Imagine Lisette

writing does a soul good.

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

europe vignettes

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Barcelona

My soul came back to me in Spain. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning it came, while I was held in the arms of expansive and creative Barcelona. Perhaps it was the late hours spent talking with Allene in her crowded and colorful apartment. Perhaps it was the organic curves of the Gaudi buildings that honor the city with their presence. Perhaps it was the thunderstorms waking me up with their brilliant flashes in the dark, humid night. Perhaps it was the smoky flavors of the Tapas bars, or the olive skin of the city’s inhabitants. Perhaps it was the love of my husband, settling upon me like a down comforter. Or perhaps it was the hand of God, piercing through the clouds of my being, and radiating my heart with light.

Toledo

The folds of the earth, peppered with olive trees and heavy rocks, suddenly meet and collapse into the gorge of the river. Toledo rises up – an island of spires and red tile, of castles and crowded buildings. This is the holy city, the city of renaissance angels, of Templar knights, of bloodshed and exalting art. The bells of the gargantuan cathedral toll the passing centuries, echoing out over the Spanish countryside, telling the wild oats and the twisted trees about seven hundred years of Catholic power. Romans, Visigoths, Arabs, Moors – all have touched and marked Toledo, leaving traces of their bitter kisses, their secret hopes, their longing for power, their reaching towards God. I sit on a large rock and contemplate the rugged land that reluctantly gives way to civilization, marveling at humanity’s persistence and creativity. How many lovers have sat on this very rock, arms encircling one another, to watch the sun rays play over the city’s roofs? Perhaps hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Now here I sit, repeating their admiration and inspiration. Their bodies have dissolved back into Spain, but Toledo remains. The river snakes around the city, protecting it. Geese drift on its currents. Goat herders whistle and caw at their flocks, guiding them without reins. The bells on the animals’ necks rival the cathedral’s with their haunting, mysterious sound. Behind them the tall grass ripples in undulating rows, praying in the wind, making the sound of eternity. And the large sky claims dominion over all, even over the holy city, reminding humanity of the heavens and the stars beyond.

Arles

The sounds of French voices, barking dogs and pipe organ music slowly permeates my consciousness as I awaken from a long deep sleep. Last night we ate in an outdoor cafe in a large, yet intimate square. Giant sycamores, their graceful arms lit from below, soared upward creating a canopy above our heads. The square was filled with a moving mosaic of people and color. Young men stopped to steal moments with the cafe’s beautiful hostess, then disappeared into the crowd. Later, as we walked through Arles’ twisting streets of stone, I contemplated my life, the brevity of it accentuated against the backdrop of Roman outposts gone to ruin. We kissed, and I forgot about philosophizing, which was a good thing. Kisses are like that, they clear the slate of the mind. We went back to our musty hotel with the tired walls and my mind remained free of clutter as I drifted into sleep. Now, as I listen to the sounds of Arles outside our window, I stare at those old walls. Shiny newness does not interest this part of the world – only cracked, peeling grandeur, art that glorifies God and man, and exquisite food perfected through generations of practice.

I wish we could stay and see the gypsies. People warn me of danger which only adds to my curiosity. I hear they gather on the Mediterranean near Arles each May to dance and sing into the night, make love and dream gypsy dreams. Perhaps I am being a romantic, but my guess is this is not far from the truth. Sounds profoundly poetic. I don’t believe all gypsies are like the pickpocket we saw in Italy who struck with quiet precision, slipping into the crowd with wallets tucked in her baby’s shawl. Instead I imagine them as a dark and mysterious people with a rooted history of rootlessness, and a long aching wail carved into the heart of their music. They represent the traveler and the displaced, they represent that which stirs deep within me and fills my heart with longing.