Sparkle in my Eyes: OSF First Love/First Date Songs

First loves…first dates…and the songs that were their soundtracks. That is today’s Old School Friday theme. Now, some of us have to reach back a little farther than others in our memory banks and LP crates for these songs. But it is, as they say, all good. These songs stay with us even after the special ones who may have inspired them are long forgotten.

My first song is not a love song, but a classic of funk. My first “dates” were not so much one-on-one affairs, but group outings. We’d all meet up at the skating rink—kids from junior high schools and high schools from all over the city. Parents would drop us off with five dollars in our pockets and reminders to be outside at X-o’clock sharp or risk spending the night at the rink. Then we would go inside and pair up.

In this environment, my first “date song” was a classic roller skating song. Parliament’s “Flashlight” would come on, the lights would go out, and everybody would get out on the rink with their flashlights. It was an amazing sight, all the moving circles of light in the dark to the thumping bass. It was the highlight of my Saturday date.

“Flashlight” by Parliament

Probably my first “our song” was this one. I can still remember slow dancing to it with…whatsisname…at the end of the basement party, just before the DJ intoned those famous words, “Y’all ain’t got to leave, but ya gots to get tha hell outta here!”

“Sparkle” by Cameo

Finally, my husband and I have several “our songs.” Many of them are by Prince, as we are both fans. This one is one of my favorite Prince songs, and favorite slow jams by anyone.

“Adore” by Prince

Well, that about wraps another OSF edition. Have a good one and a great weekend!

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As always, a big thank you to OSF hostesses, Marvalus at Conversations with Marva

and MrsGrapevine.

Please check out the rules for joining and list of other OSF participants here.

Obama’s Origins, Revealed

Obama was actually born in Tasmania where he was abandoned by his parents and was left there to be raised in the wild by a pack of Tasmanian wolves . He was then kidnapped by Somali pirates who had been blown off course. When they got to the East African coast, he jumped ship and ended up in Kenya where he was adopted by a white American mother and a black African father who were on a sight-seeing tour and big game safari. They then moved to Hawaii. Thinking that Barack might someday run for president, his adoptive parents decided it would be a prudent idea to fake his citizenship. They paid off local officials in Hawaii and got the newspaper in Honolulu to go into its old files (in the newspaper business these are called the “morgue’) and place a fake birth announcement in the paper. The rest is history. You could look it up. (Source: commenter “Big Easy,” July 28, 2009 at 10:18 AM)

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Recognizing and celebrating the 50th Anniversary of the entry of Hawaii into the Union as the 50th State.

Image credit: US Postal Service

Whereas August 21, 2009, marks the 50th Anniversary of President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s signing of Proclamation 3309, which admitted Hawaii into the Union in compliance with the Hawaii Admission Act, enacted by the United States Congress on March 18, 1959;

Whereas Hawaii is `a place like no other, with a people like no other’ and bridges the mainland United States to the Asia-Pacific region;

Whereas the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama, was born in Hawaii;

Whereas Hawaii has contributed to the diversity of Congress in electing the first Native Hawaiian member of Congress, Prince Jonah Kuhio Kalaniana`ole, the first Asian-American member, Hiram Fong, the first woman of color, Patsy T. Mink, and the first Native Hawaiian to serve in the Senate, Daniel Kahikina Akaka;

Whereas Hawaii is an example to the rest of the world of unity and positive race relations;

Whereas Pearl Harbor is a strategic military base for the U.S. in the Pacific and also a historical site for the Nation, being the location of the December 7, 1941, surprise Japanese aerial attack that thrust the Nation into World War II;

Whereas Hawaii is home to 1/4 of the endangered species in the United States;

Whereas Hawaii has 8 national parks, which preserve volcanoes, complex ecosystems, a Hansen’s disease colony, and other sites of historical and cultural significance;

Whereas Kilauea ranks among the most active volcanoes on Earth;

Whereas President Bush nominated the Papahanaumokuakea Marine National Monument to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization World Heritage Centre for consideration to the World Heritage List;

Whereas Hawaii has produced musical legends ranging from traditional favorites such as Alfred Apaka, Don Ho, and Genoa Keawe, to Hawaii renaissance performers such as Eddie Kamae, Raymond Kane, Gabby Pahinui, Israel Kamakawiwo`ole, the Brothers Cazimero, and the Beamer Brothers, and continuing on to contemporary stars such as Keali`i Reichel, Ledward Kaapana, Jake Shimabukuro, and Raiatea Helm;

Whereas Hawaii is culturally rich, as the Hawaiian culture has been protected through Hawaiian language immersion schools, hula competitions such as the Merrie Monarch Festival, canoeing voyages undertaken by vessels like the Hokule`a, and the continuing historic preservation of Hawaiian traditions;

Whereas the Hawaii Statehood Commission has held a Joint Session of the Hawaii State Legislature in honor of statehood and will be celebrating this milestone with a public discussion and with the arrival of the USS Hawaii; and

Whereas for all of these reasons Hawaii is a truly unique State: Now, therefore, be it

Resolved, That the House of Representatives recognizes and celebrates the 50th Anniversary of the entry of Hawaii into the Union as the 50th State.

