Lately, my writing is dispassionate. You all know this. You can feel it and while I’m weary of writing to the non-descript you, there is the obvious fact that you know who you are. I, too, know who you are. I’m just having trouble knowing who I am. It’s not my intention to live an unexamined life, but I just can’t share everything. So I asked for advice and hoped I would hear something that I could use. Unbelievably, it helped. A lot of it. Perhaps all.

But, you. Today we’re here to talk about you. How you are feeling in all this. How you want to say something about it, but you don’t. How you have come to this conclusion when I have been purposefully diaphanous is truly improbable, but you’re really smart. That’s not just me blowing sunshine up your skirt either.

Things that are helping:

1. Episodes of Pete & Pete complete with Polaris’ introductory theme song. I have great memories of watching this show with Mallory when she was younger. Seems like yesterday we enjoyed Pitstain and Artie, The Strongest Man In The World along with the steel plate in Mom’s head. Best line: Nobody talks that way about my lucky underpants!

2. Ben. Also? Jerry. Specifically? Cherry Garcia.

3. Sadly, notsomuchthecoffee. Moreso, it’s been a lovely South African shiraz.

4. Reading. Lots of it. Taking my time with Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. She writes about traveling over one year’s time to Italy, India, and Indonesia and I noticed that while she was EATING IN ITALY during the first portion of the book, I was eating a lot, too. Pasta has been my best friend and I’m keeping it around. My waist. I’m in India with her now. I’m praying a lot.

5. “Shanti-Mantra” by Ravi Shankar. I listen to it and I can almost believe that advice my mom gave me: It’ll be ok. We just don’t know what ok looks like.

Right now, ok is looking like some lucky underpants. You know you want some.

*Some of the writing I’ve been doing lately is all stream of consciousness or Artist’s Way-Like in that I sit and try to get three solid pages out of me. Instead of sitting here with another blank page (Honestly, next month’s challenge to write every. single. day is scaring the bejesus out of me) I have posted what is below. Maybe it’s more honest than I’d like because it seems a great confession of failure on my part.

Hearing that old adage that women utter to themselves that made me stop and take notice of it. Not the first time I’ve heard it, of course, but that’s the one that made me question it. Made me grateful that I can hear a thing over and again and one time hear it and have the balls-out reply, “Well, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

If I do nothing else in life, then at least I raised children well.

It is not a mystical phrase. There aren’t mysteries surrounding it, but it’s far too common an utterance for it to be thrown about without some sort of defiance by those who hear it.

All I have ever done is raise children and try to do so ‘well’. My own career as a teacher took me to a job once because I wanted to be nearer my children, to have them at the same school as me and be able to join them for lunch or afternoon snack if I had a prep period that coincided with it. My youngest was at the day care part of the building, my middle child was in a classroom directly adjoined to my own, and my oldest was in my class at the time. Pardon the honesty here, but I couldn’t get away from the children. Not that I wanted to, but it occurs to me now that I never was. They were with me when I drove to work/school and they were there during the day with me as I was working at their school and they piled into the minivan after I was done with work/school and then we went home together to eat dinner and do homework and grade papers so we could all go to work/school again.

Then, I realized that I was very tired. My friend, Lisa, had stopped me one day outside my classroom as I was ushering in the students and commented that I looked as such, but that she certainly understood it because she always saw me as this fascinating, talented woman who had it all and could keep it together. Something in me decided to be just bare it all for her that early morning before she had her coffee and 10 mile run through the park only to move onto to decorating more of her house.

“The balls are in the air and I’m juggling as much as I can. You just don’t see all the ones I’ve dropped. Please. Don’t look down. You’ll count those balls and realize what a failure I am.”

What was I talking about? The inability to keep up with grading essays? Trying to determine which novel I would teach next? How could she have known to what I was referring if I myself didn’t even know? It was unfair of me to dump on her, but I kept looking at her life and it looked so fabulous and I wanted it. Fair or unfair, I wanted it. Something different than the work, work, WORK DAMNIT YOU HAVE TO MAKE MONEY AND SUPPORT THESE BABIES YOU KEEP HAVING than I was used to struggling with in my short 27 years on this earth.

At this time, I was also heavily involved in my church either teaching Sunday school or performing in children’s church or being in the sign language choir. When this mega-church started doing productions in the form of musical plays, I thought I had found my calling and could do this for the rest of my days.

