Crapshoot: The Game of Parenting

Most days, I feel completely unqualified in my position as a parent. I am like a legacy student, getting this job mainly because my parents gave birth to me, and I wanted to follow in their tremendous footsteps. When I was pregnant with my first child, I read the book What to Expect When You are Expecting, or at least I definitely received it as a gift and placed it on my nightstand. However, after moving onto more complex stages of human development, like middle school, I realized there was probably nothing in that book explaining what to expect about a twelve-year-old—your baby is now 97 pounds and knows more words than you do.

When I was pregnant and sober, people told me all about what it is like to have a newborn—things like how to get them to sleep through the night and what is the best breast pump, or if I want to be a worthless piece of shit who clearly does not love her children, then let me tell you about the best baby formula. I bought a rocking chair to put in our bedroom and a bottle drying rack for next to the kitchen sink. Then after all that preparation, it turned out that my babies were only newborns for like a few months.

I do know for sure that not one single parent warned me about the importance of chargers and charger cords in parenting. There is not a chapter in What to Expect about this – once your baby can speak, he will expect you to know where all the chargers are, even if you are sleeping, and he can clearly see your eyes are closed, he will ask you anyway, “Mom do you have a charger?” As my service to new parents, I can tell you what to expect when your child unplugs your phone because, “Well, you were at 87%”. You can expect that you will never see that charger again.  

Most of my parental experience comes from the fact that I have already been every age they have been, so there are some events that I expected, like head lice. I grew up with a thick head of unbrushed hair and was sent home several times after the ladies came to my classroom and went through everyone’s hair with chopsticks. If they found lice, they asked you to get up right then in front of everyone and go to the office. This was the original walk of shame, and I am pretty sure this is why we invented HIPAA. Looking back, I am surprised my mother let me into her car when she was forced to come pick me up, and I would like to take a moment of silence to honor those women who worked at elementary schools and had to touch every child’s hair looking for bugs.

One ailment I was not expecting to expect is pinworms. My child had pinworms in fourth grade. If you do not want to have children, then after reading this you can expect that you will be too disgusted to fuck anyone as your Plan A. For those of you not familiar, pinworms are, medically speaking, tiny worms in your butthole. They are very contagious—the eggs getting on a kid’s hands and spreading through schools. The symptoms of pin worms are to expect your child to wake you up in the middle of the night to tell you his butt itches, “really, really bad.” You can also expect to get your very own set of pinworms.

Luckily, there is an over the counter treatment that actually works, so after only a couple short days of severe itching and living with the fact that there were tiny worms in your butt, you can expect a full recovery. I am assuming that this remedy is over the counter because at one point in history an important man in the pharmaceutical industry was afflicted with pinworms and was like, let’s just make this OTC, and then he checked out with his pinworm meds and a bunch of other random shit to make it seem less noticeable. I will just take this medicine that I hope you have never heard of, this wine in a box, these 35 phone chargers, a can of Vienna sausages, and let’s add this King Size Snickers bar.

With each stage of a child’s development, from pooping in the bathtub, to learning to lock all the doors in your house, to the stage where they wear the same hoodie every day for two years, what parents can expect is that they will be tired. When they are newborns they sleep most of the day like old cats and they cannot even speak, so you can expect to look back fondly on that precious time when your daughter had never slammed a door in your face and then yelled, “Nobody even likes you!” and your son had never said, “You are dressed just like my band teacher”.

I think of my own mother sometimes and what to expect when your baby is 45—your baby now weighs in on all of your issues, is a single mother who cannot find any of her chargers or a good boyfriend, but she currently does not have lice or pinworms. You can expect 45 to be a great year for your baby and for her babies who are now in 7th and 9th grade, which is about two years past the stage of parenting when she first wished she could go back to having a newborn and a toddler because that was much easier than living with two middle schoolers.

A Newborn in its natural habitat. This one now has facial hair.

Voter Regression: The Peach State Making Elections Racist Again

The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

            -The Fifteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution

The new Georgia voter suppression bill claims to address voter fraud, even though according to Georgia’s Secretary of State, there were 35 cases of fraud—out of almost 5 million votes cast—from the 2020 election cycle that will be sent to prosecution. The most recent election was one of the most successful in the state’s history, an election that saw record breaking turnout, which is the measuring stick for success in a democracy—elections that are truly by the people.

Based on this success, the Republican-led Georgia Assembly decided to change the rules as quickly as possible, as in definitely before the 2022 midterms. I am pretty sure the conversation went something like this, “How do we keep all these Black people from voting again? What if we make it where only 3/5ths of the number of Black voters turned out next election?”

There is also a sense that there were meetings where state legislators made a list of all the things that Stacey Abrams accomplished to combat voter suppression and decided, let’s definitely make all of these things illegal. Then there are portions of the Bill that work to push Georgia back into the historical precedent where private citizens have the power to threaten the rights of other citizens, modern equivalents of the lynch mob.

Section 15 allows that “Any elector of a county or municipality may challenge the qualifications of any person applying to register to vote.” Section 16 sets up the same allowance for challenging anyone’s right to vote. It specifically notes that there is no limit to the amount of people that can be challenged by any single elector. Therefore, allowing the possibility that entire neighborhoods—whole districts—could be challenged by someone with the right resources.

These sections define a complicated process that is clearly more beneficial to the challenger. Once a challenge is filed, the board of registrars must set a hearing within ten days of the filing. The person being challenged must be notified of the time, date, and place of the hearing within three days of the hearing—by mail. The burden of proving that the person being challenged is not qualified to vote is on the challenger; therefore, if a challenged person does not show up to the hearing—something this system has set up as a likely possibility—then the challenger can still present their case and perhaps strip a fellow citizen of his or her right to vote.

The challenged person has the right to appeal the decision, but remains ineligible until the decision is reversed. Challenges can be made up until the day of the actual election. If a challenged voter arrives at the polls and it is “practical to conduct a hearing on the challenge prior to the close of the polls, the registrars shall conduct such hearing and determine the merits of the challenge.” Basically, if someone chooses to accuse a person, even if the accusation is not valid, then it allows for one citizen to force another citizen to leave their polling place on election day after they get to the front of the line, go to a hearing, and then in order to vote, come back to start the process again. This is, of course, if the polls are still open. If there is not time to conduct a hearing, then the challenged person must cast a contested ballot, and his or her contested ballot remains contested until a hearing can be held.

