It’s not like me to shy away from controversy so every night this past week I have had a discussion with my family about Park 51. There have been points made and arguments discussed. I could link to them, but I won’t. But I’m reading a lot.

It’s already all been said so far.

Today, my feelings are all about the Constitution. It is unconstitutional to deny the builders from putting up a community center. It’s also unconstitutional for Governor Paterson to suggest that an alternative to it would be to give them land elsewhere on which to build. Really, Gov? Because I think you’re opening up a whole new can of worms when other religious institutions come knocking on your door for free land. It got so weary for me this week after debating the issue with friends (ok, so it was via Facebook WHATEVER it still ended up being a really good discussion) that my status yesterday on Facebook was simply the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

What I’ve read for this whole week about it consists of my daily news readings, political contributions, and what the rest of the world is saying about the United States. When Mason asked me about it he did so in typical teenage fashion.

“Mom, what’s up with this whole mosque issue in New York City?”

He could tell by the weariness in my voice and the sigh on my lips that I’d been thinking about it, too. We had been discussing it at dinners and at bedtime and whenever it came up on television or the radio or in the newspaper or online. He’s getting it. And that’s really just a part of my job as a parent, is it not? To teach and educate and teach some more. Well, maybe that last part is an overlap of my career choice.

Early on in my career I quit teaching public school because I wanted a varied experience. For four years I taught at a small, private Christian school and that is where I met a great philosopher who also happened to be a janitor. Allen cleaned my room and we met one night and had the most fascinating conversation that it lead to to a phenomenal friendship until he died from cancer years later. (I’ve written about him on my blog before so you can check the archives if you’re so interested.) But I tried desperately to fit in with the teachers and with the church that was attached to the building. At times, it worked and I felt accepted but it seemed that reminders of my being different and definitely NOT like others led me to finally break off and grow up and do my own thing.

But not before I allowed Allen to come to my classroom during the day (he was the nighttime janitor) and teach my class. He read poetry with them and my little 6th graders asked him questions and while he waxed philosophical about things the subject of religion came up and he answered just as I would have him do: honestly. Allen didn’t like to use the term “God” because “Alice” was a prettier name. He didn’t believe in the devil, either, but suggested that it was a man-made manifestation that helped us place blame.

The week after he visited my classroom one of the other teachers told on me (are we adults or what?) for having such blasphemy and un-Christianlike attitudes be on display in this Christian school. In hindsight this was, for me, one of the last straws that made it impossible for me to reconcile the fact that I was using MY OWN BRAIN FOR INTELLECTUAL PURPOSES and the beliefs of the school. I was called into the office with a school board member (also an elder of the church) and questioned about my intentions and what I was hoping to do with opposing viewpoints on their Christian doctrine.

“So, I can’t teach opposing viewpoints? We’re not supposed to let children see another side of things? The authoritative dogma is never to be questioned?”

My questions went largely unanswered. I quit teaching there and Allen became one of the few links I still had to the place. The kids I taught were great. It was the overbearing poor behavior of the adults that made me want to leave.

Yesterday I was thinking back on that story as I was reflecting on something said to me about the Muslim religion. In my lifetime I have gladly attended a Jewish temple, different Christian churches, and a meeting of the Baha’i faith. I was thinking this as I left my house and waved to my Muslim neighbor across the street and smiled at her. The teacher in me wondered how much more I could know.

My mom’s got a brother named Jim who is, by far, the best read person I know. Mom talks about him in reverence and with much respect as he is a man who once read Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses when it was released when the rest of the world seemed to be shunning it out of fear, ignorance, and there were often violent protests due to the fatwa placed on him by Ayotollah Khomeini. I remember this vividly because it was the year I was graduating high school and I was aghast as what he could have possibly written to attract such attention. Here I was just starting out in the world as an adult taking my little 3 year old daughter with me and I was filled with fear.

I have since gotten over that.