But the weariness still was getting to me. Working for a private school was difficult in that many of the student’s’ families insisted on them being treated better than anyone else in life. They were privileged and saw this as an opportunity to show their children how one learns to become better than others.

A mixed bag if ever I saw one. This was the time I met my friend Allen and he challenged everything they stood for and I was grateful that he waltzed into my life wearing a QUESTION AUTHORITY bumper sticker over his whole being.

So my thoughts about being a mom began to change and I longed for what I could not have: a stay-at-home-mom’s-life. I wanted to be more like those women who hopped in their SUV’s with their travel mugs in their hand while wearing their yoga pants and flip flops so they could kiss their babies goodbye and lead this glamorous child-free afternoon. They would shop for just the right blend of coriander because their gourmet dish was incomplete without just the right one. They offered their time at the bookstore where they easily dropped a hundred dollars on some magazines and cookbooks and perhaps something of the spiritual sort. They would laze about (wouldn’t they?) and try to have a check ready for the cleaning lady who would be there just in time for the house to be picked up before they returned to the schools to collect their children. Their husbands would come home tired and cranky but upon seeing the lithe bodies of their wives and the happy chubby children and smelling that meal would allow it to melt away and even he could continue playing the role of Satisfied Husband, Good Man.

I realized I wanted this world even if it was entirely fantasy. They still portrayed themselves as having this and I foolishly convinced myself that this was only a part of the life o f a stay-at-home mom that I wanted. So I began to work on my husband and tell him that I needed these things and that staying home with only the youngest child (since the others were school age, so technically I really WOULD be a stay-at-home mom because at least one of the children would be AT HOME WITH ME) was the only option and that I wanted to quit my job.

He wasn’t hearing any of it. He just wasn’t having it. I sought the answer (the answer, by the way, was not just “yes” to staying home, but “Yes, you deserve to stay home and you’re already worked very hard and yes, your husband will having nothing but support for you to do that so he will get a better paying job so you can stay home because yes, this is the completely right decision”) from my friends and co-workers.

Mostly, they obliged. Until they got to part where they saw my husband as supporting this. Then, they scrunched up their faces as if to say sourly, “well, you know… I can’t really see this happening for you.”

One of the teachers who only stayed for one year in that position comforted me. She was older than me and her children were in high school and beyond and she had, admittedly, already “done her time” by staying home with her little babies.

You know, Kelly. No matter what you decide, you will still have the Scarlet Letter. Every mom has it. It’s invisible, but we all recognize it when we see it. It’s the letter G and it’s carved right onto her forehead.

A “G”? I realized I was, as the English teacher, to get this reference, but I was sure Hester Prynne wore an “A” pinned to her chest.

Yes, a “G”. For “guilt”. No matter what you’re doing, you will have guilt. If you’re working at a school and leaving others to care for your children, you will have guilt. If you’re staying home with your son and not using your college degree for something worthwhile and giving back to society, you will have guilt.

The flippant part of me wanted to retort, “So, basically, I am destined for a life of guilt? I’m sorry. I call Bullshit on that one.” But I didn’t that day. I was still so young and my children were, too, and I was unsure if my husband would truly get what I was asking for and instead bawled in her classroom until I was curled up in her lap trying desperately to hold on to her skirt for dear life. I thought that if I let go of her skirt at that moment, the earth would swallow me up whole for my motherly guilt and I would have no one but myself to blame for it.

Stupid of me, but I have never thought I deserved much more than that.

In discussions of race and culture and the politics of it all there must be a safe and comfortable place to discuss it. One of the reasons I bring it up at all in my writing is because it is ever present with me. That may be my fault and it may not. I’m certainly not writing as the “tragic mulatto” but I can’t honestly say that I write as a “white woman” either, because I live and breathe this mixed race life. If I were to be honest when speaking of identity, however, I would have to say that more often than not I will refer to myself as a “black woman” because even putting my toes a little bit in the waters of race has afforded me that.

It is something my parents have understood for a long time and neither of them have issues with it at all. In fact, my mother was very upset that the nurse refused to mark my correct race on my birth certificate when I was born.

“You’re white and you gave birth. So your baby is white.”