(Source; Unanimously approved by the US House of Representatives)

Closed for Scheduled Racism?

Seems everyone wants to “dialogue” these days:

Indiana Black Expo President Tanya Bell says dialogue between the non-profit organization and Downtown businesses is key to ensuring that events like “Summer Celebration” are a positive experience for guests and vendors.

I would think that bringing in from $30 million and $72 million annually would be a pretty big positive for most businesses downtown. Well, then, what a lousy time to schedule a closing for regular maintenance:

The 24-hour Downtown Steak ‘n Shake closed Friday night and Saturday night, peak nights of the Summer Celebration on July 17th and 18th, for “scheduled maintenance,” restaurant officials told The Star. The restaurant also closed last year during Expo’s peak nights.

President Bell hopefully will bring up this mystifying tidbit during her dialogs and conversations and whatnot:

Bell has not yet spoken with restaurant officials, but she says it’s hard to understand why a business would close when Downtown is bustling with potential patrons.

Well, if Expo patrons couldn’t have chocolate malts and a plateful of skinny fries, then at least they could indulge in some chicken wings:

“It was a boost to business,” said Tony Kwiatkowski, co-owner of the Buffalo Wild Wings on South Meridian Street. “This was our first summer being open, so we didn’t really know what to expect.”

Me and my crew considered Sn’S for a hot minute (not knowing they were in the midst of important maintenance duties) before deciding on a Micky D’s several blocks away from the Convention Center. The restaurant was very well-maintained.

(Source)

***Previous IBE post***

Random Acts of Forgiveness

You may already know of my struggle with forgiveness as a weapon of justice. Well, the whole aftermath of the President’s inserting himself in the Gates affair reminds me of an experience from many years past.

As I have mentioned, I was a child care services administrator on an Army base in Germany. Child care was extremely hard to come by. Finding enough spaces in family homes, the child care center, or youth services after school care for children of various ages—and for the days and times needed by their active duty servicemember parents—was challenging on good days and an exercise in high futility on bad days.

The staff member who took the initial requests for care from parents was in a particularly frustration-inducing position. She heard demands from both me and other administrators (WE DON’T HAVE ANY MORE OPEN SLOTS) and parents and their unit commanders (WE NEED A SLOT FOR THIS SOLDIER’S KIDS NOW).

She also had a fair amount of power. Someone who, for example, ticked her off could, hypothetically, just for the sake of argument have their application accidentally…misplaced…misdirected…shuffled to the bottom of the stack. She knew all the rules, all the potential pathways to care, and—as a member of the community in touch with local gossip—all the rumors of possible openings, change of duty stations for existing child care children’s parents, age-outs of kids in care moving onto elementary school. Hypothetically, mind you, she could be forthcoming with this information or completely tight-lipped. No one else on base had done this job in recent memory. No one else knew the system the way that she did. No one else wanted this job. She was doing, alone, a job meant for at least two people. She was the lone gatekeeper through which all childcare transactions on base flowed (or not). She was virtually indispensable and just about un-fire-able.

This staff member, henceforth known as the Gatekeeper, could be extremely rude, offensive, brusque. She often seemed to delight in the knowledge of the power she held over so many people. I imagine it somewhat made up for her low pay and frustratingly never-ending duties. Even as an administrator who “outranked” her, I had to always approach the Gatekeeper with smile on face and figurative hat in hand. It did not do to get on her bad side. Not even for a day. But make the mistake of angering her, and the only thing you could do was ride it out until someone pissed her off even more to the point where she forgot about your own real or imagined transgression.

Into this setting there was once a parent, the wife of an officer, new to base, who made the fatal error of wandering into this staff person’s office to request child care. Having no knowledge, apparently, of what a rare jewel a child care spot was on base, the Officer’s Wife stated her childcare needs and preferences: two children—one preschool and one infant, and only part-time care at least until such a time as she began to work herself—should she decide to work. Oh—and she wished to take a little more time to get herself and her children adjusted to their new duty station, but would be ready to begin enrolling the children in about two, three weeks.

The Gatekeeper. Went. Off.

From the news that lit up the base grapevine within nanoseconds of the incident, there was cussing from the Gatekeeper, there was her raised voice, there were her allegations that the Officer’s Wife was being arrogant and presumptuous and disrespectful and wasteful of the Gatekeeper’s time. There was the question who-exactly-do-you-think-you-are? There was a demonstration by the Gatekeeper of the months-long backlog of childcare requests in the form of folders and folders of waiting applications. There was probably a lot more, but the years have taken those specifics from me.