As I was traveling around town for work I saw a building that made me pull over. I parked in the lot and sat there for a good 5 minutes wondering what I was going to say. It was the Islamic Society of Greater Springfield. When I went in I met Syed who listened as I stammered out that I am a mom and a former teacher and current assistant principal and I was worried, so very worried about this ridiculous debate that isn’t so much about rights or the constitution but about feelings and holy cow, if ever I understand the feelings thing it’s when I see things like the Confederate flag being bandied about, and oh, I grew up mixed in a Catholic family and my children are of many shades and I’m seeking information because I hate to regurgitate stuff that I hear from people but don’t read with my own eyes and SERIOUSLY, but I really do like to use my own brain and not hand over the keys to my sensibilities or politics to someone else and yes, I know I’m a woman who just came in off the street and you must think I’m a little bit neurotic…

It went on like that. Syed smiled. He knew I was there to learn. When I stopped babbling on in that run-on sentence I simply said, “I am here to learn.”

He gave me the name of a woman who would be happy to talk to me further and handed me an English translation of the Koran. He said to keep it. Syed also gave me 15 videos that might be helpful as I’m learning and asked that I please return them to him. But he didn’t even write down my name or ask to document just which 15 videos he gave me. He handed them over gladly, said that it was prayer time, and I shook his hand and left.

What I wish right now is that the mouthpieces of America would be in the process of learning. Not shouting or screaming or writing protest signs. Not telling me what I should believe or that I am stupid for agreeing that a community center can be built where they have planned. Not talking about of both sides of their mouths.

Whatever prayers come from my lips are this: Please let me learn. Please let me teach my children. Please let there be peace.

There’s just no way right now to sum up all the things that I experienced yesterday when reading the phenomenal comments left by readers on my post “I’m Black Irish and I’m Proud” because, well, it is just too much at the moment. The comments sticking out to me are the ones where readers just know that experiences like my dad’s aren’t uncommon, where we find ourselves in the movement to get beyond or even begin talking about race, that the young are also to be called on the carpet when they spout off hateful slurs, and that Jews and gays also find themselves in uncomfortable “passing” situations where they are incognito because you can’t SEE Jewish heritage or sexual orientation/preference. For the last one, I suggested to Deb on the Rocks that she use the term “incoglesbo”, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet on whether or not that will work.

The one thing I have time for to post today was brought up to me by two people as an alternative to confronting ignorant, vocal racists in public. Adrian Piper, an African American artist who “passes” created these cards to speak all the words for her when she comes into contact with racism:

Dear Friend,

I am black.

I am sure you did not realize this when you mad/laughed at/agreed with that racist remark. In the past, I have attempted to alert white people to my racial identify in advance. Unfortunately, this invariably causes them to react to me as pushy, manipulative, or socially inappropriate. There, my policy is to assume that white people do not make these remarks, even when they believe there are no black people present, and to distribute this card when they do.

I regret any discomfort my presence is causing you, just as I am sure you regret the discomfort your racism is causing me.

Let me just co-sign on that one, too. I believe everything Piper has written and will be ordering some of her cards so that she may make a profit off of this genius idea. Originally, I would have conceptualized this as: “Dear ignorant asshole, screw you.” but I’ve got to be better than that. I mean, I’ll think that, but I won’t say that.

In fact, I think anyone who is “other” ought to do exactly the same and create their own.

Publish at will.

Yesterday I came into contact with a racist.

A table full of them to be exact. My contact with them could have gone much better on my part. But I’m cynical about this sort of stuff having grown up light-skinned enough to “pass”. I come by that honestly. Now, my father, on the other hand, is much darker than I and his sister, one of my favorite aunts, is a lovely caramel color and if you were to see the whole family lined up you’d find every conceivable shade available. To me, this is a beautiful sight.

I could have politely interrupted their loud (no, really, this was ridiculously loud) conversation about all the “Pakistanis” and “Blacks” and “foreigners” that are taking over and how they’re everywhere. There were plenty of hateful things that came out of their mouths and each time they said something I responded back. Loudly. But not directly. Only the woman heard me and she obviously got them to pay attention to the fact that they were bothering other patrons around them. Eventually, they left.

It is a terrible thing, this being able to pass. There is the strange position I’ve found myself in that shocks me, it always shocks me with a jolt, when someone starts speaking this code that they are sure you understand. They lean in, pull you into their circle of trust, and then betray it. They assume you agree with them. You must! You look white! So you probably totally understand their racism!

