Within my circles of friends we’ve often had the discussion lately about the manners of people. Rather, the lack of manners. Midwesterners, by most standards, are kind people and the things I’ve witnessed lately tell me that they are absent of those things taught to them (hopefully) as children. (Complete aside: I’m going to Boston soon and three people have mentioned how unkind Bostonians are! Why is that? Represent, Boston.)

Failing to offer seats for the elderly, not holding the door when people are within a reasonable range, and deserting the common decency to say, “Excuse me” when they want to pass by you. Liz just happened to write about this the other day to which I replied:

I’m so fed up with rudeness that I’m becoming a police officer in my daily life while out and about. It’s pathetic. Normally, my family thinks I’m going to get stabbed over chastising children in public but that’s the educator in me who corrects kids all the time.

But the one that gets me (and I’m sorry if it’s been said) is people failing to say “Excuse me” when they’re trying to get around me. They just stand there.

Yesterday, Mason and I were getting some summer shorts and there was a woman behind him and she assumed I would ask him to move. When he started to move, I pushed him back in place and mouthed “No. Wait.”

She never said it. She moved a different direction.

Served her right. If she doesn’t want to say it, she has to change direction. That was my point anyway.

Later, a lovely woman (I can only guess she’s lovely. It’s my optimistic hope that she’s lovely. She probably has cute feet, too.) named Brigitte commented back (to me):

Mocha, I’m often AFRAID to say “excuse me”, being pathologically shy and sick of getting the big evil-eyed glare and (if I’m lucky) a huffy, grudging move-over to let me by. I figure polite people would anticipate my need on my own, otherwise it’s just easier for someone like me to find another way around.

Well, being an overt Alpha Female myself, I can (miraculously, perhaps?) sense when people are shy and if I meet their eyes I have no problem smiling at them and using the silence of body language to determine that they want to get around me. In fact, smiling seems to help, does it not? One would hope that this small gesture tends to relieve some of the tension or fear that the timid seem to have.

I’ve had some run-ins with acquaintances and co-workers lately that remind me that not everyone is kind. Lately, I’ve been setting firmer boundaries with those who would prefer that I simply behave and comport myself according to their standards. Even in my work life I think I’ve been done dirty but that’s not even a battle I’m going to fight because I have a higher purpose there and it isn’t to engage in fisticuffs with the adults. Because of the small-town nature of my side of the hood, I run into people quite frequently. So much so that I give myself a pep talk before venturing out to places in the event that I see them. Alpha Female or no, when I am caught unawares my behavior is less than stellar. Confidence doesn’t negate the fact that I can be fragile on occasion.

My manners, however, are more prevalent than my Strong Woman Persona lets on and it’s possible that they aren’t always noticeable. I shall have to work on that. Even when I am a bitch I can do it with enough sugar to produce a cavity. Or raise your voice to new heights and point your finger in my face. Both have been done equal amounts of time.

Once, when a parent came in to sling mud my direction after her son received a lower grade than she wanted I was mortified to be in the same room alone with her. Unfortunately, at the time she also wanted her son (an 8th grader) present as well and she was, in essence, giving him permission to be a total shithead to me for the remainder of that school year. The principal at the time stayed with us at my request and intermittently interrupted her to remind her of civility. But, I refused to change the grade he had earned.

“So, you’re saying you won’t change it?! You’re going to keep it a D?”

“Yes, because that’s what he earned. I can’t change it just because you’re asking me to do so.”

“Oh, yes you WILL. You WILL change it.”

I’d had enough by this time, but she took it a step further and called me a racist right after that.

I nearly fainted from the absurdity of the accusation, but I took a deep breath and blinked extra long.

“I’m so sorry.” I started. She thought I was talking to her. I wasn’t. I looked past her at her son sitting on the other side and caught his gaze and uttered the boldest words I can recall ever having left my mouth.

“I’m sorry your mother is teaching you that to be black means you can be lazy and still get what you want. Nothing in the world will ever remotely resemble that. You still have to work hard and do your best.”

That doesn’t mean I didn’t have manners. In fact, I looked at the principal and, like a child requesting permission to leave the dinner table, asked, “May I be excused now?” He agreed.

It is possible that as an educator I have learned to chastise adults, too. Because those were the best manners I could muster at the time.

I’ve been deeply interested in the posting and responses to Dana’s piece over at BlogHer and spent much of the weekend returning to the site to see concluding reactions. I left my own response to it and won’t share it all right here, but I am genuinely interested in those “questions” I mentioned.