There are no provisions within Georgia Senate Bill 202 that require an elector making a challenge to have sufficient evidence before filing the challenge.

I lived in South Georgia for almost ten years and voted in two presidential elections at a white church near my house, just as our founding fathers intended. While I was a resident, our rectangular pie in the bottom corner of the United States map never turned blue. The city where I lived felt stiflingly conservative. It was a place of giant churches, sweet tea, and confederate memorabilia. While Obama was in office my neighborhood was littered with “Pray for Our Nation” signs, asking God to save us from leadership by a Black man. I still lived in Georgia for part of the 2016 election cycle, and I witnessed Trump signs popping up on lawns like pimples. There was a house on my street with a yard sign that read “Hillary for Prison”, which I found personally offensive.

However, the population in the town where I lived is made up of 52% Black residents. When I looked around, like at my kids’ school or even in the college classrooms where I taught, I saw representation that was incongruent with our elections and with our government systems. I knew the people were not being adequately represented and that people in power were working to maintain that status quo. Racism was the system, and it was guarded like a jewel.

The new voter suppression Bill is 98 pages and is reminiscent of listening to your brattiest friend define his new rules for Monopoly, mansplaining how each rule is set up specifically to guarantee that he wins and you end up only owning Baltic Place. Then he adds, as you are rolling your third turn, “Oh and you only get the $200 for passing Go if you have a neon green retainer.”  

Section 2 of the Bill states that after the last two election cycles, there were “allegations of rampant voter suppression” and “allegations of rampant voter fraud”. As if this is a bipartisan bill that also addresses the long-standing system of voter suppression that has kept Georgia power in the hands of white conservatives even after passing of the 15th amendment. When Raphael Warnock was finally elected this January, he became the first Black senator in Georgia history, although a much needed victory for the good of the state, also signifying a long-standing trend of lack of representation for the state’s Black population.

The first almost 20 pages are used to establish a State Election Board with a chair selected by the Georgia Assembly and enabling that board with the power to oversee and even remove the county election superintendents. This ensures that the state assembly, currently Republican-led and hoping to keep it that way, can override county involvement in the election process. This is important in the mission to keep the Peach State racist because then more democratic counties are vulnerable to state manipulation. Basically, this Bill is introducing more avenues for fraud into the state’s election system.

Another concerning issue is the new rule allowing superintendents (controlled by the state) to reframe districts if a polling place had voters waiting to cast their votes for more than one hour after the polls closed. For the polls who had long lines in 2020—mostly districts with high minority populations—the superintendents can “reduce the size of the said precinct”. Thus, giving the state additional opportunities to gerrymander. Breaking up minority districts lessens their power and is an important part of systemic racism, something the Georgia Assembly seems intent on maintaining.

Now, I live in North Florida about twenty miles from Georgia’s southern border. Florida ended its tenure as a swing state at about the time I moved back here, dragging its heels in the dirt to a full red state stop. I paid close attention to the election as it played out in Georgia, feeling a sense of pride for watching a system work much more closely to how it was intended. I chatted with friends and family who voted in the state, some waiting in long lines, and thought about my sister in Atlanta who was working at the polls. She worked twelve hours—on her feet—so that her fellow citizens could exercise their right to vote. A right that is guaranteed under the United States Constitution.

The election process in Georgia still needs reform—the state still has work to do to improve the process for all its citizens, but this Bill does not offer protection for its voters. Instead, it sets up complex laws that will make it more difficult to vote. Georgia Senate Bill 202 is a deliberate attempt to deny and abridge the right to vote.  

Next up, the sunshine state.  

Dog Days

My daughter has been asking me if we can get a dog since she was a toddler. I took her trick or treating when she was four—she was dressed as Tinkerbell—and she realized that even better than houses with candy, are houses with dogs, or houses that at least have a cat. We have candy at home, but what we don’t have at our boring-ass place is any pets whatsoever. After the third house, she stopped saying “trick or treat” and started asking, “Do you have any pets?”

At one house, an older woman came to the door and acted as if she has been waiting her whole life for someone to ask this question. She let my daughter come inside to find her cat, Catfish. I stood by the curb under the yellow light of the street lamp and waited, wondering, what is the correct amount of time to let your tiny daughter go into a stranger’s house at night to find a cat? Eventually, I went inside and found Tinkerbell under the kitchen table with Catfish. The next house, my daughter saw a dog toy barely appearing above the blades of grass—in the dark—and she started running to the door, “Can I pet your dog?”

Since I have understood her love of animals from this early age, when she would ask me if we can get a dog, I would tell her that she can get a dog when she moves out of my house. It was not that I did not want to fulfill her dreams, but I would look at our lives and note that neither one of my kids could even remember to flush the toilet. It did not seem like we were ready for a pet.

Then we found ourselves in the black hole of a pandemic. We went from school drop offs, appointments, meetings, lessons, and events to this odd little group of shut-ins, some of us adjusting better than others. For my daughter, we transitioned from “Let’s look at art schools!” to “Maybe if you could just walk to the mailbox and back today?”

She is in middle school, and she went from being an elementary school girl to a young woman, while trapped at home with just me and her brother. We started going to therapy and after a few meetings the therapist asked to speak to me privately. She very carefully told me that my daughter is lonely.

No shit.

She suggested that I try to do things with her. I told her that after this session, we were going to the grocery store together and that yesterday we went to get coffee. In my head, I was thinking that these choices were better than some of my childhood outings, like to pick up women at the dive bar with my dad or to sit on a curb for four to six hours braiding Bahia grass while my mother and stepfather worked on an old boat—that we never actually sailed. The therapist smiled and looked down at her hands folded simply in her lap, then back at me, “What about things she likes to do?”

It was not long after this session that I decided we should consider getting a dog. Within about a month—after corresponding with some area shelters—we met a yellow lab mix named Bella. She dashed to greet each of the kids and then me, the room overflowing with awes and squeals of laughter, and then she promptly crawled up on the bench between my two kids and turned around as if to say, look at your three beautiful children. We took her home that same day.

