Imagine Lisette

writing does a soul good.

the storm

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Today was a stormy day in more ways than one. There were the physical storms that came and went – bands of sun broken by rain squalls and darkened sky. It echoed the way I felt inside, internal storms battering at my peace of mind. It was one of those days when I didn’t like anything the way it was, and just wasn’t in the mood for acceptance. So when there was a break in the wet horizon, I packed up Zane (who was getting restless probably in reaction to me) and off we went to Seward Park. I put Zane in his city stroller, bundled up in a fleece one-piece suit topped by a hooded parka. Armed with crackers, cheese, one corned-beef sandwich, a sippy cup and a bottle of water we set off in search of release. The wind rose up a notch as we started into the trail around the edge of the island. I could feel it tugging at my hair, at my being – asking me to wake up.

Zane took it all in, the wind, the yellow leaves falling around us like snow, the large orange maple leaves on the ground, the waves in the lake, the egrets looking for food. He babbled and hummed, sitting up straight in his seat – limbs askew as if he was going to catch something with both his hands and feet. “Onward driver!” his whole body said. After a while he bent over and watched the wheels of the stroller crush the wet leaves. I stopped and picked up a huge maple leaf the size of his head and handed it to him as a gift. His eyes and face erupted into a huge grin and he grabbed it – holding it aloft like a blazing orange torch. Now he was a colonel leading his army to war, holding his sword high. Or perhaps the head of a peace delegation, waving a bright flag.

We reached the back side of the island and the wind abated a bit. I gave Zane some crackers and strips of string cheese which he happily ate while I had my sandwich. A wide stripe of sun painted the distant city skyline gold, an stark contrast against the gray sky. I felt encouraged. We drank out of our respective bottles. Motherhood in this moment was worth all the letting go. The lower income, the lack of time, the setting aside of dreams and goals, the tired evenings and endless high chair cleaning. Looking at Zane with his maple leaf in hand I felt nothing but gratitude for windy days in the park, and for those little arms that are so good at wrapping a hug around mama’s neck. It felt good to be out of my head, out of my dissatisfaction – and back in the moment with my son.

My reverie was interrupted by the wind picking up again. Off we went, with still half of the island to go. As we neared the final stretch the wind decided to give us a run for our money. We were walking headlong into strong gusts which lifted Zane’s hood so that it hovered about an inch above his head, not quite blowing completely off. He leaned forward, eyes squinting. He looked back at me and laughed. Snot was pouring out of his nose, but if he didn’t care – I didn’t care. I laughed back and pushed the stroller harder. I was getting hot from the effort of pushing directly into the wind, so I stripped off my coat and tied it around my waist. Zane still clung to the leaf as it danced in the wind. I could hear his ecstatic screams over the noise of the storm that was now rapidly approaching. It was like he was on the roller coaster ride of his life. The more he squealed, the more I laughed – until we both resembled madmen, laughing maniacally at God knows what.

Finally it came. The rain. We still had a few parking lots to navigate – at least another five minutes of walking. I flipped up the canopy on the stroller and threw on my raincoat. The wind made it impossible for either of our hoods to stay on so were good and wet by the time we got to the car. But we were both happy, our moods kissed by the storm. And Zane fell asleep on the drive home, looking like an angel with ruddy cheeks and wet hair, the maple leaf still intact in one tightly clenched fist.

the barn

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The barn sits alone, stalks of wheat caressing its tired boards. It caves in on itself as if pulled by a force at the center of its deserted body. Its broken back leaves a jagged silhouette against the blue sky. Clouds skim the highest peak, the last upward thrust. The roof, falling inward in slow motion, will one day pull that remaining bastion down with it. The front doors of the barn splay out at odd angles, and light streams into the darkness beyond, finding its way through missing slats. Crickets interrupt the still heat of the fields, along with the whisper of wind playing in the wheat. The sound of a crop duster engine reverberates over the hills and I strain to see the source of the low hum. I see nothing among the crowd of clouds that travel towards the south, navigating the buck and roll of the horizon. Ghost plane. Then all is quiet, only the sounds of crickets, wind, and fertile growth meeting slow decay. The barn sits, majestic in its dereliction, waiting for the earth to claim its peeling wood and the fading smell of manure and old leather. Its destruction is magnificent, reigning over the life of the fields.

Occasionally people come to pay it homage – children play among fallen rafters, photographers make love to it through camera lenses, travelers stop and contemplate its ruin. I too am an unexpected pilgrim to this place. I stare at the barn in silence, sweating in the heat. As I write, I struggle to capture its imperfect perfection, the poetry of death sitting enveloped by life. I am at a loss for words. As the afternoon moves towards night, I can only sit and sweat and watch the shadow of the clouds trip over the tips of stalks, watch two hawks flutter over the fields looking for prey, watch the contours of the land deepen with the changing light. The wind picks up a notch, a dust devil swirls up the road and dissipates just as suddenly over the fields. There is nothing that needs to be said. The pair of hawks fly low over the fields, one clutching the bloody success of its hunt. Their shrill piping announce their victory as they drop in and land. And all the while the barn sits, quietly going about its slow death.

inside the melting pot

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The first time I heard about the “American melting pot,” I figured I contained many of its simmering ingredients. As a child, I remember being mesmerized by Schoolhouse Rock’s cartoon version of the great American story, with people of all races (including one Statue of Liberty) happily ending up in a large cooking kettle. I was a living example of that culinary experience – Black, Italian and Irish. I was the color of hot cocoa, which I decided meant I was sweet and delicious. I was living proof that everybody could get along.