What ARE those ‘ignorant’ questions about race you’ve asked and been checked on even if the response was in anger?

Are there questions you wanted to ask people of color (mostly I’m thinking of Blacks, but I’ll take any query)?

Really, what are your questions? I’m not promising to answer them, but am compiling a list for my own mini-research on an interview Rita is working on with me. She’ll write it up far better than any attempt I could make, but you never know. Some question may be too juicy for me to resist responding to, but beware. You may just get an answer.

This personal space of mine has gone further than I ever imagined it would go and, in some ways, it’s gone in a direction I didn’t quite expect. At first, it was diary-like and chronicled daily events and conversations with my family as well as my love of coffee. I’ve been honored by the amazing people who have offered to send me their favorite coffees as well as books and other gifts that touch me because it awes me that anyone feels as if they know me as well as they do anyone in their life. Later if turned into a community of varied members with strong opinions and the ability to respond thoughtfully to the brain dump I offer.

As much as I can, I try to read others’ work and often it inspires. Sometimes, it frustrates. Others, it resonates. Recently, my friend Chris responded to an angry, hateful diatribe against Elizabeth Edwards that was itself a response to a newspaper article. As recently as last Spring I felt the sting of sitting down with a newspaper reporter to discuss the writing scores of my school that improved so dramatically that it brought the attention of our district office and then the media. I realized, firsthand, that no matter how kind and benevolent a reporter seems they do, indeed, have an agenda.

Women, too, are notorious for having agendas that fit their purposes and are designed to make themselves feel better about a myriad of things. We are funny creatures, women. We tell on ourselves. You have a lovely smile. Oh, really? Because this tooth all the way back here? It’s totally dead. We dress to impress other women, not men. I can’t remember the last time someone of the male species commented that he liked my jewelry or my shoes or my clothes. Other women comment on it. Perhaps that’s what gives women the righteous power and wherewithal to opine about any and everything.

There are ugly sides to this online writing. There are acrimonious, cold pronouncements that roll right off me and are filed in the garbage bin of my brain because my life is too full. My children are too needy during this season of their life. My family is too important to me. And that is why I held true to my promise to manage this site by deleting hateful comments. To leave trolls in the hell they’ve created for themselves. Make no mistake about it: I will respond how I want. Sanctimonious dictatorship? Damn straight. Oddly enough, they’ll be back to read and find those things they love to hate.

When there was a season where things weren’t as rosy as I’d like them to be it struck me as odd that the only people who were relieved to hear that I didn’t have “all the balls juggled in the air” were women, but now I realize they had two other things in common: one, they were regular readers invested in me and two, they were assuaged that I wasn’t successful in every part of my life. Once I realized that, I was ok with it. But human nature decrees that we learn from everything in order to move on and I, for one, hate being stuck.

Criticism, whether it’s of a public figure or family member or complete stranger, does have consequences. Defending your critique, after a public evisceration of said critique is the lowest form of rationalization. Say what you mean and take what comes. It’s not as if readers didn’t understand. They did. Explaining and responding in that way is that floor a writer can’t fall below. No amount of justification is tolerable or even noble.

I can only recall one time when the writing of something wouldn’t do justice because I knew the words had to come from me. It was a disparagement of my parenting of my daughter from (follow me here, folks) the sperm donor’s wife’s mother. A woman I’ve never met. A woman who wrote a three page single spaced letter to me a day before we celebrated a family Christmas to tell me that she hoped my daughter wasn’t forging a relationship with her son-in-law just so she could take his money. Money that we’d never asked for in all of her life and money that I would never willingly take from someone “playing” parent. She was misinformed and out of line to send that letter. It’s the type of thing one writes and never sends. One writes and gets out everything they feel, but one should never, never send it. In her case, it was a letter she should have never closed with, “I do really well on the phone so you are free to call me.” because, to her regret, I did.

This writing is what it is. I present who I am as I want to present it and, no matter what lies within, readers will take what they want to take. If they suppose I am a regular woman, then perhaps I haven’t done myself justice. If readers imagine that I think I’m better looking than I actually am, then my mascara and lip gloss and hair gel products are probably doing their job. If I appear to try to be smarter than I am, well, that’s just absolutely true. There’s no way that in Real Life I am this intelligent. I spend far too many brain cells in determining which shade of brown I’m going to wear today and wondering if I should try a new maxi-pad and hoping that no one in my family will notice that I haven’t quite fixed a meal with vegetables this year.