Within the first few hours, Bella did a quick scan of our household members and realized that I am the only one who knows how to drive a car and to flush the toilets. She was attached to me right away, even though I am not the kindest or the most playful option, and even though I am not the one who leaves my dishes on the coffee table or drops ice cubes from the freezer and just walks away.

My daughter started taking her on walks, even out past the mailbox, and my son formed a connection with her that is endearing. He has never asked me for a dog, maybe because he was born with wisdom beyond his years and must have known that it would take an apocalypse for me to agree to this.  Bella is one thing that brings us all together. We all love her and take care of her, and after being asked multiple times, the kids pitch in to do their share, just as long as after I go in and have a talk with them I shut their door, and “Can you get Bella out of here?”

Bella sleeps in the bed with me, with her head on the other pillow. I hope that when I find my next boyfriend he likes to sleep curled up at the foot of the bed. Bella also goes with me to the bathroom and stares at me the entire time, which seemed odd until I realized I do the same to her. She must have learned this by watching me. She also watches me exercise, occasionally trotting over to stick her nose in my face, are you dying? We go for long walks on the beach and enjoy fine dining.

Bella thinks I am smart, capable, and has the mistaken impression that I am in charge, something my kids have never been naïve enough to believe.

Yoga buddy.

Trump Mania

The second impeachment trial of former President Donald Trump commences today in the Senate. Make America Impeach Again!

CNN released a report that some of the rioters who stormed the Capitol on January 6th did not even vote in the 2020 election, unlike me who voted as many times as possible, mostly in Georgia. The men and women who chanted “Stop the Steal” as they broke down the door to the symbol of American democracy—a democracy that gives them the freedom to dress like militant toddlers—were fighting for an election result they helped cause. This ironic addition is more than just a footnote.  These men and women are fangirls of Donald Trump, not political activists who went to extreme measures to incite change. Their hero said, “Go to the Capitol!” And they went. They believed that former reality television star, Donald Trump was going to save them from an America that has become increasingly equal and open-minded.

Extremist experts quoted by CNN note that this is not surprising behavior because it corresponds with a distrust in government and the election process. However, this could give these radicals too much credit, mistaking ignorance for extremism and cult-like devotion for political passion. The insurrectionists are super fans of a megalomaniac who started chirping about the fraudulence of the election process before the early voting process even began. Looking back at this election, celebrities played an important part, using social media to spread messages about the importance of voting and having a voting plan, and having celebrities like Oprah personally call citizens to tell them to vote, which is probably the most disappointing message one could receive after answering the phone and realizing Oprah is on the other end.

Using a different strategy, Donald Trump told his fans that elections are stupid anyway. Trump was lamenting against the inherent fraud in our voting process even before the 2016 election, preparing for a loss. His strategy was to preemptively whine, “It’s not fair!”, which is ironic because the stronghold of his platform is that the American systems are completely fair, and we should stop catering to the needs of lazy people and instead should punish and prosecute them for crimes like standing in a parking lot or being born. Fair means working hard, inheriting money, or finding a rich sugar daddy with a short life expectancy. Families who are unable to feed their kids or pay for their chemo are getting what they deserve, and it is only fair to reward the people who work hard or were born white. However, what is not fair is the voting system in America, especially if we allow everyone to do it.

Trump continually argued that the election was going to be unfair, and his supporters listened. In early 2020 as the pandemic spread its dark shadow across the country, states began to look for ways to make voting safer, including voting by mail. Trump immediately tweeted that mail-in voting (the method he uses to vote) was rampant with fraud.

Trump supporter reads tweet and immediately gets tattooed on hand: Don’t vote by mail either #MAGA.

As states continued to count legitimate votes from mail-in and absentee ballots, they were overwhelmingly for Biden. Trump’s claims of a corrupt system, likely not meant to keep his supporters from voting, was an attempt to poke holes in the system so when he lost he had already set up that the game is rigged. His supporters took it literally. They are bad improv partners, like when my dad used to yell for my mom to get the oregano off the counter, and she would say we don’t have any oregano, just all that weed you left next to the toaster.   

People with a high number of social media followers are called influencers for a reason—because they have the power to get their fans to buy products, support causes, buy tickets to outrageous imaginary concerts in the Caribbean, or to pillage the United States Capitol. Trump’s supporters arrived in DC in early January like fans packing a stadium parking lot at a Kenny Chesney concert—just with more guns and more flamboyant outfits. It seems offensive to extremists from other parts of the world. We have been living in a bunker for six years isolated from our families and these people just left their modest duplexes, grabbed their most racist hoodie, flew to DC, and checked into the Holiday Inn. Free breakfast! They didn’t have to spend years training in harsh conditions, like South Florida.

At this time, there are more than 200 people in custody for the siege on the Capitol. People who want to portray themselves as revolutionaries and patriots, even though some did not even vote. Also, if this was about politics and ideologies and making America great again, again, they might remember that more than anything, America was founded as a rejection of the monarchy. Looking back, we should have been concerned by citizens erecting Trump signs that can be seen from space or chants about the Trump family serving in succession. Maybe we should have listened to Trump when he bragged that he could shoot somebody on 5th Avenue and not lose supporters. He could also probably convince his supporters to move to a compound in Waco, Texas or to wear matching Nikes.

The fandom of Donald Trump is not about politics or making America great, but about blind devotion to a man who seems to get everything he wants—and everything they want—with little effort or skill. He rules by exclamation point, and his fans go wild! 

The siege on the Capitol on January 6th was a social media event planned by then president Donald Trump. The marketing was years in the making and culminated with a live event near the White House. Fans picked out their favorite costumes and Trump merch, packed up their arsenal of weapons, loaded up their pick-up trucks, and went to the show.

OH MAGA that is really him. I am going to faint.

When Trump told them to go to the Capitol, some fans may have thought he was going with them, like when Jon Bon Jovi used to run the audience. I touched him! Later, maybe there would be a backstage meet and greet where everyone can drink Diet Cokes, eat Big Macs, and use the “N” word openly. Again!