Attending the session on inclusion and exclusion at BlogHer brought up some of those issues once again and it was only because the smart and serious Joy of GingaJoy and I skipped a session the day before that I even knew to go to it. After lunch on Friday she made her way over to my table and I extended my hand to shake it and do the polite “Nice to meet you” when she said her name and I screamed and jumped out of my chair to throw my arms around her. My adoration for Joy has been going on for some time and we clicked together so fast it was amazing. She sat down and we gabbed for so long that others had no choice but to join in the conversation.

The session was intellectual and honest. We discussed commentors who would rather email writers privately and the impact that has on the community that you’ve built. Issues of risk came up with how much you are willing to write online and when that tends to get you in Comment Hell. Diversity of the blogroll was another key point because we tend to click on those people we “know”. How many times have I visited another blog to see the names of people who comment on mine and vice versa? That inclusion extends to linking people as well, but if we’re not diverse in our reading selections then variety is limited to both us and our readers.

That brings up another question as well: why aren’t the Top Bloggers people of color? Where is the Black/Hispanic/Asian/Indian Dooce? Is there a mommyblogger (I think I will just pick on stick with that one genre for the moment to make a point) of color who is considered an “expert”? The reason I ask this has to do with a question someone posed to me in a private email (which, as you’ll realize, needs to be out in the open here so I’m repeating it).

Are you a mommyblogger?

Well, that was rather pointed. I mean, it reads “Mocha MOMMA” on my address bar and my banner. To be fair I have children. They aren’t the focus of everything I write about so does that make me less of a mom?

No. Not at all.

Inclusion to the world of motherhood is a tricky thing. Perhaps it is that the identity of mothers in the blogosphere tends to stick with having children ages 0-toddler with hearty discussions of strollers, naps, and 100% juice choices. But I guarantee that when those children get older so will the stories you tell about them and then you’ll be looking for the women like me who have older children experience because you’ll wonder aloud HOW DO I STOP FROM THROWING SPOONS AT MY TEENAGE DAUGHTER’S HEAD?

Not too long ago I chaperoned a field trip at my school and there was a playground accident where a 6th grade girl walked right in front of the swings and she got knocked out. All protocols were followed and the ambulance came to the park and got there before her parents did. When her mother got out of the car she was visibly pissed off. She was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt with her hair wrapped up in a scarf. Her concern, as she stormed over to where her daughter was being treated by an EMT, was that she was not going to have her child taken to the hospital.

The teachers and students who were there were extremely nosy and kept trying to crowd around all the frenzy, but we did our best to hold them at bay. It was only when I could hear comments around me from other teachers that I realized something about inclusion and exclusion in the world of mothering: we don’t always see Black mothers as caring and loving. These teachers saw her as hostile and difficult.

Why is she sleeping in the middle of the day anyway?

What’s the matter, is she inconvenienced to be here to pick up her kid? Jesus.

Doesn’t she even care about her daughter? Look at how she’s dressed.

Time, for me, stopped. I am a people watcher and an observor of life so I let this sink in and didn’t, for once, react to the bashing of this mother going on around me. Surveying the scene, I found that one of the administrators was talking to the ambulance people at one end of the ambulance. The mother was at the other end (the discussion of whether or not the child needed to go to the hospital was being much discussed) and her posture said so much.

Arms crossed. Head cocked to the side. Anger in her eyes and brows furrowed as she glared at the other adults discussing her child. Other Adults = EMT ambulance people and the vice-principal of her child’s school.

There was no question in my mind that I would approach this woman and take myself out of the safety of being a bystander. When I walked up to her it seemed like we were the only other people there because she was, physically, far away from everyone else. But mentally, too. She was in her head and there was no telling what was going on there.

Or maybe there was.

When I got close enough to her I put out my hand and touched her on the arm and squeezed lightly.

“You must be terribly worried about your daughter.”

That was all I knew to say. To reach out to her and express that I’ve been scared, too, as a mother when my child is hurt.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Yes.”

And my only question after that was why on earth would anyone treat her like she was less than a mother? Like she cared any less for her child? Was it because she was black and looked angry? Later, I learned that she worked the night shift and was woken up by a scary phone call that her child had a possible concussion. Hell, I’d be pissed, too. When our children are with other people and they get hurt we naturally get upset.