"Neon Daffodils." PPR_Scribe

I can’t remember if the Officer’s Wife did, after all this berating, fill out an application. Let’s say—for the sake of this retelling—that she did not. Let’s say that all she could manage to do is slink off, in shock, back down the hall and out of the building.

What I do remember clearly, and the point (finally) of my tale is what happened a couple hours later that same day.

The Officer’s Wife returned to the Gatekeeper’s office with a giant bouquet of flowers in hand. The Gatekeeper was confused.

“These are for you,” said the Officer’s Wife, smiling. “At first I was so hurt and shocked by your behavior towards me earlier.”

“But then,” she continued, to the Gatekeeper’s continued confusion, “I figured that for you to have been so rude and unkind to me, you must have been having a very bad day. So I thought I would try to make your day a little brighter by giving you these.”

The flowers remained on the Gatekeeper’s desk for the next several days, resplendent in their colorful blooms. Everyone who arrived at her desk was quick to ask (with some worry, thinking they’d forgotten) if it were her birthday. No, she would say, and then re-tell the story of how she came to receive them. When she told me the tale her head hung low, and she spoke in a tone softer than any I had ever heard her use.

Eventually the Officer’s Wife did get childcare—and part-time care at that–for her little ones. The Gatekeeper continued in her job, much as before. (As this is not an afterschool special, I cannot make the ending one of a Changed Attitude for All Time.)

I could never quite wrap my head around the olive branch mode of forgiveness. And I still quite cannot. What did it feel like walking away from that office after delivering the flowers? Did the Officer’s Wife feel victorious—as if she had given a sort of “backhanded” forgiveness that was really a knife in the back? Did she feel back in control, having regained had the last word in a situation that had so completely spiraled off kilter? Did she feel superior, as if she had managed to take the High Road, leaving the Gatekeeper wallowing in the gutter below? Did she feel some sort of spiritual peace that comes about through real forgiveness? Did she just feel foolish for having spent $20 at the PX for some flowers for a non-deserving witch who had humiliated her?

I don’t know. I do know that this story became somewhat legendary on base for the remaining years I was there (and probably long afterward). I, myself, still think of it often. I know that I would not have done the same thing. Actually, I know that I did not do anything similar on the more than one occasion when I was on the business end of the Gatekeeper’s wrath. Instead, I consoled myself with fantasies of revenge featuring her gruesome demise from rogue staplers, crazed paper clips, and poison permanent markers.

Apparently I am not yet evolved enough to attempt this kind of forgiveness on a massive scale.

“Chia Obama makes the statement, ‘I am proud to be an American’…”

I just saw this ad on TV last night with my children.

I thought this nonsense was no longer for sale. But, sadly, I was mistaken. I thought about writing a whole post about my feelings about this WTFery. But I already exhausted my comments during a previous discussion about this completely unnecessary and degrading product. Plus, I failed my own blogging readiness test. So I’ll refrain from further comment on this totally, 100% waste of crockery and grass seed that does not even look remotely like the President.

Post-racialism. Ch-ch-ch-change that makes you long for the old racism.

On the “Teachable Moment”

President Obama has stated that he hopes “Gatesgate” can become a “teachable moment”:

My hope is that as a consequence of this event, this ends up being what’s called a teachable moment where all of us, instead of pumping up the volume, spend a little more time listening to each other and try to focus on how we can generally improve relations between police officers and minority communities, and that instead of flinging accusations, we can all be a little more reflective in terms of what we can do to contribute to more unity. (Source)

I am not sure where the term “teachable moment” originated from. But I was first exposed to the term when I was a preschool teacher about a half lifetime ago. What it meant then in that context was that—though a good teacher carefully creates and executes lesson plans for children that are age appropriate, engaging, and high in educational content—the excellent teacher is flexible enough to take advantage of those once in a blue moon opportunities to teach something not originally in the plans. So, for example, yes we may be in the middle of a week-long lesson on colors and shapes. But on Wednesday when the children excitedly discover a bird’s nest with freshly laid eggs right outside the classroom window, the lesson changes to one on birds…baby animals…which animals fly, swim, and walk on land…etc.

The main point is that in the preschool classroom, teachable moments are driven by the needs, interest, and motivation level of the students combined with the presentation of a unique opportunity.

Given my background, it is understandable that I judge teachable moments by this metric.

"Old School 30." Lainmoon, http://www.flickr.com/photos/lainmoon/31172906/

So. Does/can Gatesgate be a useful and informative teachable moment?

First: the Interest Test. Presumably, there is a lot of interest in this case. Almost a morbid curiosity in some cases. So perhaps it passes the “interest” test. But interest to who? Who is going to be “taught” by this incident? The officer? The professor? The President? Police forces across the country? Communities across the country? The public at large?