The people who sieged the Capitol committed violent crimes and should be properly prosecuted.  They followed the orders of a man they idolize. They would do anything for him, and they believe that Trump was there to make this country a better place for them, just like it was for their white grandparents. Trump’s statement about shooting someone on 5th Avenue is evidence that he knew the power he had over his supporters. He knew that they are impressionable and that many lack the ability to determine fact from fiction, and then he enforced that concept through glaslighting about fake news. Trump groomed these men and women over time, playing to their specific fears.

Are you a disenfranchised white guy or are you married to one? Are you afraid that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is going to harvest all your organs and give them to illegal immigrants from Puerto Rico? Do all your nightmares end with meeting your new foreman, Dontavious? If yes, then Donald Trump is for you! You don’t even have to vote! Just tweet angry messages, preferably while driving. With Trump as your co-pilot, you will eventually be lead to the marble steps of our Capitol. Take a selfie! Terrorize elderly statesmen! And accomplish nothing. When you get to your jail cell, you can put up a poster of your hero swinging a golf club. And maybe, if we are all lucky, he will be coming to a jail cell near you!

I Am Not a Robot.

I spend time each day proving that I am not a robot. Often, I am asked to verify this by clicking a square next to the line “I’m not a robot”, which seems exactly like what a robot would do. Sometimes I have to click on all the squares that have a bus in them or a traffic light, things that any decent robot should be able to recognize. Instead they should use emotional tests, like show the first ten minutes of the movie UP and then ask me to click “Yes” if I am currently crying. Or they could show me a video of a car driving 60 mph in the left lane on the interstate and if I scream, “Move over asshole!” the very important website unlocks, and I am promoted forward to vote for my favorite dog photo.

Often as I am proving that I am anything besides a robot, I question why we are prohibiting robots from this process—why can’t a robot buy clothes online from Loft outlet? And is this my problem? If your website is being bombarded by robots then your company should be tackling this issue more directly, instead of the current solution of “How about we just ask everyone if they are a robot or not?” Genius. We did it, gang. Let’s go to Dave and Buster’s.  

For work, I have to do two-factor authentication, where they (robots, most likely) send a text to my phone, and I enter the code to complete the process to access my work account. Basically, the point is that if someone steals my computer, they should make sure they also grab my cell phone, then the thieves can get into all my work files and spend the day grading papers and responding to student questions like, “I have missed a few weeks of assignments because my cat was trapped in a well, can I still go back and make them up?”

The two-factor authentication reminds me of the movies when two people are required to enter their key for an important space launch or to open a safety deposit box full of diamonds. However, in this case, it is just me sitting alone at my desk, being my own sidekick. And then after I perform the tasks as directed, instead of launching into space or pouring out a velvet bag of diamonds and letting them sift slowly through my hand, I get to log into work.

I am also required each year to do online security training in order to keep our institution safe from online hackers. Basically, I am not supposed to open any emails. Done! If I do want to open an attachment—I don’t—I am supposed to call the sender and ask if they actually sent this attachment to make sure it is not from a cybercriminal. “Did you send this email that you just sent to me?” One of the examples they give is if I receive an email that says, “Hey, don’t forget to get me that list of all employee social security numbers,” I am definitely not supposed to respond.

Like the robot check, I feel that these security threats should be handled before they get to me. I should not be the gatekeeper of all of our data. “How about to avoid data breaches, we train our employees with a series of videos and multiple-choice quizzes so they can detect the threats at the last possible second before it becomes a real problem?” High fives! Meet you all at Applebee’s!

Nobody who knows me in real life would ever put me in charge of any type of security. My car was stolen from my driveway because it was unlocked and the keys were in it, right next to my purse on the driver seat.  My best idea for when someone needs access to my house is to just leave the front door unlocked. “It’s open!” I leave my purse in the top of the shopping cart and then turn around and spend 15 minutes touching all the avocados.

My son fired me from family security when he was seven because of my aversion to guns and any kind of violence and because I noted that I would, in fact, pay the ransom if he or his sister were kidnapped, and I expect they do the same for me. He said that we do not negotiate with terrorists because if we pay the ransom then they will kidnap more people, and is that what I want?

I wish I was a robot. Then I would not have to be so introspective or responsible for my actions. I could buy all the concert tickets before they shot up to $300 a piece. I could vote for the next American Idol as many times as I want. The fact that companies don’t trust robots, but they trust me, only demonstrates how insignificant I am. Each time I click that box I know that what I am really declaring is that I am not even a robot. Not yet.

These Are the People in Your Neighborhood

I live in the panhandle of Florida, and my local news covers Tallahassee and a large area of rural Florida and South Georgia. Brunswick, where Ahmad Arbery was killed, is our neighboring region. I could drive there in about three hours. When the faces of the men who killed Arbery appeared recently on my news feed, in a short segment between new Coronavirus cases and the weather, I remembered that these were not cops in uniforms, these men are our neighbors.  

 

“If there was a pattern to the endless conflict, it was that battles overwhelmingly involved neighbors.”

Malcolm Gladwell from Talking to Strangers

 

I don’t run. I don’t even jog. I am a walker, which mainly just means that I wander aimlessly around neighborhoods. When I was 15, I decided that I was chubby, and similar to the way Forrest Gump stood up, ran out of his front yard, and then across the entire country, I walked out of my house, down my driveway, and out of my neighborhood. I walked across the nearest main road and entered another neighborhood—a much nicer and more expensive neighborhood, where the houses are set so far apart, and with such established landscaping, that on foot you can often only see one house at a time. Unlike my little neighborhood, this fancier neighborhood has a hilly loop, a canopy of shade, and an active neighborhood watch. I know this because I read that information on a sign as I walked off the main road, not because anyone ever questioned me for being there.

I have been walking ever since. When I lived in Austin, Texas, I would drive to another part of town, park my car in a lot that said, “No Parking”, and then walk into a nearby neighborhood. It had great hills and the houses were charming and eclectic. It was one of those neighborhoods where young families who were just starting to make good money lived next door to empty nesters. I walked here regularly for two years—as a complete stranger. Some days, if it was especially hot, I would dip into a yard to get hit by the sprinkler. Maybe put my hands out and wait for the spray of cool water and then splash it on my face. On the way back to my car, I would often go into the office complex where I had illegally parked to sip from the water fountain and use the bathroom.