I was happy in my cultural fondue for many years. I grew up in Seattle, the adopted daughter of a black man from Virginia and a white French-Canadian woman. I thought it normal to have one light-skinned parent and one dark-skinned one, to speak French as well as English, to travel the world, and to live in a funky, colorful neighborhood filled with artists, gay men and women, and bizarrely dressed, transient youth. I didn’t think it strange that my community didn’t include many people of color. My life was well-seasoned and familiar.

But in my early twenties something started to feel wrong. Maybe it began when a black teenager approached me and some white friends and kicked me in the shin. “Don’t forget you’re black,” he hissed. Or it could have been the Spike Lee movies about the inexorable separation between white and black. Or perhaps it was the black man who, upon discovering my boyfriend was white, notified me that as a black woman it was my duty to carry on the black seed (I had no idea black people were on the endangered species list). Whatever it was, I was no longer feeling good about being an unofficial representative of the melting pot. It wasn’t OK for everyone to get along after all. I felt pressured. What was it going to be: white or black?

Everywhere I looked, minorities were making a case for why they should dislike and distrust the dominant society. I saw their point. Who didn’t know the history of slavery? That a country run by white men had stolen land, culture and hope from the Native Americans? That just a few years ago in Texas, white racists had dragged a black man to death behind a car? I was proud to be part black, part of the legacy of survival. But I didn’t hate white people. Many of my friends were white, my boyfriend was white, an entire branch of my family was white. I was part white. But because of the way I looked, to some I was a black woman fraternizing with the enemy. It was a label that made my stomach churn.

The more I tried to figure out how to be acceptably “black,” the more depressed I became. I could not create that schism within myself – it was too late. I didn’t know many in my situation, and I felt isolated. I wanted out of the melting pot, wanted to have just one heritage and be done with it. Perhaps I would be more bland, but I would have less psychological indigestion. I fantasized about leaving my boyfriend, running away, and immersing myself in a black community where I could raise a nice black family and disappear into normalcy. But I could not imagine carving away most of my life. And when, in a fit of distress, I admitted to my boyfriend my thoughts of escaping his skin color, he sat down and cried. “Then racism really will have won,” he said. I was ashamed.

Relief came in my late twenties when I stumbled across a web site called Interracial Voice. Hundreds of people posted their thoughts about being multi-racial, living in interracial relationships, and having interracial children. They shared the challenges and joys of transcending color lines. “Identify with love,” one woman wrote. “Don’t categorize yourself, even if others do. It just pushes us all back to ‘those days.’” I had finally found others who had tried to identify with one race over another and had given up, finding strength in embracing their unique identity as mixed-race people.

I discovered this new wave of thought just as it was cresting. Similar websites cropped up. Magazines for mixed-race people hit the newsstands. Mixed-race celebrities began refusing to be pigeonholed into one racial category. Singer Mariah Carey, who many think is white, spoke proudly about being tri-racial. “When people ask, I say I’m Black, Venezuelan, and Irish.” Pro-golfer Tiger Woods declared himself a “Cablinasian,” a nod to his Caucasian, black, Native American, and Thai heritages. This pronouncement drew sharp criticism from many black people. “Doesn’t that boy know he’s black?” a black friend said to me in disgust.

But it wasn’t just celebrities who were challenging existing racial divisions. In the late ‘90s, the U.S. Census admitted they could no longer ask people to only choose one race by which to define themselves. The 2000 census made history when it offered 63 possible racial combinations. The result: 6.8 million people identified themselves as multi-racial.

All of this helped me let go of the need to choose one racial identity. I could embrace all of my flavors again. I realized I had myself internalized a form of racism, thinking I should act a certain way because of the color of my skin. I now envision a day when our country will be less race-obsessed and divided. I hope for not only the end of racism by whites, but also racism by minorities against whites and other minorities who don’t fit stereotypes. As we move into the 21st century, geneticists are saying that race doesn’t exist on a genetic level, that fundamentally we are just humans with interesting variations. This speaks volumes. I hope we, as a country, will listen.

Today I am married to the man I almost ran away from, and we are expecting our first child. Although I sometimes fear that my son will be pushed to categorize himself according to how he looks, I hope to show him a way free of boundaries and limitations. He heralds what is possible with the next generation – that perhaps someday the concept of race as we now know and experience it will cease to exist.

And to him I will say, “Welcome to the melting pot. You are sweet and delicious. You are all people in one.”

– 2001