In my preschool classrooms, although the bird’s nest is generally interesting (at least temporarily) to all the children—due to novelty, proximity, rarity, or other reasons—in a couple of days the children’s attention span has started to ebb.  Jamahl is still highly fascinated—and will be for the rest of the school year. Claude, however, had moved onto other interests the day after the discovery. Miriam, whose mother is pregnant, is interested—but for very different reasons than other children not expecting a new baby brother or sister. DeAnte and Cesar and Brie become most fascinated by the dead baby bird with its guts spilling out all over the playground lawn that appears on the Monday after the discovery. That Monday Vanessa—who had been highly interested—is now more interested in cars as a result of the new one her uncle bought over the weekend…

So, too, in today’s public sphere around race. “Interest” is fleeting, multifaceted, multi-sourced. So on second thought I would have to conclude that we are really not that interested in “having a conversation” about race. Some of us are interested in airing grievances. Some, in getting others to come around to our way of thinking. Some want to use these “conversations” to further spew racist poison. Many of us will be interested—even open to true conversation—but only until the next shiny interesting quasi-news story comes along to steal away our attention. Some are pretty beat down and have little hope of things changing for the better so, hey, why talk more about it. Plenty of folks just want “race” to go away….

Now for the second test. Is this Gates incident a True Opportunity? Is Professor Gates really the right poster child for a demonstration on the evils of racial bias?

Probably not.

As one blogger has commented, Professor Gates’ experience and its aftermath may be yet one more example of “All the victims are male and all the oppressors are White.” Those of us decrying racism have little rhetorical capital when the only incidents worthy of protest are when victims are Black, heterosexual, and male. (And—in this incident—upper middle class, highly educated….a “proper” Negro.) And when the oppressors are White and male. And bonus points for a White male police officer—the most favorite buggaboo of affronts to Black civil rights.

Then there is the ambiguity surrounding the case. I do not doubt for one minute that race played a big part of the professor’s and officer’s interaction. I fully recognize how police can abuse their power, and that the ranks of police forces across the country contain out-and-out racists as well as those who experience subconscious racial bias.

But I think that class was the compounding factor. Is it possible that police officers in Cambridge have to put up with elite, privileged, self-entitled college folk all the time? Yes, I think so. I also think testosterone compounded things even more. This was a male-on-male thing as much—or more than—a Black-on-White thing.

Adding to the gray area was the outcome. Professor Gates—thankfully—suffered no physical injury, no loss of property, no loss of life. Yes, dignity is important. But it is not clear that the opportunity here is the best to provide that important lesson about race. If anything, it makes the (presumably) working class, lower paid, public servant the injured party. Can you imagine being lambasted in the international media by the President of the United States?

If this is a teachable moment, then it should be about how we, in a free society, want our rule of law to be carried out by those entrusted to protect us. (See here and here, for example.) It should be about the boundaries of State power, including police officers, and what offenses count as arrestable and freedom-limiting activities. But that, actually, is an even bigger conversation than race. It gets to the very heart of how we see our democratic society. What a boring conversation, in contrast to the high drama and titillation of race and racism…

I say all this as someone who has held something of an intellectual crush on Professor Gates for many years. I was consumed with envy and awe when a grad school friend got the opportunity to meet him after one of her family members was profiled in his African-American Lives 2. I love his intellect, his sense of humor, his somewhat sly smile. Even his cane gives him that extra flair, that je ne sais quoi, that is just appealing to me, an academic geek (and proud of it). I do not have a bone to pick with Dr. Gates—in fact I freely admit that I felt for him because I see myself in his same socioeconomic class and his arrest brings home even more how much a Black man or woman with a PhD is still “just” Black first.

I also say all this as someone who has never signed a petition in support of a Black male death row prisoner, or Black male taser victim, or Black male supposedly railroaded-by-police “innocent” bystander. My reasons for this lack of overt support are many and deserve a separate blog post. But suffice it to say that I am in the camp that would like to see more support for the victims of Black-on-Black crime and injustice, than the far fewer in number victims of White-on-Black crime and injustice. And I would definitely like to see more Black compassion for Black female lives and bodies—at least as much as wee seem to have for Black male lives and bodies.

Finally, I also say all this as someone who has supported and followed President Obama ever since he was a young, unknown Senator with a funny name just making a speech on a national big stage. I believe most of the criticisms of him range from par for the course (e.g., he has taken on too much) to the ridiculous (e.g., he is not US-born). He is in a unique position of walking a racial tightrope, and in all cases he will generally be damned if he does and equally damned if he does not.

"The Best teachers." kyteacher, http://www.flickr.com/photos/kyteacher/3580553044/; Michael Mistretta, http://www.flickr.com/photos/definetheline/2644671002/

In this instance, however, I think this “teachable moment” is for President Obama and President Obama alone.

In my preschool classroom, that was a definite no-no. It is great if I just happened to be a bird enthusiast, had a closet full of bird teaching materials that I have been just waiting to use, and that this dovetails wonderfully with the children’s interest and with the unexpected arrival of the bird and her nest. But it is not OK if I try to manipulate interest or opportunities to satisfy only my own needs.