I have also lived in South Georgia. For most of the year in South Georgia, it is so hot that walking at any time when the sun is actually shining is not something people do voluntarily. I have had people offer to give me a ride because they do not understand that I might be out walking around on purpose. One day as I walked through a neighborhood, I started to feel lightheaded. I was hungover. It was 90 degrees. I stopped at a house with a car in the carport and sat on a ledge—on their property—but near the street. I sat for about 15 minutes looking haggard, red faced, and sweaty. I looked like a hungover loser who was about to pass out on the side of the road. I actually hoped someone might notice me so I could ask them to drive me home. A few cars drove by, the homeowner never came out. He did not call the cops about the woman in his driveway.

Some of my time walking in South Georgia was through a cemetery, located adjacent to a part of town with a higher population of Black residents because white people do not like fields of dead bodies in their own neighborhoods. I walked hundreds of miles, weaving through a maze of headstones on narrow paved streets. I considered the cemetery a safe choice because I have always, even as a woman walking alone, considered my biggest danger to be getting hit by a car. The cemetery had very few cars. I rarely saw any people. There were a few groundskeepers who would nod as they drove by in work trucks, and I would wave and smile back. Then one afternoon, a truck pulled off the main road and drove next to me as I walked. It was an older white man, he rolled his window down and told me I should not walk in this cemetery. That it was dangerous. There could be dangerous people.

I looked around. This man, who chose to change his route, to turn into this cemetery to warn me about dangerous people, was the only person I could see.

I recently watched the video of Ahmaud Arbery, as he walks into the home under construction. I watched this particular video with a certain kind of familiarity. There are people who view this video and painstakingly relate to the danger of being a Black man. There are also individuals who watch this video and relate to the white man who called the police and other neighbors for back up because he viewed Arbery as a dangerous threat to his community. I related to Arbery as someone who exercises out on neighborhood streets.

As I watched the video of him outside the construction site home, I noted how he contemplates going inside. The hesitation. There are probably countless Black citizens who watch him walk in that house and think, you know that is a bad idea. As a white woman, I am infinitely more protected, and I am not trying to commodify our experiences, but I have probably done this with the same hesitation. I would be worried about getting in trouble or putting myself in danger, as a woman walking alone. But also, I would be thirsty. I would have gone in too. And as we see from the owner’s videos, other people—white people, a couple and some kids—go inside the site. The cops are not called on these other trespassers.

Once inside, he looks around probably because he knows what he is doing is a little dangerous. There is evidence that perhaps he goes to the back to get water at a dock. Then there is video of him standing back inside, hands on hips. As I watched this I thought, he is getting his heart rate down. Cooling off. His back is clearly covered in sweat. On February 23, 2020 the high temperature in Brunswick, Georgia was 63 degrees. That is not exactly heat stroke weather, but Arbery was running at 1:00 pm, the hottest part of the day, especially in February before the start of Daylight Savings Times. The sunset—that Arbery would never see—would occur by approximately 6:30 p.m. Also, he had likely already run about two miles—the reported distance from his mother’s house to this site.

When he leaves the construction site, he takes off running because that is what he was already out doing. Arbery did not know at this point that a neighbor has already called 911 to report him, “A Black guy, white t-shirt.” The caller also alerts his fellow neighbors to help apprehend this neighborhood interloper. Now there are two trucks, three men—at least two of them armed—and a 25-year-old jogger who winds up shot and bleeding out right there on the street.

I am not an expert on Georgia law, although I know enough to understand that chasing someone down in a vehicle and yelling for them to stop should void the ability to claim that the shooter felt threatened. Also, I am not an expert on citizens’ arrest law, although I know Georgia has one, and I also know it does not state that the citizen may shoot the supposed perpetrator. Also, the citizen only has a right to hold someone who he thinks has committed a crime if it is a felony. If you are wondering if trespassing is a felony in Georgia—it is not.

As I have rewatched the video of Arbery in the construction site, I think about what the white man on the street saw, the man who initially put the entire crime into motion, a man wearing overalls. I think about it as like in a novel where the same scene is told by a different narrator. He saw a Black guy in a white t-shirt. That was enough for him. Also, what is not often mentioned is that these men made an ignorant assumption. They were being dumb. And they have guns. It is a dangerous combination.

Then I thought about the perspective of the people who have defended the men who killed Arbery, especially on social media. What do they see as they watch these same videos? Perhaps they view Arbery’s clothes and don’t see him as a jogger. He does not look like the runners we see on television. He is not wearing expensive athletic gear. Maybe he just felt like going for a run, in whatever he was wearing. We accept that Forrest Gump just got up and ran in a button down and khakis, but for Black citizens, a white t-shirt and long shorts are a dress code violation. So are hoodies. What is the proper attire required for a Black man to walk through your neighborhood?

When the video was released and the public outcry led to arrests finally being made, that was the start of a tiny sliver of justice for Arbery’s family, but the only way to keep other innocent people from being killed is for all white people to make an effort to change the way we see Black citizens. Thinking about the case in Texas with the female cop who shot Botham Jean in his own apartment: if she had opened the door to what was not actually her apartment and saw a white woman sitting on what was not actually her couch, would she have shot that woman? Probably not. It might have been more like when a woman walks in on another woman in a public bathroom, it’s fine.

The death of Ahmaud Arbery was a battle between neighbors. So was the case of Botham Jean. Why wouldn’t someone recognize a person who lived so near to them? Maybe because white and Black citizens are walking through the streets of America in parallel universes. As I watched the man calling the police about Arbery and then looked at him driving in his truck, he reminded me of the man who stopped me in the cemetery. When that man warned me that I could be in danger, I was a 40-year-old adult woman walking in broad daylight. Why did he feel entitled to try to protect me? It was almost as if he wanted a dangerous person to appear because that supports his narrative.

That scenario also maintains his proximity to power. White people benefit from the myth of the dangerous, armed Black man. We benefit by being able to walk down the street without being murdered, no matter what we are wearing, but also because as long as systemic racism continues to thrive, we have better access to jobs, networking, generational wealth, public education, housing, access to healthcare.

