getting a bit hectic.

This week, for example, I will be working all seven days. And twice this week I had to go straight from work to babysit. The other nights I went directly home and was in bed relatively early. It’s all fine and well, but I’m not getting any decompression time and am beginning to get a bit stressed.
Hopefully this week will provide ample opportunity for sleep as I’m not scheduled to work any week days.

Alas, today brings more babysitting, volunteering at a choir concert that one of my co-workers is singing in, and then date night. And tomorrow brings babysitting.
I really love the families that I’m sitting for this weekend – I find it much easier to babysit when I’m actually enjoying myself as well. One family has three little girls, and then, of course, there are the twins.   I find myself hoping the symphony season won’t end!

Last night, Jacob and I went to see a production of Macbeth at UCD. Jacob was personally invested – he did the music for the show. I went because I waffle back and forth on my hate/love of Shakespeare. This play was pretty well done. The costuming choices were interesting – mostly just corsets – and the cast was tiny, but the leads delivered their lines really well.
After that, we went to an art gallery where they were serving pancakes and alcohol (strange combination, but hey, whatever). After paying $5 to get in and being told that drinks were free – we ended up having to pay $4 for a small cup. Ridiculous. The gallery was cute, but it was trying too hard to replicate the scene in New York. There were topless models being spraypainted (when done properly, it’s actually really beautiful), but it just felt like an afterthought, especially as the crowd began to diminish.  After meeting up with our friend Claire and her girlfriend and wandering around looking at some art, we bailed to go dancing.

And so we danced. The night drew to a close, and I was grateful, because the tired had begun creeping through my bones. I went home, said hello to Carlos and Mike, and was asleep nearly immediately. I woke up tired – I didn’t get nearly enough sleep. I’m hoping for a nap while I do my laundry.

Tonight, once my obligations are over, I’ve got a wild night planned (as usual). The guy that I guess I’m dating (I don’t know – we eat dinner together sometimes. He made me waffles. I think that counts as sort of edging toward dating?) is going to come down from Boulder (and maybe bring his adorable dog!) and we’re going to go see Claire’s band play and then (depending on how tired I am or how bored he is) head to a weird art gallery/warehouse for a space party ordeal.

Jacob is super into the electronic scene, which means I find myself at a lot of events. I joking called it a “space cult” based on the theme of the first party he invited me to. Now, we call them space parties. They’re not really – just a bunch of people in a room listening to really good (or really bad, depending) music and maybe drinking.

And yes, we may have to relocate Carlos for the evening. Jacob is more than happy to babysit and Carlos has been itching to get out and explore.