This may be one case where the teacher is teaching for the benefit of the teacher.

President Obama needs a win. He needs to make up for what some are reading, charitably, as a mis-step and others are reading, with relish, as a tool for a potential upset come re-election. He is probably interested in recapturing the glow from his widely acknowledged groundbreaking speech on race from the campaign. (Which, it is important to note, was also forced upon him through a “teachable moment.”) He is motivated to maintain the sense of balance, the air of racial objectivity, that he likely feels he needs as the first non-White president of the United States. He is also likely motivated to bring this incident to some closure. It was not in his original lesson plan and he wants to get quickly back to health care and other “real” issues.

I hope, for the President’s sake, that the menfolk-downing-beers-in-the-White-House move works out. But this is not a teachable moment for the country on race. Perhaps we will have one at some point. But this ain’t it.

Scribe’s Theme

…When the dog bites,
When the bee stings,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad….

Happy Old School Friday! Well, OSF has quickly become one of my favorite things—so how very appropriate that the OSF theme for this week is “My Theme Song” and that my theme song is “My Favorite Things.”

I have loved this song ever since I first saw a stage version of The Sound of Music as a child. The movie version is one of my favorite all-time films, and just about any tune from the soundtrack, really, could be my theme song depending on my mood. But “My Favorite Things” stands above the rest, now a standard in popular music and jazz in particular.

As usual, it is hard for me to pick my favorite Favorite Things, so I have provided a playlist full. Here are versions by OutKast, John Coltrane, Jarreau/Benson, Sarah Vaughn, The Supremes, Barbra Streisand, Alice Coltrane—and, of course, Julie Andrews’ definitive version.

Enjoy!

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As always, a big thank you to OSF hostesses, Marvalus at Conversations with Marva

and MrsGrapevine.

Please check out the rules for joining and list of other OSF participants here.

The Obama Harley and Other Scenes from 2009 IBE

"Obama Harley." PPR_Scribe

Last year’s Indiana Black Expo was all about (then) Candidate Obama. The Obama Harley, courtesy of One Off Incorporated, proves that our love affair with BHO is still going strong a year later.

"Obama Harley Close-up 1." PPR_Scribe

"Obama Harley Close-up 2." PPR_Scribe

What a way to make a statement rolling down Fall Creek Parkway!

This year’s Expo, however, belonged to the dearly departed King of Pop.

"King of 2009 Expo." PPR_Scribe

MJ was everywhere. A DVD of one of his concerts graced all of the screens outside of the Best Buy exhibit. The roller skating crews and the youth dance groups and even the gospel performers skated, danced and sang to Michael Jackson. Every third person had an MJ t-shirt on. And in case you forgot your MJ gear, just about every vendor had MJ-related gear for sale.

Michael Jackson has not been this big since…well, since he was last this big—many, many moons ago.

"Police-Community Relations 101." PPR_Scribe

"And little children and a crime dog shall lead them." PPR_Scribe

All manner of law enforcement always have booths, giving away plastic state trooper or police force hats and stick-on badges and pop corn and safety coloring books with crayons.

Peace officers roam the exhibition halls—making sure no trouble breaks out, but also serving as ambassadors to the Black community.

The children loved the troopers, police officers, fire fighters, and EMTs. One female police officer was especially the object of young girls’ fascination and respect.

What happens between police and Black youth in the space of 5 years old and 15? Between Hall B of the Convention Center and the intersection of 10th St. and MLK Drive?

"Al B still makin 'em swoon." PPR_Scribe

Of course, Expo wouldn’t be Expo without celebrities. If you are touring, or trying to make a comeback, or just released a book/album/movie, you must make a pilgrimage to the Hoosier state’s biggest summer celebration. Al B. Sure! promised to bring real music with real lyrics back to Black radio. Some radio personalities promised to bring President Obama to next year’s Expo.

I cannot decide which is the biggest longshot.

“The status quo on health care is no longer an option for the United States of America….”

When people couldn’t pay, she didn’t charge them.  When the clinic wasn’t making money, she didn’t take a salary for herself. When Hurricane George destroyed the clinic in 1998, she made house calls to all her patients while it was rebuilt.  When Hurricane Katrina destroyed it again and left most of her town homeless, she mortgaged her house and maxed out her credit cards to rebuild that clinic for a second time.  She tended to those who had been wounded in the storm, and when folks needed medicine, she asked the pharmacist to send the bill her way.

…But for all that she’s seen and all the tremendous obstacles that she has overcome, Regina Benjamin also represents what’s best about health care in America — doctors and nurses who give and care and sacrifice for the sake of their patients; those Americans who would do anything to heal a fellow citizen.  Through floods and fires and severe want, Regina Benjamin has refused to give up.  Her patients have refused to give up.  And when we were talking in the Oval Office, she said:  The one thing I want to do is make sure that this Surgeon General’s Office gives voice to patients, that patients have a seat at the table; somebody is advocating for them and speaking for them.