But regular woman I am not. I have no problem with pointing out slights that occur to people of color, but I do find it interesting that that is when I’m taken to task. Not when I advocate for children of poverty. Not when I allow my feminist sensibilities to show through my writing. But when I write about race as if I’m the only one who’s noticing. And that, in many ways, is the whole point.

This personal space of mine will continue to grow, to change, to expand. Opinions on women and men and race and education will continue to be offered. Sharing and creating and insulating this community has become far more important to me than once imagined. But personally attacking my character will not be tolerated. Going there is going to that place, the floor you can’t fall below.

Only regular women do that.

*I tried posting this in the morning. No dice. I’ll post the Fried Mac and Cheese recipe soon.

Tonight there is a Podcast tonight with Glennia from The Silent I and Jason from Daddy In A Strange Land. In fact, there is a new button on my sidebar that you can click to get there. It’s at 9:00 pm EST and we’re discussing Inclusion & Exclusion: Where Are The Bloggers of Color and Why Aren’t We Reading Them? Actually, I thought it was just on “Race & Blogging” but Glennia mentioned this title on Kimchi Mamas and I didn’t want to look stupid like I didn’t know what the topic was.

Callers on the show are welcome (646) 915-8634 but the most exciting thing is that I’ll be doing my best to disguise my otherwise deep, Midwestern voice.

Among other things we’re discussing how ethnicity and cultural identification affect writing, perceptions about the lack of bloggers of color, and that whole PR can of worms I opened. I’d like it to be known, however, that I opened the can. Stefania ripped that top off with her teeth and growled with dripping saliva all over her teeth. I love her for that.

My less-than-stellar response would have been Listen up, bitches!

To be honest, it would have sounded more like this:

Dear Public Relations Folks Who’ve Been Ignoring Me,

You’ve surely seen my Google page rank. Well, by now you have because you’re wondering Who is this loud-mouthed woman anyway? Those of you who have written to me or about me have even admitted that it’s higher than some of the white-middle-class-stay-at-home-mom’s blogs you pitch. But you defend your position. You say that you don’t know what I’d like.

Let me tell you.

I want a mop that doesn’t crap out on me every 2 months.

I desire a shampoo in a hotel room that doesn’t “Add Body” because you really need to pay attention to the fact that we don’t all need body added to our hair.

I wish for a make-up for my face that actually matches my skin tone and doesn’t force me to mix and apply, mix and apply until I find the right shade because those scientists in your lab can’t seem to do it. Also, I’ll take a “flesh colored Band-Aid” that is truly the color of my flesh. Fleshy colored.

I long for socks that hold shape after washing them more than 10 times.

I yearn for a television show where the main characters look as varied as my own but that don’t adhere to every single stereotype therein.

I aspire to hear that I’m “articulate” or “well-spoken” without it sounding condescending or like a nice surprise for the person uttering that back-handed compliment.

I fancy a pair of jeans that accentuate my hips and my ass without making me feel like I’m “special” just “standard”. (And ones that truly FIT without that stupid gap in the back)

I crave quality writing paper and pens to leave love notes for my children.

I hanker after a good piece of gum that doesn’t burn the holy hell out of my tongue because it’s the FRESHEST, ZINGIEST, MOST POWERFUL GUM ON THE PLANET. Honest to God, I just want fresh breath after my morning cuppa, not a hole in the fleshy muscular organ in my mouth.

I hunger for a good blanket to cuddle up with my kids with that is soft and snuggly.

I thirst for a really good wine that doesn’t turn my ears red.

I cry out for a good, soulful song that makes me feel the kind of cozy that comes on a cool Fall day.

I covet a perfume that smells clean and sexy and yummy all at the same time.

I’m dying for you to know that I go to Target stores to shop because they are my Zen and that online shoe shopping helps me remember that I am a woman because I squeal with delight to find a pair that suit me.

Love, La Mocha

That’s all you need to know, people.

Nature thrives on patience; man on impatience. - Paul Boese

My blog ain’t workin’. I’m gonna do something about that, because patience, my friend, is not my bag. - Mocha Momma

Much as I love this place and get warm tingles from the coffee beans, I’m writing elsewhere today. Updates soon. You’ll know when I know.

I have tired of the endless emails of I CAN’T COMMENT, KELLY. FIX THAT.

Fine. I did fix that.