The truth is that Black citizens are less likely to be armed than white citizens. About 35- to 40% of white Americans own guns, compared to between 20 to 24% of Black Americans. Also, Black people in America only make up about 13% of the population. White men are more likely than any other group to be gun owners. Statistically, it is much more likely that a white man is armed than a Black man is armed, and there are many more white men than Black men in America. If people understood these facts, then maybe people would not feel so threatened by the presence of a Black person. Unless, the violence is not just a reaction to unbiased fear.

As a country, we are keeping this bias alive, like a four-hundred-year-old sourdough starter, passed down through generations. We still teach racism in our schools. Slave Owner is bolded in our textbooks in the same manner as Inventor or Astronaut.  It is a title, not a condemnation. The way we teach American history occasionally borders on sympathy for the people who were enslaved, but rarely do our texts promote shame for the people who owned slaves. Classroom lessons about slavery promote racism more than they denounce it. Before my son started lessons on slavery in early elementary school, in a school with a 50% Black student population, he used skin color only as a way to describe someone if he did not know their name. “The kid on the monkey bars, the one with the red shirt and the brown skin.”

In January, every elementary school kid in America comes home with their report on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Often it is a cut out of the shape of his head with important facts about his life and most importantly, he is clearly labeled in the handwriting of all of our children as “non-violent”. Teaching our kids that if Black Americans want equality, it is best not to be too aggressive. Of course, King was arrested more than 30 times. His most famous written work comes from his time in Jail, and he was assassinated at age 39. Every January, our kids are also taught that even nonviolent protest of racism will not be tolerated in America.

We can tear down statues, we can remove the confederate flags, we can defund the police, but it is like chasing fire ants around the yard. We eliminate one mound and another pops up a few yards away. From slavery, to segregation, to redlining, to education discrimination, to police brutality, to prison pipelines, to voter suppression—these are all methods created by people, like ants working diligently little by little, to keep racism intact. While we the people are working to dismantle racism, we the people are working to strengthen its foundations.

Then we the people end up on the same street. In broad daylight.

We are all neighbors. I have spent considerable time trying to end this essay—to land the plane. I have typed a bunch of bullshit and then deleted it. Racism in America cannot be tidied up into a conclusion, especially not by me. I can only observe what I see in our neighborhoods. I will keep writing and walking and trying each day to learn how to be a better person. I will try to remain hopeful that we the people can rewrite this conclusion.

In the meantime, if you see a hungover lady walking in a cemetery, just wave hello, and if I pass by your house, feel free to spray me with the hose.

 

 

***When I first started studying the story of Ahmaud Arbery, I thought maybe the original police report showed a different portrayal of events and that is why there were no immediate arrests, but it does not. This is a link to the original police report. 

https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/6883377-Ahmaud-Arbery-Police-Report.html

This New York Times video is well produced and adds graphics to demonstrate what happened in the time between Arbery walking into the construction site and dying on his neighborhood street.

https://www.nytimes.com/video/us/100000007142853/ahmaud-arbery-video-911-georgia.html

This is the letter from District Attorney, George E. Barnhill recusing himself and advising no arrests necessary.

 

The Salad Days

When I was a child, my mother would talk about things she thought would be different in the future. She would say things like, “One day you will tell your grandkids about how you used to be able to swim in the ocean.” It seemed ominous, especially when said as I was splashing around in the Gulf of Mexico. She also once predicted that in the future we will get all of our nutrients from a single tablet instead of having to bother with eating meals. This was probably said as I was finishing off the last of everyone’s French fries.

She never predicted any of the things that I have actually had to tell my kids, like that when I was a kid everyone in my family shared one phone and we had to stand in the kitchen—tethered to the wall—to use it. She also never mentioned that we would one day be telling future generations about life before a global pandemic, like when I was a kid people vacationed on giant petri dishes called “cruise ships”.

Many aspects of our daily life have changed this year, and it is likely that some might never go back to how they were pre-pandemic. There are some things about our new normal that I hope are here to stay, like doctor visits by teleconference and not going to work, but there are other parts of our lives that may be permanently scraped from the sidewalks of life that I will dearly miss, like body shots, blowing in babies’ faces, and salad bars.

I miss standing at Whole Foods elbow to elbow with a stranger—our breath echoing off the plexiglass—and tonging some lettuce into a brown paper box, then scooting past another person to add some edamame and approximately fourteen other unrelated ingredients and then tossing in some stuff that looks like it is already a tossed salad of some type, but with kale, and adding it on top of my independently made salad. Then I make my way up to the checkout where my salad is priced by weight and totals $37.

The salad bar at Whole Foods is the salad bar I admit that I visit, but I will also get the salad bar at places where it is completely inadvisable, even by the health department. When my kids were little I would take them to the local Pizza Hut, and we would dine inside the building. “When I was a kid we used to order our pizza for here!” The salad bar was lettuce and then just leftover pizza toppings, and I was given a wooden bowl about the size of a teacup so I had to pile my salad into a mountain covered with Ranch and then sprinkled with Baco’s.

When my daughter got older, we started going together to eat at Ruby Tuesday, especially when it was just the two of us, mainly because nobody else would ever agree to go there. I recently broke the news to her that Ruby Tuesday doesn’t have the salad bar anymore, and she gasped. I thought about all the senior citizens we would see while dining there and wondered what they are doing now for exercise. Going up to the salad bar, maybe even multiple times, carrying a plate while walking, the dexterity to work tongs, especially to grasp items like tiny cubes of ham, it could be in the Olympics. Dining from the salad bar was also a great way to show that they could still be independent. Often there would be a table where the oldest person was left behind and one of the younger diners, someone in their early eighties, would have to go get their salad for them. For that person the end is near, and thank goodness because no one should have to endure eating a salad bar salad made by someone else.

The salad that one makes at the salad bar would never be found on any kind of menu, unless it was a restaurant created by people tripping on acid. The salad bar salad is like a fingerprint. There are no two salad bar salads that are alike, and they are all disgusting. After I finish my salad I usually feel bad about myself, not just because of the excessive amount of calories that I consumed but also because of my choices. Why did I add the peas? What has happened in my life to make me think it was acceptable to add artichoke hearts and then proceed to choose blue cheese as my dressing?