~President Barack Obama,
0n nominee for Surgeon General, Dr. Regina Benjamin

True Outrage

Image credit: Cambridge Police Department

What if he was not Dr. Henry Louis Gates, Jr?

What if he was not a preeminent Harvard professor?

What if he was not almost 60 years old, of average or below average height, with a visible disability?

What if his home was not “well maintained” in a “nice” Cambridge neighborhood?

What if the incident had not happened at 12 noon, but 12 midnight?

What if he could not have provided identification in a timely manner?

What if he did not have a high profile attorney to filter all subsequent inquiries and release all statements?

What if the police had not been forced, through public embarrassment, to drop all charges?

The true outrage is that if any or all this had been the case there would not be nearly as much outrage.

Avada Kedavra, Sectumsempra, and a Whole Lotta Snogging Goin’ On

A Movie Review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Writing about the sixth installment of the Harry Potter film series without providing spoilers is difficult. By now, everyone who has seen the movie has formed an opinion of it—especially those who have also read the books. At a little over 650 pages, the book on which the movie is based contains far too much “meat” for one film to encompass. The filmmakers likely had to decide which aspects of the book should receive prominence. And, which aspects to only touch on or leave out entirely.

"Anyone for Hogwarts?" Beatnic, http://www.flickr.com/photos/beatnic/3552925744/

So if you were expecting the big battle scene following Dumbledore and Snape’s final encounter you would be disappointed. If you were expecting anything having to do with Kreacher and Harry’s inheritance of his godfather’s house, you’d be disappointed. If you wanted anything of the storylines with Bill Weasley, his fiance and the other women in his life, and his unfortunate transformation, you’d be disappointed. If you wanted to see more than a couple of flashbacks fleshing out Voldemort’s past and development into the greatest dark wizard of our time, you’d be disappointed.

This movie was dark, yes. And because of that darkness, perhaps the filmmakers thought that it needed to be counterbalanced by…teen romance. Lots and lots and lots of teen romance.

The entire Scribe household went to see this movie on opening day, along with two additional little girls from our daughters’ school. You’ve never heard such giggles at all the “snogging” going on throughout the film. Hormones thickened the very air at Hogwarts and defined and redefined almost every relationship between and among characters. And meanwhile, in the theater, between passing the large bag of popcorn and boxes of Sour Patch Kids and packages of Twizzlers, four little preteen girls picked up on every glance, every swoon, every flash of jealousy.

I realize now that there was no way the filmmakers could have left out that aspect of the book. The young actors playing Harry and Draco and Ginny and Hermione and Ron and the rest look like what they are—young adults. It would not have done to have them prancing around  playing Quidditch and drinking pumpkin juice and frolicking at Hagrid’s with magical creatures. Hormones had to make an appearance at Hogwarts at this point in the tale.

But the way that romance entered the picture in this sixth installment was a little…odd, to say the least.

The first thing I noticed was how female-driven and -initiated the romance was. Girls used every trick in the Muggle and Wizarding worlds to get their men: flirting, batting eyelashes, slipping love potions into candy treats. A cute Muggle of Color at the start of the movie even gave Harry the old coy I-get-off-at-11 line. The young women in this movie were downright…predatory in their quest for romance.

This is in stark contrast to the book, mostly because in the book we got to see all the internal lusting on the part of, at least, Harry. And this is also in stark contrast because of the addition of a most unusual scene: the Shoelace Incident. The Incident has already been discussed here. I am not sure that I agree that the scene displayed passivity on Ginny’s part. I felt she was still very much strong and in control of the whole interaction, even as she was kneeling at Harry’s feet. In fact, I thought that was one of the most erotic scenes I have ever seen in any movie. And this was in a movie (ostensibly) for children. The silence of the secret room, the intimacy of grooming, the softness of the private kiss… Chills.

The Harry Potter franchise has moved beyond being just a popular book and movie experience. It has become part of Western mythology. It will help define this generation’s identity much like Star Wars helped define a previous one. Its themes will help form my daughters’ and their friends’ ideas about good and evil, friendship and loyalty, race and class, and—yes—sexuality and gender. As uncomfortable as I was at times watching all that snogging with four little girls, I couldn’t help thinking that this still might be a better model for budding female sexuality than the images I was exposed to at their age. It was not perfect by any means. But perhaps better. With all the death and destruction in this series—especially the major deaths to come (assuming the filmmakers decide to portray it)—I guess I can put up with a little more snogging than I am used to seeing  in a children’s film.

This movie was not the movie I would have made. But I did enjoy it and can’t wait for the next installment.