Exclusion is real and I can’t help it if I’m still that Practice Black Person for people, but if it forces others to consider their own ways of slighting people then so be it. If I have to spend time pointing it out, then I will. If it makes you look at a woman who doesn’t look like your version of The Perfect Mother and show compassion then I will consider my time not wasted.

Maybe it’s not that I treated her like a mother that made her soften towards me and allow herself to be vulnerable enough to let me, a stranger, fold her into my arms.

Maybe I just treated her with humanity and dignity. Sometimes, that’s enough.

*Edited: Cross posted at BlogHer. If you leave me some comments there I will tell Santa that you were good all this year even though you have a few months left to be naughty.

As I continue to digest the contents of the BlogHer 07 weekend I also continue to get a bit of indigestion gassiness on some issues that just irk me to no end. All that was to say that I don’t plan on playing nice for a moment.

I’ll play nice later.

The State of the Momosphere session is the one that I wanted to attend to simply ask some questions about Who Gets Contacted by marketing professionals (and I have, so please don’t think I’m complaining that I never have) and Why. In fact, when the moderator, Jory, was outlining the session she made the three points that would be discussed and asked if there were any other questions the audience would like addressed before they got started.

Only one hand went up in the air. Mine. I pointedly asked if we could please discuss the lack of racial diversity in the blogrolls and communities we find ourselves in as a general topic but if we could explore issues of moms of color.

Naturally, the conversation was engaging, but we kept getting to a point where the audience wanted to say things that had already been covered so that they could have their say. And they kept on saying it and saying it over and over until I was prodded by a certain someone to just SPEAK MY MIND ALREADY.

Again. The Hand. It went up. As the microphone was being passed to me some gentlemen marketers were commenting on the fact that they pursue mothers who blog about products and that one of them even apologized on behalf of corporate America (Corporate America? You’re not forgiven. You’re ON MY LIST.) and another one said that the best way to contact these mothers is to establish a relationship with them so that they know you care.

Great. A segue.

The Hand.

My question, then, was directed at those two marketing professionals and I asked when they would tap into the mothers of color and bring us into the fold because they are leaving us out of the loop. When will the diversity come into play?

And the question? With The Hand? It died a sad death right there. We got back to the monetization of blogs and I got a little excited when Stefania chimed in that diversity does indeed need to include moms of color because she has concerns about Asians being marginalized as well.

Then, that died, too, as we went directly onto a privacy issue.

And I shook my head. And I pursed my lips. And I was disappointed and let down that the one question that was given to the moderator was ignored.

Certainly, I am grateful to the dozens of people I spoke to after the session was over. There was a full 20 minutes of chatting with people who agreed with my comment and told me to press on and to keep fighting for women of color. I needed something else instead. I needed any of them to take the microphone and say, “Excuse me. Isn’t anyone going to answer Kelly’s question?”

Where were you, Mommybloggers? I needed you.

It�s not that I�m going for a record, but I�m certain my train brain is on a journey headed straight for hell. Or the nearest Dairy Queen where tweens are flicking sprinkles at one another and stealing the salt and pepper shakers to be found in their backpacks later.

I can only start with the obvious Imus Assholus statement that is apparently confusing everyone. They seem to think that linking his comment to every black person�s racist comment made since the beginning of time is necessary. Or perhaps they�re just trying to flummox us with the filthy thoughts of hos and equate them to college educated female athletes.

It�s a strategem as old as the hills: first, make a comment or wave a flag or dress in blackface with 40 ounce malt liquor bottles in your hand, feign ignorance or innocence or both, and then force blacks to defend why the action was hurtful. Leave it up to blacks to explain to you that what you said, how you acted, or what you did was painful.

Nappy headed hos. I was just kidding! It was a joke! Can�t you take a joke?

This is my flag and my heritage and I�ll put it on the bumper of my car and on my t-shirt and wave it at my state�s capital building if I want to! You can�t tell me what to do! You must not know your history if you want me to get rid of the Confederate flag!

Oh, stop your complaining! It was a party. Don�t you enjoy dressing up like a white person from time to time on a white person�s holiday and taking pictures of it? You just don�t know how to have a good time!

Behave, then accuse. That�s the ruse. It�s also the rub. It rubs the wrong way.

