The Passive Racist

    The sweet white haired grandma stood in the kitchen. She was baking some cornbread and had the radio on singing along with the Statler Brothers. She was happy. The sun was shining through the sunroom and she was planning on having a big family meal later on. She was washing up the good china when her son walked in and said, "Mom, I have a problem. There is a stain on my hood." The music continued to play as she walked to the bathroom and shut the door.
    After dinner was over that night her husband pulled her aside and said, " Hey, honey. Brent got a little too close to the fire tonight. See what you can do about patching up his robe. Okay?" He then kissed her on the forehead and walked back to the front porch where his son  and a few of the grandkids were playing guitars and singing together.

     The sweet white haired grandma that uses the "N-word" is harmless. She doesn't bring any grief to anyone: In fact she usually brings fried chicken. She is the one at church every Sunday who sings in the choir and walks by the nursery kissing the babies calling each one by name. She has actually travelled all over the USA. Her and her husband sit in their air conditioned RV and drive all over America seeing all the sights. They have met thousands of people. They have seen poverty. They have gotten lost and have seen the dusty roads of rural Kentucky. They have stopped before and had dinner at roadside shacks where meals were cooked by people who literally sleep on the booths after closing time because they don't have a house, just a business. They have been to the Universities visiting their grandkids, meeting college students from literally all over the world.
   No, sweet little harmless grandma is surely not our problem. She didn't raise her children to hate people. She doesn't know what her boys do once they leave the house, and after all; they are grown. She has broken bread with many people of many nationalities......none of which she respects.

  She doesn't have to teach her kids hate.  All she has to do is teach her kids that they are better than everybody else because   they are white Christians. All she has to do is teach her kids that they are above the law because G-d is the only one they need to answer to. All she has to do is teach her children that some people are waiters and some people are guests and those two lines don't blur. All she has to do is make sure her kids get vouchers to go to private schools so they don't have to be around "those types of people".

    All she has to do is sew up their robes and bleach their hoods and make sure they have dinner when they get back. Nope, she is surely not a racist. And she has convinced herself that because she has  kept her hands clean that G-d won't see blood on them. Looking away and acting stupid is not a free pass. No, the passive  women of America surely aren't the problem.
  Maybe the problem is the "old" generation....hmm. The generations before us that were just too ignorant to know better? Yes. The ones that cocerned themselves with voting laws, child labor laws, public education laws, and equality laws....they sure were ignorant. 

I am Breaking

    School is out and I am dealing with a range of emotions. This is the last real "summer" I get to spend with all of my kids. The spectrum of ages that now live in my house is daunting. There is no way to have a family lesson or a family discussion. Things are fragmented. My oldest two are practically adults. Samuel is 13. Jonas and Tika Rae are so young. The movies that I watch with the older ones are nothing like the movies I watch with the younger. My heart is in three separate pieces. Sometimes I wonder if those pieces even touch.  Lilli is embarking on her senior year. She is beginning her life. This is the last summer that I will have a baby in the house: Tika goes to Kindergarten in the fall. I have no idea how to feel. There is joy and sorrow mixed so well together that the emotions negate each other and I am left with a hole. A bright empty  hole.
    The biggest lesson to be learned this summer  though is about the middle child. The strong and adventurous boy who desperately needs freedom and through freedom finds identity. There are so many fights and so many late night conversations. There are so many tears and so many rules. I have looked at him and in plain speech said, "I have never had to raise a child before you. Those other two have never crossed me. They have never asked for their freedom. They have never dated, snuck out of the house, or needed space. If you need to be angry please go yell at them!" I am struggling. By the third child the parent is supposed to be so broken that she just hands the kid the car keys and says, "Just be home before daylight. Alive." I am not raising the third child. I am essentially raising my first. He is a deal breaker and a loner. He is a straight A student with tons of friends. He is 13.
    The dynamics in this house are changing. As I am giving him his freedom I am waiting for Lilli to take hers. I am preparing him to choose a high school. I am also preparing Tika to go boldly and bravely into a class of new friends, new ideas, and new rules. I am trying to figure out if Michael will ever get behind the wheel of a car or will he move to a city with a subway. I am breaking. I am fractured. I have never been so whole knowing that all the things that are happening are supposed to happen and all things are right. 
     I am trying to hand over the little kids to the bigger kids for a few minutes each day this summer. Michael is helping Jonas with math. Sam is helping Tika with money. All that seemed fine until I caught Sam trying to teach Tika to count to 'nerfteen'. (sigh). Lilli has taken on a part time job working for a friend for a few hours a week and I am tempted to ask Sam to teach her about money too.
    There is no joy in me. I am simply counting each hour. The nights are so very long as I ponder, in the heat, if any of these people will be recognizable this time next year. How will a year change them all? How will a year change me. What is like to NOT have a baby in the house? What is it like to watch your first baby turn 18? Life is a gaping hollow hole of perfect. I am miserable. I am so very proud.