Tighten Up On That Backstroke

My two delightful brown “babies” swim competitively. They have been taking lessons since they were toddlers, but this summer is the first year they have participated on a swim team. On their own team, and at most meets with other teams, they are the only (or only two of a handful of other) brown children in the sparkling blue waters. As other parents ask each other “Which one is yours?” few need to have me point out my own offspring from the horde of dripping Speedo-clad children.

"Backstroke." PPR_Scribe

I have been thinking a lot about my daughters’ experience in this sport the past few days since the story broke out about the day camp full of minority kids being sent packing from a majority White private swim club. The case has been written about—and written about well—a number of different places in the blogosphere (here, here, and here for example). Instead of adding to the analysis of that particular case, I am going to provide a few personal insights and experiences.

Continuing a Family Tradition

My daughters became interested in swimming as a sport because of the example set by their teen-aged uncles, my little brothers. Both swam competitively on the same suburban team that my kids are now on, and both excelled there and on into their high school team. Back when they swam in the league, my father and stepmother, too, rarely had to pick out their sons for fellow swim moms and dads. People generally figured out that the two tall, extremely athletic brown skinned boys belonged to them.

Competitive swimming is an extremely “White” sport.

Any child interested in competitive swimming is advantaged by the natural fun most young kids have playing and splashing in water. There is something very basic, core, elemental about water that most of us are (initially, at least) drawn to. We are born into fluid; our bodies are composed of water and fluids; our little blue planet is mostly water. Some of our first soothing, intimate moments are spent being cooed at and caressed by caregivers giving us baths. Some of us undergo religious conversion by being dipped in water.

In the water we experience our bodies in a way that is unlike most of our waking moments. We are buoyant, free, unhampered by faulty knees or extra pounds. All of this makes swimming a perfect match for most kids.

However, any child interested in competitive swimming is disadvantaged by the sport’s relative lack of visibility. Most Americans probably only see swimming on TV when the Olympics roll around. There may only be two or three swimmers who folks know by name. Swimming as a sport necessarily means access to a pool and to instructors/coaches with knowledge of proper stroke technique and rules.

Most inner city kids of any race, as well as minority kids of any socioeconomic class, are further disadvantaged by not having role models in their immediate circle who swim competitively.

Black Folk Can’t Swim?

It is something most Blacks living in majority White suburbs of majority White cities have to deal with over and over. The service worker—lawn care guy, HVAC repair team, the carpet installers—does a quick (but highly apparent) double take and cognitive restructuring to deal with the fact that the homeowner who has just answered the door is not White, as expected, but Black. Most recover momentarily and are able to go about their business with some degree of professionalism.

But some just cannot seem to let go of their dissonance. They must make comments. Or observations. The rare service professional may even ask questions.

So it was one time for my brothers’ mother.

The service worker was shown to the faulty furnace in the basement, passing my brothers’ many swim ribbons, certificates, championship photos, and trophies on display.

“Your sons swim?”

Yes.

“Competitively?”

(Looking at the same first place blue ribbons the service worker was looking at.) Yes.

“Well, you know, that is really out of the ordinary. See, usually Black people can’t swim. It’s true. I was in the Navy and we did studies. It is because of your higher bone density. But this is really something. Two Black swimmers. Imagine that!”

I’ll leave aside the notion of US Navy-financed studies on the bone density of its Black recruits and sailors and whether or not Blacks can not swim. But I do know it is true that many Black adults and children do not swim.

The reasons are many:

Historical—As Jeff Wiltse wrote in Contested Waters: A Social History of Swimming Pools in America, swimming pools became a particularly problematic space for desegregation efforts. The fallout from this history is many faceted.

Cultural—Covering everything from Black women’s concerns about getting their chemically processed or heat straightened hair wet to some ancestral memory of our troubled transatlantic ocean crossing, cultural theories of Blacks’ aversion to swimming abound. Two documented facts that stand out in all this supposition: almost 60% of Black children do not know how to swim, and Black children die from drowning at three times the overall rate.

"Posing with Cullen." PPR_Scribe

Changing the Complexion of Swimming

It was the first time I had ever seen the USA Swimming booth at Indiana Black Expo and I was extremely pleased. All of the information on display at the booth, however, was about water safety and learning to swim. Nothing on the sport of swimming.

The USA Swimming rep at the booth is handing my daughters booklets—10 reasons why Swimming is Fun and Making a Splash for Pool Safety or somesuch. My daughters’ eyes, however, are drawn to the giant poster of Cullen Jones hanging in the booth. They had just seen, and posed in front of, a bigger version of that same poster a few days ago.

(Noticing their interest.) “Do you know who that is.” the rep asked.

“Yes, that’s Cullen Jones.”

(Surprised.) “Oh! You know who Cullen Jones is! Have you ever seen him swim?”

“Just on TV. He wasn’t there when we went [to the USA Swimming National Championship trials].”

(Pleased.) “Oh, so you went to the trials!”