One of the op-ed pieces that ran in my paper was from a Washington Post Writers Group member, Kathleen Parker. She postulates that we aren�t forgiving Imus fast enough, that �Piling on is awfully fashionable at the moment� when, in fact, we�re merely asking for people to accept responsibility for their actions. I�ve said it before here, referring to myself: there is no freedom of speech. There is always a price.

She also goes on to mention that �It was also racist�, but she fails to mention that it was also misogynistic. Do I have to spend time explaining that to this priveleged, white woman? It seems as if I�ve done this before too many times to count. It gets weary.

I don�t ever pretend to speak for �all� people whether they’re black or white or teachers or mothers or wives. But I feel safe in saying that black people are TIRED of always explaining to whites WHY what they did or said was wrong. Would it be enough if we simply said, �Hey. You know what? Being called a nappy headed ho was very painful. Especially since I�m a college student trying to work toward a career while playing a sport. It�s really hard to study and get good grades and be an athlete, so can you stop calling me names? Thanks. That would be great.�

�Hey. You know what? That confederate flag is a part of my heritage, too. It�s a painful reminder of the past when my family were slaves. When my people were ravaged and raped and my culture was denigrated. I�m not too fond of it. Can you stop waving it in my face on your t-shirts and trucks and state capitols that make up MY legislative assembly? Thanks. That would sure be nice.�

�Hey. You know what? Dressing up in black face and putting stuffing in your pants and taping malt liquor to your hands on the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday was very insensitive and rude. It hurt my feelings. I didn�t like it. Can you stop making me uncomfortable with that? Thanks. I know my family who loves me and knows me intimately is wounded by it.�

In her article she goes on to say:

Black hip-hop artists have been denigrating the women of their families and neighborhoods for years with terminology that reduces all women to receptacles for men�s pleasure. Sharpton and Jackson would do well to direct some of their outrage to that neck of the woods.

Instead of a comment for her, I actually have a question. Are you, too, responsible for directing your outrage at those artists? Is it only for blacks to address other blacks behaving badly in the rap world? So you’re saying that black people are responsible for other black people?

I didn�t make a mistake there. I meant �rap�. It is the �rap� world. Not the �hip hop� world. The fact that a Washington Post writer doesn�t even know the difference between the two makes my point for me. What �hip hop� is she listening to anyway? Does she know about the verbal skills and social consciousness promoted by the hip hop underground? Would she know how to find the music of Talib Kweli and Blackalicious and Mos Def? What does she know about De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest? I�m not even naming the truly underground hip hop artists, but ones that are mainstream. (Dear iTunes, Please do a better job of distinguishing the two genres. Hip Hop needs it�s own category. When you linked it with �rap� you really only featured rap. I notice you didn�t do that with �dance� and �electronic� so you have the capability. Get someone who knows music on that, would you? Thanks.)

Yes, it�s a little clubby at times, mutually admiring and self-absorbed, but those characteristics also create a sense of relaxed intimacy that is part of the show�s attraction.

If relaxed intimacy was attractive for his little “club”, then perhaps Imus just gave blacks a taste of what whites truly feel for them. His slip of the tongue on the radio just gave everyone an idea of what they say behind closed doors. Do I have that right or do you secretly portray blacks in favorable circumstances when you’re by yourselves?

It doesn’t take much to discredit Pat Robertson, but I must say that the people who blindly and ignorantly listen to him won’t even question this remark seen on You Tube:

�Yes, what he says is pretty gross… but, the main problem we�re dealing with here is not this remark, it�s the treatment of black women by black men.�

We�re confusing a lot of issues here. Hip hop and rap are NOT the same. The treatment of black women PERIOD, not by black men, is something we don�t talk about but to discuss it in relation to the Imus statement is absurd. Don�t confuse the issue by bringing up the Duke case, either. Do you think it�s a coincidence that the Duke story broke last week in the midst of this? If so, this calls for a lesson in Media 101.

People coming to his defense have tried, unsuccessfully, to express what he really meant. That he wasn�t a racist, but he made a racist comment. That he was joking. That his humanitarian efforts far outweigh the fact that he called black players �nappy headed hos� and the white players �cute�. Humanitarians, last time I checked, are concerned with or seek to promote human welfare. His comments did not do that.

To have truly learned a lesson here I really would like to have seen him keep his job, but to see a noticable change in his efforts. The real trick with being a �genius� (far too loosely thrown around a term) is to continue his political commentary, retain his sponsors and advertisers, and find a way to help change the racism in this country. Imus can�t do it alone, but I would have genuinely stuck around to watch that happen.