Mind you, these older people probably felt justified in being able to have their conversation in public because they’ve always talked like that. Before you go defending their bad behavior let me say this: It’s 2010. TWO THOUSAND TEN. In the year of 2010 my President is Black and so is theirs. THE PRESIDENT. IS BLACK. (Or MIXED. MULATTO. Whatever.) The Civil Rights Movement happened in their lifetime. I sincerely hate it when people excuse them with, “But that’s their generation. That’s what they grew up with! They don’t know any better!” Instead of doling out pardons for their racism let me suggest that they ought to be embarrassed that they’ve lived through all of that and still haven’t learned anything from it. Let me propose that they’ve have multiple opportunities to learn from their lives in America and have managed to have their racism forgiven time and time again. Let’s just all take responsibility for that.

One time when I was dating a guy in college he took me home to meet his parents. I was nervous because I was a 19-year old girl/woman who had a daughter by then and he was a single, college-aged boy so it concerned me that his family would be upset by that. Unfortunately, I was focused on the wrong thing. What they were upset about in regards to me was that I was Black. That is what bothered them about me when they first met me. From hearing this boy tell me about his family I was shocked because it didn’t seem like they would be like that. I had to ask him, “Let me get this straight. Your brother is married to a Korean woman and your sister is a lesbian and your parents have a problem with ME?”

Before I digress too far let me just say I ended up marrying (and divorcing) him and that I gave his family the whitest damn grandchildren ever produced. Seriously. They’re nearly transparent.

My father, also of the generation of people in question, is getting older. He’s reached his 70s and doesn’t like to live in the racism of his past. Rarely does he talk about it. But there are things about him that are so progressive and innovative and he’s always, in my mind, been that way. His sister once recounted a story that made my sisters and I see him in an entirely new light and, in some ways, sort of explained him to us. He was young, maybe 10 or so, and he was going to get a new pair of shoes. Back in the day (it’s kinder to use that then to tell you just what decade in which this occurred) that was a big deal. New shoes? That was luxurious! Normally, my dad wore shoes until the soles wore off and then put cardboard in them repeatedly until it was finally time for a new pair. His father was supposed to take him shopping and he went downtown to where he, my grandfather, was working at the time to meet him and be taken to the shoe store.

I never met my grandfather on my dad’s side. He died before I was born, but I know enough about him to know that he “passed” for white in the early part of the century. He got jobs as a “white man” and was hired because he looked white enough. When my dad went downtown to get my grandfather that day he waited and waited for him to come out. He never did. Finally, he asked for someone to get his dad in the shop and another worker (a manager? an owner? I don’t know.) brings my grandfather to the front of the store because this kid is claiming to be his son and he’s been out there waiting.

This kid. My father. Who is dark. Who is Black.

“This nigger kid waiting out here says he’s your son.” That word, and you know which one, always jars me when I hear it told in this story.

Until, of course, I hear the part where my grandfather shakes his head back and forth and replies: “I’ve never seen him before.”

When my aunt told this story my dad was quiet and my hand flew up to my mouth and I searched my sister’s faces and we all sat still and cried. And we’ve never really spoken of it and he might not like that I’ve shared that story in writing but it has to say something about our family and our place in this country that it’s even an experience worth recounting. I think this is true especially since people’s feelings on race are still not at a place where we can talk comfortably about it. Granted, the fact that my grandfather denied my father as his son so he wouldn’t lose his job happened a long time ago and these old, white racists sitting at their table in a public restaurant next to me are from the same era. All parties lived through the same decades even though they lived vastly different lives.

Last week, my dad called me on St. Patrick’s day to wish me luck and a good day. Come on. This Black man had a daughter with an Irish-German woman and named her Kelly and my sisters are named Tracy and Erin. We kind of have to celebrate, you know?

I’d like to think that there are more like me and my family. I’d like to think that I’m normal. Maybe even that people like me are taking over.

Whatever the hell that means.

It wasn’t a question I anticipated. In truth, I don’t suppose that I’d ever really hear it. The emphasis being on the word “I”. I never thought that I, Kelly, would ever hear this question. Not because it’s a stupid question and yes, there are stupid questions. There are also ignorant questions. There are ridiculous questions. This one topped all three of those.