“Yeah. But we didn’t see Michael Phelps swim either. We did get his autograph, though.”

(Tickled pink.) “Wow! I don’t even have Michael Phelps’ autograph! So you swim on a team? What’s your best stroke?”

“Um, probably breast and back.”

“For me, probably freestyle.”

"Phelps Signing Autographs." PPR_Scribe

(The rep is simply bubbling, gifting me with USA Swimming membership brochures and extra freebies from a box in the back of the booth.)

All children need to learn how to swim. It should not be an option. It is a safety issue as important as bike helmets and car seats, antibiotic abuse and sex education. Parents need to let go of whatever fears and biases they may have and make sure their children learn to swim. (They might take lessons themselves while they’re at it.) Some folks need to join the rest of us here in 2009 and get over the idea of the black washing off of delightful brown swimming babies like mine and staining their own babies.

Changing the Attitudes about Black Girls

The elderly couple sitting next to me poolside had come to see their grandchildren swim at the meet. We exchanged glances and smiles and pleasantries, even though the kids we had come to see were on opposing teams. We commented on the marathon nature of swim meets—this, about two and a half hours into the four-hour-plus meet. We commented on the heat of the mid-July early evening.

As the meet was drawing to a close, signified by the start of the exciting freestyle medley relay races, the grandfather ventured into a conversation that I am sure he had been itching to start.

“You know,” he said to me, “I just have to tell you. I have the most adorable little Black granddaughter.”

Oh really? Well that’s…wonderful.

“Yes, my son and daughter-in-law picked her up from Florida when she was only a few days old. They already had a son of their own, but they always wanted a girl. They tried and tried but could never get pregnant again. So they adopted this adorable little girl. She’s two now.”

Well…I’m sure she keeps you young….

“Well,” laughing, “I don’t know about that! But she sure does keep us on our toes! Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. I’m just looking at your two lovely daughters and I can’t help thinking about my granddaughter…”

OK…well…that’s just wonderful…

I was without many useful and meaningful words. So many things were going through my mind, not least of which was whether or not I should commence with my standard Adoption 101 lesson. But I decided against that, as it was clear that this gentleman was working through a different lesson of his own. I do not know what part I may have played in helping him through that lesson, and really was too worn out from the heat and the cheering to reflect much on it. I should have asked him if she, too, was a swimmer. But I did not.

"Starting Blocks." PPR_Scribe

I was glad that the day before this meet I had bitten the bullet and began taking my girls to a professional hair stylist to deep condition and braid their hair in preparation for daily swimming. I was glad that I had found a product that was a combination leave-in hair moisturizer and skin conditioner that they could spritz themselves with between events. My normally gorgeous brown babies looked fiercely radiant, like two goddesses risen from Atlantis or something. They strutted around the pool as if they owned the place. They swam their hardest no matter which heat they were in or how fast they touched the finish wall.

You couldn’t miss them. They were the only brown babies at the pool that day. And they were fabulous in every way.

At the Starting Blocks

At the end-of-swim-season party, both of my daughters earned awards for most improved swimmers in their sex-age group in their favorite events. They also, along with everyone else on the team, got trophies. They proudly displayed their certificates and trophies to their big uncles, swimming champs extraordinaire, who fist-bumped and high-fived them for several minutes. My daughters are hooked on the sport of swimming. And I must contend with learning to be a Swim Parent.

Swim Parents—like many sports parents—are an interesting bunch. An involved bunch. A knowledgeable bunch. An extremely, incredibly committed bunch. Swim meets are as much for the parents as for the kids. They are highly social events—as well as professional networking opportunities. The swim meets were very challenging for someone like me: new to the whole sports parenting thing with a generally introverted personality. At the first meet I brought my folding chair and a book. I am still suffering trauma from the appalled stares I received from the other parents. I learned after that. I learned to be a timekeeper and a ribbon writer and a finish judge and a snack bar vendor. I learned names of kids and names of parents and the order of events.

If my kids are committed to helping to change the complexion of the sport, then I am committed to changing the complexion of the parent gallery and extensive parent volunteer force.

I do not look forward to the early mornings heading to the pool before school in the dead of winter, when most sane parents are catching that precious last two hours of sleep before work. But I do look forward to my daughters continuing to improve their strokes, their times, their understanding and enjoyment of the sport.

I also look forward to hope. The hope of seeing more Black and other kids of color becoming involved in the sport.

At one of the meets there was a little Black girl, there with her White parents and older White siblings. She was probably a couple years older than the child of the grandfather I had met a few weeks earlier. She was not swimming, but had come to watch her siblings swim. Back and forth to the snack bar, to the baby wading pool, to her parents to get a sip of water or a cheese cracker. At one point she noticed my daughters, getting in line for the 9/10 year old girls’ breast stroke event. The little girl stopped for a moment. One daughter noticed her, smiled and waved. The little girl giggled and ran back to the wading pool.