Bear with me, I've got some sorting out to do

It's 4th of July weekend, so I suppose this post should be all flag-waving and barbecue goodness. In my own way, it is. I want to talk about last week's ALA Annual Conference.

ALA is American Libraries Association, and their annual conference is huge, and by huge I mean I heard participant numbers of 19,000 (I suppose that includes vendors and workshop leaders). This year's conference in Chicago crackled with the energy of thousands of librarians, all fired up to defend the First Amendment and be part of the village that lifts up their patrons.

Now, before I continue with that, let me digress for a moment. Many, many years ago, I attended a seminar on leadership for women (I still have the cassette tapes). In one exercise, the leader asked us, what is the first thing you notice about a person when they enter a room?

We all got stuck on gender. Surely the first thing you notice is whether someone is male or female. (Please be aware here that she was talking about noticing, not judging. Kind of like when you notice a red dress in the shop window. You file it away in your brain as benign data.)

Actually, she said, researchers found that the first thing we notice is race. She was using this to illustrate how women, people of color, and women of color have to establish their credentials quickly, because strangers have already "catalogued" them in terms of race/gender bins.

I've never been afraid of other races, but I began to notice what I noticed about strangers. When someone walked into the room, I began to think, "Okay, *black/asian/whatever* person, different physical traits than mine, that's interesting, file it and move on."

Okay? Let's go back to ALA...

At this year's conference, I encountered a brand new world. There were people at the conference who did not conform to gender norms. While I'm okay with this, I found myself staring a little too long while my brain did the following:

Are they male or female? I need the data to put in the correct bin. No, I don't. They are human. That's the only bin I need. Oh dear, I've been staring. Stop looking at them. Well, don't look away like you've just been caught spying! Be cool, for Pete's sake. 

So, my dear friends who are gender-fluid, please-oh-please accept my apologies while I acclimate my brain to its new data bins. I'm combining everything into "Plant", "Animal", "Human", and "Miscellaneous." It may take me a while to sort it all out. If I stare, just smile and say hi. I can always use more friends.

In the meantime, here's Earth Wind And Fire. Because you are a shining star, no matter who you are.





Have a safe and sane and happy 4th of July.

Evolution and hope

Marcus' senior vocal jazz recital was on Sunday. I'm just the mom, so I'm not a good judge, but his teacher pronounced it the best recital she has been to this year. Or maybe ever. I don't quite remember, but there were tears in her eyes. There were tears in mine, too.

My tears were for a different reason.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched Casablanca. (This is not unusual, since I like to watch Turner Classic Movies.) One of the songs in the movie got into my head as an earworm. It's called "Shine."

It's an odd little ditty. I didn't know much about the song, except that it's obviously a song for a black man to sing. I mean, I can't imagine Frank Sinatra singing, "Just because my teeth are pearly/ just because my hair is curly."

Imagine my surprise when I heard Marcus singing the song in the recital. But first, he introduced it. Apparently, back at the turn of the 20th century (1880-1920), there was a music genre called "coon songs." They were, as you can imagine, unapologetically racist, and the origins of the derogatory term for black people. A trio of men wrote "That's Why They Call Me Shine" as a commentary on those songs.

I've always figured that my son has been blessed to grow up in an environment where no one seemed to notice or care that he is half black. If he has been called out for his race, I have no idea, although I can't imagine he would have hidden it from me.

All I know is, on Sunday evening, I listened to him sing a song about being christened a normal name, but being called everything from "Sambo" to "Chocolate Drop." According to the song, people call the man Shine because he's fabulous and either they're clueless or jealous.

Let's add this to the mix: he chose to play the guitar for this piece. When my father died, I told my brother he could have everything, but if he or his kids didn't want Dad's guitar, I'd like Marcus to have it. It's a 1932 Gretsch acoustic. Dad obsessed over this guitar, claiming to have stalked the guy until he had enough money and the guy needed cash. As it turns out, a 1932 Gretsch was considered a poor quality guitar at the time and not worth as much as Dad probably paid for it. Oddly, the years have aged the wood and produce a beautiful, mellow sound. So it's not worth as much as a collectible piece as it is for its tone.

When I married Dale, I sent my folks a letter, explaining that I knew how they felt about black people and interracial marriage, and that Dale is a good man whom I love and this was my choice. Their response was disappointing, but what I expected. My father, who was the most vocal racist in our house, told me he never wanted to see me again.

I can't imagine anything my son could ever do to make me not want to see him again. I will always want to see him one more time.

So Sunday night, I watched Marcus play his racist grandfather's guitar and sing a song that pushes back at that racism.



Can you blame me for crying?