I have heard that this pandemic might mean the end of the salad bar, and I am saddened about what this means for an entire way of life. I worry that one day I will have to tell my grandkids, “When I was a kid we used to order a meal and then with that meal, as a side dish, we could get something called the salad bar, which meant we had to get up from the table—where a waitress had just taken our order and would eventually deliver our other food that we only ordered because the salad bar alone was the same price as the meal plus the salad bar—and parade up to get our plates and then move like cattle down a line of chilled bowls full of delicious toppings like diced boiled egg, raw mushrooms, and banana pudding and then walk back to our tables completely embarrassed as we pass other tables with our salad of shame.”

Those were the days.

Monopoly

The royal wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle cost $42 million. Meghan’s dress cost $508,000. I suppose that is just the price of a fairy tale. I can’t help but think of all the little girls around the world who watched Meghan—now a real princess—walk down the aisle, or at least saw pictures, and thought about how beautiful she looked, especially the little girls who are starving.

Even just the two million children in the United Kingdom who live in poverty must have been so in awe by this elaborate display. My mum has to work two jobs and we have rats in our flat, but look at Princess Beatrice’s fascinator! A family could likely eat for a year just from the cost of one of those hats. That is how fairy tales work, though. One person is plucked from the masses to live in luxury. All the other townspeople, teacups, step sisters, the other two members of Destiny’s Child—they are all left in the village to continue toiling.

Maybe this is why people seem so willing to accept vast discrepancies in wealth, especially here in America. Fairytales about princesses were the stories I grew up with, even though I did not live in a village with a large castle looming off in the distance. Perhaps because we replaced being ruled by a wealthy monarch with a market-based system kick started by violence and oppression, and a fairy tale set on the lawn of a plantation is less palatable. Well except as the venue for white people’s weddings.

We no longer have a king, but we have a small percentage of people who hold the most wealth and they still got that way by screwing the rest of us over. I recently watched a documentary series on HBO titled McMillions. The show details how this one guy stole the winning McDonalds Monopoly game pieces before they ended up in the fast food restaurants, and he gave them to friends and family in exchange for a percentage of the prize. The FBI was very upset about this. So was McDonalds. Customers are being tricked to think that they can buy a hamburger and win one million dollars and these scoundrels are robbing the McDonalds customer of this chance. It is not fair to the people!

At first, I was drawn into this thought experiment. Then I remembered that I do not give a shit about anyone robbing from McDonalds. Also, I do not know anyone who actually thought they were going to win a million dollars. One of the recipients of a stolen winning game piece was a struggling single mom. I think it is a crime that she felt like she had to choose to take the winning game piece—from her mafia wife friend–and then give half the money back to the ring leader. I was thinking, wow, I wish she got more money. McDonalds corporation has a net worth of $170 billion and they earn this money by underpaying employees, outsourcing to franchisees, and preying on the pocketbooks and blood pressure of the rest of us. This elaborate scheme amounted to stealing $24 million, which is a lot—less than a royal wedding—but still a chunk of change. Of course, it is only 0.01% of McDonalds total net worth.

By the final episode of the documentary—no spoilers—I started to imagine the exact same documentary but instead of McDonalds monopoly winners, the FBI was going after real criminals, like Jeff Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg, the Koch brothers, or the Walton family. On the first episode, the fast talking FBI rookie would not get a post-it note that read, “McDonalds Monopoly scam?” but instead one that reads, “Walmart entire business a scam?”

The agency would start by investigating how a company starts with prices so low and with so much inventory that they put a myriad of other local businesses out of business, not just the local hardware store, but the groceries, the clothes shops, the mechanics, the tire stores, the fabric stores, toy stores, electronics stores, Christmas shoppes, pharmacies.

Then it gets really good. Now with a newly expanded market of poor people, shopping at Walmart becomes a necessity not a choice. Walmart then further maintains these low prices by underpaying employees (more customers, cha-ching!) and then subsequently arguing that if they paid their beloved employees more then they would have to hire less employees or raise prices and you don’t want that, do you? Can you really afford to buy your diapers anywhere else?

Cut to the sharp FBI agent, leaned back in his chair explaining how he opened an investigation to look into the Walton family. The FBI is outraged! Because of Walmart, all industries are forced to compete with low prices and low wages and underemployment as way to keep benefit costs down and profits up. It is part of a nationwide, systemic increase in poverty. Parents are working overnight shifts and still unable to afford their kids’ medicine. What if the Waltons are pocketing like a million dollars each off this scam?

Picks up phone. Holds up finger to the camera for a pause. They have hoarded how much money? $163.2 BILLION? But they give to charity, right? $530 million donated from their family foundation in 2017. But that is only 0.32% of their net worth. That’s less than people are supposed to give annually to their church. Puts down phone. Ahem.

Okay, now I am outraged. This is not fair to the people.

The most expensive part of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s wedding was for security. Supposedly they spent about $36 million for added measures of protection, but who were they protecting themselves from? The people they serve, right? Who else? Bad people perhaps. People who do not understand boundaries. But it is still the people. I don’t think they were protecting themselves from rabid dogs or locusts. They spent a thousand times the salary of the average British household to keep British citizens from crashing their wedding.

The sad part is that we use words like philanthropic to describe rich people who spend money like there are not more than 800 million hungry people in the world and give away very small percentages of their wealth to help those in need. And in most cases rich people got rich off the hard work of people who can barely afford to keep their lights on. Most Americans likely give a larger percentage of their own net worth than our richest citizens. If you think about the money you paid to your PTA, the money you put towards that GoFundMe so a child could get a prosthetic leg, the money you donated—although it wasn’t much but it was something—to help families who lost their homes in a local fire, the dollars you handed to a man on the side of the road, the time you paid for the coffee for the person behind you in line, you have likely donated a larger portion of your income to charity. The rich are not more charitable than we are. They could give billions and billions more.