In the context of someone actually asking the question it must also be said that there really was no context. There was no reason for someone to ask this question because it wasn’t relevant to what we were discussing at the time. We meet, as teams, each week to discuss teaching and learning and part of the reason I’m there is to frame the learning for teachers. When I work with educators outside of my building it is sometimes in the role of consultant. For lack of a better term I guess I would say that I facilitate meetings. Each week I work with the Teaching and Learning team to determine the professional development for teachers so that we can stay abreast of scientifically-based research practices, introduce them to the teachers by providing examples and defining the expectations, and help their own learning to become skillful and proficient in teaching.

This question came out of nowhere.

Speaking to the group as a whole this teacher walked in our meeting and asked this seemingly arbitrary inquiry.

“What are we gonna do with all these pregnant girls?”

She sounded exasperated when she asked it, like she’d been irritated by it. Like she was weary of these pregnant girls. As if we’d had a rash of girls who had just come forward en masse to exclaim that they were pregnant.

When she asked it she was looking directly at me. AT ME. As if, because of my title or position, I was to answer this question for the entire group of teachers sitting together because I was leading the group and could offer some insight as to what we would “do” with all these pregnant girls.

“Other than, um, educate them with the free public education we offer?” I asked her.

“Well, there are just so many it seems. They can’t fit in my desks and…” she sighed and her voice trailed off as if I didn’t give her the answer she wanted. All the while she is talking I can feel my veins exploding and a twitch forming in the left side of my body and then I lost control of my bowels and my head just popped right off my shoulders and rolled onto the floor while my brain silently and slowed screamed, “WHAT. THE. HELL?”

Perhaps it wasn’t really the word “hell”, but you get my drift. It cut me off at the knees, this question. It struck right at my heart and the aim was true. Instantly, I was 15 years old and I got a glimpse of what teachers, when behind closed doors from students, said about me.

Oddly enough, I have the answer. I mean, I suppose I already gave it to her, but she didn’t like how I responded.

I know exactly what to “do” with these pregnant girls. How about we teach them? How about we educate them so well that we encourage them to go off to college with their babies? What about encouraging them to be responsible parents that can work and be productive citizens that contribute to society? Then, we could embolden and stimulate their knowledge and get them to further their education by getting a Master’s degree in education. Would that work? Is that okay with you? Because if they do really well and work hard at that then maybe, just maybe, they could work their way up and find themselves leading YOUR professional development.

That’s definitely the right answer.

How can anyone who hasn’t seen the sun in days stop themselves from feeling blue? Or gray? Or from hurting the nearest kitten that comes close to their yard?

I do not know. But it has made me Super Cranky which is like Super Superior but angrier and with clenched fists.

It’s making me engage in passive aggressive behavior.

It’s becoming nearly impossible to get through a day without sprinkling around some bad words.

No one is funny right now.

Oh, and another thing that’s just really irritating? Stop taking a gazillion pictures of yourself while you’re on vacation and posting them. I don’t care that you ate that shrimp cocktail on that tropical island with a drink that had 15 kinds of liquor in it. No, I just don’t. You’re just being mean now.

And pizza? I MISS YOU TERRIBLY. Because whatever, I know there are a ton of new ways to eat a pizza without any cheese on it but damnit, I miss cheese pizza. Look there. You made me cuss and say ‘damnit’ which, by the way, is the real way to spell it and not ‘dammit’ because that’s just stupid. Damnit.

Now that I’m combining foul language and junk food into one paragraph it’s time to get to the bidness.

January, you’re a hard month. You make everything seem dreary and you’re unmotivating. It’s hard to exercise and work out but when I do go to the gym the gross, sweaty, beefy guys make eye contact with me every 40 seconds while I’m on the elliptical and I don’t like that. The only reason I’m making eye contact back is because I’m questioning if they’re really looking at me and THEY ARE BUT I WANT THE M TO STOP IT. You’re just no fun anymore, January. It’s not me, it’s you. You have weak ass weather and the I don’t even like award shows anymore and the one holiday you have to offer is still, God help me, controversial in 2010. Sorry, MLK, that we’ve reduced you do initials. I come bearing gifts, though, January. I come in the name of all the depressed, weathered, wanna-be-startin’-somethin’-but-too-lazy-to-start-somethin’ people who want to do something fun like trick or treat during the month of January.

We’ll start this weekend, ok? Saturday night. We’ll go from house to house with a pillowcase in hand and ring doorbells to see if our neighbors are still alive have heat and some candy coated goodness to offer.

If they have a keg instead then ok. That’ll do.