I�m here to watch other things happen. Things that may seem small and insignificant, but that affect me greatly. In writing about them, I chance alienation, but how much worse could that be?

When I started to seriously write last year I also had to seriously read. Most of the people I was interested in reading were popular bloggers who were getting opportunities that seemed incredible to me. They were being invited on a trip to Amsterdam to discuss the world of blogging. I jumped from blog to blog on the links they provided to see who else was going and was intensely disappointed to find that only Liza Sabater of Culture Kitchen was respresenting bloggers of color (and if I�m wrong about this, please correct me - because I checked the list again and didn�t see any) Where was that fair represenation? I wondered. Where are the black SAHM who write for a living?

Again, this year I recently read about bloggers being invited to view a taping and live interview session for the television show The New Adventures of Old Christine. Sure, I noticed a little diversity there. But again, where were the black bloggers? Were they certain that no black people watched the show and decided to forgo an opportunity for them? Still, when I read AlphaMom I�m not at all surprised that they feature Dooce, Melissa, and Amalah….three white women.

One of the last things I did before �quitting� this blog (don�t even go there right now) was leaving a comment for the Soccer Moms asking where the moms of color were. They responded in the most positive way - they invited me to join. The problem for me was an issue of time - one of my worst qualities besides drinking out of the milk container and scratching myself in public is that I overextend myself on projects. I had to say no to them, but I did promise to lead an all-call for black bloggers to respond to their plea of creating diverse political opinions. They still want you. Where are you? Are you out there reading this? You need to let them know.

It�s the being absent and invisible that is the worst. Imus can say what he wants. He has that freedom of speech, but let�s not confuse that issue either - you may say what you want and not be thrown in jail so long as you don�t overtly threaten the lives of others. Make no mistake, there is still a price to be paid for your words. Once again, the problem is not that people are being held accountable for their words, it�s that it�s taken so long for that to occur.

A friend of mine from class last week wondered, �Why is this happening now? What about when Jimmy the Greek made those comments over 20 years ago? Nothing happened to him. Why not?�

Black people have been wondering that for a long time.

The perpetuation of sterotypes is what is killing us. Let me offer a few examples. First, I think about the ridiculousness of VH1�s �Flavor of Love� and how, incredulously, they continued by giving New York her own show after that. There are a few colleagues of mine who were discussing it one day and saying how much enjoyment they get out of that show. Besides the intellectual decline it provides, it also gives an excuse for them to attribute those qualities to all blacks. The same thing happened with the first season of �The Apprentice� when everyone only discussed Omarosa. Even at the very beginning, I could see how they were going to get their ratings and it was an old trick: create a scary, angry black bitch character and watch your audience increase. How tiring. But it was the end that bothered me the most. The benign tasks given to Bill and Kwame seemed so bland that there was no clear winner. During the commercial break I commented to my husband that I would no longer watch this show or any other reality show if the white guy won.

Why not?

Because of the lesson in racism.

What lesson?

The lesson that we�ll all learn if the white guy wins again. The lesson for all little black boys watching this show. The lesson we won�t talk about in the media but in small circles when it�s safe: you can be a black man with an MBA from Harvard, but you still won�t beat the white guy with a 4-year state university degree.

It’s the “club” that is still the hurtful part of our society, our world. There is a “club”, but we rarely talk about their responsibility in race relations. When others form their own “clubs” to combat racism that seems to be taken to task more than the original “club”. It comes in the form of accusatory questioning.

Why do we need Affirmative Action?

Why are women’s rights so important?

Again, we defend. We try to explain. Even this very post is because of the numerous emails from friends and readers who wanted to know how I felt and what I really risk here is another example of defense: they will want to correct me and have me defend my words instead of listening to the plea behind them and taking them to heart. Issues will cloud and confuse, but the heart of it is a rift long-standing in this country so I know I won’t change anybody’s feelings with my small contribution.

�The black-white rift stands at the very center of American history. It is the great challenge to which all our deepest aspirations to freedom must rise. If we forget that - if we forget the great stain of slavery that stands at the heart of our country, our history, our experiement - we forget who we are, and we make the great rift deeper and wider.� - Ken Burns