Even visiting poor and ravaged areas of the world and coordinating aid—although it is admirable—is still a privilege. And not enough. If I went up to my local Walmart, I am sure I could find multiple employees who would leave their positions immediately to fly on a private jet to Africa to visit schools and hospitals. It will be hot and there are lots of bugs. Walmart employee chuckles. But wait, how do you feel about walking through landmines? Been doing that my whole life. Holding babies whose mothers died from AIDS? With open arms. Infectious disease? Do the seats on the jet fully recline?

Homeschool

I have never had any illusions that I would be capable of homeschooling my children. I have enough difficulty just getting my kids to school – the waking up, getting dressed, getting them into the car, and then out of the car (a clutch part of the process) – keeps me completely maxed out on parenting. I can barely get my kids to brush their teeth, so I have never considered that I might be able to get them to graph equations or to log into Google Classroom and just do the welcome video. After I gave birth to my first kid, and we brought him home and realized all that was involved with that situation, my kids’ father quickly mapped out a timeline counting down the days until he started school. T-minus 35,000 hours.

I have often struggled to relate to homeschool parents. For starters, they choose to spend time with their kids when there is help out there for free, in most places the school will even come pick your kid up from right near your house. I have thought that maybe, okay, if I live on a prairie or on some kind of ranch and the closest school is 50 miles away, well then, I guess I will be driving 100 miles per day to take them to that school.

I lash out at the idea of homeschooling because I am projecting my own shame about how these parents can actually get their kids to sit at a table and do work for more than thirty minutes, and it is probably because the parents have some sort of discipline of their own. They can also sit at a table and work for more than 30 minutes. Perhaps these are the types of parents who actually completed their science fair projects. Even if I got some bread to grow mold (or just found some in the pantry), completing the backboard in addition to that was just too many steps. One year I completely forgot about the science fair until I got to school and saw all these kids and parents toting large backdrops, papier-mâché volcanoes, and glass jars of crystals. Oh shit. I told my teacher I tried to hatch baby chicks but they all died.

I am also assuming homeschool parents do not enable their kids with electronics like its crack so they can have time to themselves for recreational activities like folding laundry or doing the dishes. I have been a single parent since my youngest started kindergarten – I guess the marriage was also part of the timeline – so I often make parenting choices that are based on making my life easier. I use electronics as baby sitters, and I am not ashamed. Now my kids are in middle school and they are still alive, so I feel like the evidence is there that this is completely fine.

My daughter spends most of her time watching feminist videos, so that at age eleven she notices things like gender bias in school dress codes, and she recites lines she memorized from spoken word poetry videos, “Somewhere in America a child is holding a copy of Cather in the Rye in one hand and a gun in the other and only one of those things is banned by his state government.” My son spits out facts about World War II like he is a boomer with a pipe in a walnut library. He makes references to events happening in the Middle East that I do not understand. Of course, also, my kids go to school.

Or they used to. Now they are stuck at home with me. Their teachers are still preparing all the assignments and doing all the grading. I am not homeschooling. I am just in charge of making sure they have access to Wi-Fi and they get their assignments done. We are failing at that by the way. The Wi-Fi isn’t the problem. It is definitely human error. My best skill in this new role of running an entire school, except that I am not doing any of the actual curriculum preparation or assessment, is as the lunch lady. I am great at making lunch. For two kids.

I have never questioned the value of our educators. I cannot do what they do. All of the teachers we have had also know this. My parent teacher conferences usually involve teachers using a lot of sentences that start with, “Well, have you tried . . . ?“  At some point we will look back at this and my kids will laugh about when mom had to try to (not even actually) homeschool them. Unfortunately, they will not be able to use this hardship for their college entrance essays because every kid in America is in the same situation, so they will have to dig deep to find some other obstacle to write about. I think they will be able to come up with something.

Homeschool

None of my students have shown up yet.

Supermarket Survivor

In these troubling times, our local grocers are making important efforts to protect shoppers as they leave their homes for essential items like milk and arugula. One of the best solutions that has been implemented is placing arrows throughout the store so shoppers can only travel in one direction because it is impossible to catch COVID-19 from behind—at least that’s what my boyfriend tells me.

This is Supermarket Survivor. There are way more than ten contestants competing for a chance to pay for their own groceries, risking endangering their families and entire communities, or worse being featured in a viral video showing them using gloves wrong. Here is the play-by-play of my last challenge at the local grocery store:

And we are off!

She enters the store looking confident and quickly moving through bakery and produce, defying all arrows as if she does not even know they are there. The looks from other shoppers seem to be no deterrent for this erratic shopper.

Where is she?

There she is emerging from wine at a fast clip! Into meats! Still going the wrong way, right over the arrows!

Wait, a fellow shopper stops her and is pointing at the arrows.

She laughs and then looks like she might cry. She touches her face.

She turns her cart around. Twice. She is still going the same way!

She gets to the actual aisles. She is not ready.

She is looking up at the signs. There is a large X on a red sheet of paper printed out. She edges forward hesitantly, then she turns at the last second and goes the correct way down the next aisle!

She appears to have given up on frozen breakfast foods, but she is following the arrows!

Next, she is forced to go up the dog food aisle to get to the back of the store.
She is moving at record speed, then comes out at the back in dairy and wants to turn onto the international foods aisle but she can’t! Denied! It is the same way as dog food.

She hesitates. Looks at the wine in her cart. Almost loses it.

Then in a move nobody expected she swings all the way out to health and beauty, the instant replay footage reveals her giving a thumbs up to the ladies at the pharmacy as she speeds past, and now she is back to the front of the store and makes a sharp turn onto international foods.

This is the Hillary we saw in the Thanksgiving rush of 2016—the agility and speed that got her to this level.

She dodges a dad with a list, grabs both burrito size and soft taco size tortillas and runs the rest of the aisle with ease.

Now she finds herself in the back of the store, but she is clearly ready to check out. This could be a costly mistake. She jockeys her cart quickly around the Entenmann’s table and makes a run down the empty party supply aisle and pulls in at record time exactly six feet behind the man on register six.

Then out of nowhere, a cashier motions to her pointing to an empty register, so she swerves left and runs the final leg up to the checkout.

THE CROWD GOES WILD!