I Smile for Old School Friday: Halloween Edition

"What's so funny?" John Carleton, http://www.flickr.com/photos/johncarleton/284011194/

Because I am late with my Old School Friday selection, I am going to kill two ravens with one headstone and combine the official OSF theme, Songs That Make Me Smile, with a tribute to one of my favorite dates on the calendar. Here are Halloween-flavored songs that make me smile.

I may as well start with the obvious. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” has become more than a song. It is a cultural institution. From prisoners to wedding parties to my little brother’s recent swim team talent show, everyone at some point in their life must find reason to participate in a reenactment of the Thriller choreography.

Of course this Halloween the song is bittersweet, with the recent death of MJ and the thus-far enormously successful film This Is It. “Thriller” is still one of those Halloween-appropriate songs that makes me smile.

“Thriller (Bird Peterson Remix)” by Michael Jackson

Another highly participatory Halloween song that always puts a smile on my face is from one of the most uproariously fun movies of all time. If you ever meet me in person remind me to tell you the story of the first time my friends and I, in high school, went to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show downtown, bringing bags full of raw eggs and rocks and filled water balloons—all of which were confiscated by the security guard at the door. Or, about the time we took my exchange student from Yugoslavia to see it for his first time, and he got mad when the audience yelled “VIRGIN” to him when he said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Time Warp” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show Motion Picture Soundtrack

My last pick is probably the best song ever made to send a chill up your spine. It makes me smile because ever since I was a child I have loved scary movies—and The Exorcist is one of the scariest ever made.

“Tubular Bells” by Mike Oldfield

Have a safe Halloween 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.

The Obamas and The (Re)Discovery of Blackness

Damon Winter/The New York Times, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/01/magazine/01Obama-t.html?_r=2

The past few months have seen a constant string by the mainstream media of discoveries about Black people. I use the word “discoveries” in the same sense of Christopher Columbus and his discovery of what we now call the United States of America. Of course the land mass already existed. Of course other people were already living on it. And indeed, others from other places had previously “discovered” it.

We Black people—like the land mass and folks living there—did not become that interesting, that open for analysis, that ripe for exploration (and exploitation) until others discovered us.

There have been other times when attention has been focused on Black people and all things Black. But the most recent interest is the direct result of Barack H. Obama and his family.

I am sure someone has the data:

The number of news stories on interracial marriages and multiracial people pre- and post-Barack Obama (e.g., “Should we call Obama ‘black’ or ‘biracial’?” NY Times).

The amount of discussion about Black people’s (men, women and children) hair pre- and post-Barack (e.g., re: his barber), -Michelle (e.g., “Why Michelle’s Hair Matters,” Time Magazine), and -Malia (e.g., re: her hair style during a trip to Russia).

The level of fascination about Black women’s bodies pre- and post-Michelle (e.g., “First Lady Got Back“).

We have even been exposed to the shocking!yes,shocking! news that the First Lady has Whiteblood!yes,whiteblood! in her genetic ancestry.

Now comes the latest (for the moment) oddity of the Obamas: their marriage. Of course, married presidents are not something new. But according to the writer of this New York Times Magazine cover story, “the Obamas mix politics and romance in a way that no first couple quite have before.”

The entire article is worth a read. And in fairness, I cannot blame the media for being somewhat fascinated by, or at least interested in, the Obamas. What’s there not to be interested in?

But I suspect that with this NY Times Magazine story may follow a rush of articles trying to figure out What is going on with marriages between Black professional men and Black professional women? … to uncover the truths about What forces are challenging these unions in the 21st Century? …to declare that the Health and Future of The Black Family is dependent upon these Black Marriages! …to headline all manner of other questions, and problems, and observations about a demographic that—I am sure it will seem—sprung up out of nowhere. I would like to supply some perspectives from one woman involved in such a fascinating Black Marriage, so as to save some writers some research effort when it comes time to produce these news pieces.

* I have been half of a Black Marriage for almost as long as Michelle and Barack. (They’ve got us beat by almost exactly 1 year.) Our circle of friends include other Black couples who have been married as long or longer than the First Couple.

* “The centrality of the Obama marriage to the president’s political brand opens a new chapter in the debate that has run through, even helped define, their union….” Though my spouse’s and my marriage is not a capital-P political one, that we are both Black and married (to each other) seems to be very political in some people’s eyes. For example, my spouse has had Black women in his workplace act warm and friendly toward him after previously being cold and aloof once they find out that his wife is Black. Part of our “brand” very much seems to be that we are individually successful, individually well-educated, and yoked to each other. Like the Obamas, we have learned to deal with and even embrace this.

* We’ve dealt with those imbalances that come from managing continuing educations/training, jobs, a marriage, and two children. Like the First Lady, I have usually been the one who has had to put something on hold, take up some slack, slide something to the back burner, make some extra adjustments. Many women of many different races deal with this. However, the racial component makes things that much more interesting for me. For example, I once had a fellow mother at a private school where our daughters attended express surprise when she found out that (a) I had an advanced degree and (b) my husband was a physician. (I suppose, when she heard that we both worked, that she assumed we were what was euphemistically called a “scholarship family.”) She—a stay-at-home-mother—asked me why I didn’t just stay home, as she had done. Further, she couldn’t understand why I did not hire a nanny to help me with my twins when they were younger as she had with her twins. That was not a very pleasant conversation after that, and as a result, this woman avoided me for the next two years.

* Black married couples have all sorts of married models they are drawing on for inspiration. I know part of the fascination with Michelle is that, unlike her spouse, she grew up in an “intact” family. Both my own spouse and I spent our childhoods in such homes. And in my case, both my parents had advanced degrees. There was nothing necessarily “unique” about this upbringing. Once during the run of “The Cosby Show” a White colleague on a college campus expressed how “unrealistic” the family was. I probed her to explain to me what made the family such an inauthentic portrayal of Black life. (You can probably guess where the conversation went from there.) I certainly knew of Black single mothers, or men who had second (or third) simultaneous families. But I also had “traditional” couples to draw from, and those are the ones that have informed my own relationship ideas. (Not to mention my relationship models that were “non-traditional” same-sex couples…a different story for a different day.)

When she interviewed for a job at the University of Chicago Medical Center, her baby sitter canceled at the last moment, and so Michelle strapped a newborn Sasha into a stroller, and the two rolled off together to meet the hospital president. “She was in a lot of ways a single mom, and that was not her plan,” recalls Susan Sher, who became her boss at the hospital and is now her chief of staff….

* I can relate. Because of my spouse’s schedule at one time, I was the one rolling around a stroller, alone, with two little babies strapped in. But this comment by Mrs. Obama’s old boss reminds me of an additional element to all this that I never quite got used to:  Frequently people assumed, just by the sight of me, that I was a single mother. Once, a colleague I had known for just a few weeks told me that if there was anything she could do—anything at all—to help me out, to just give her a call. This, because she had “so much respect for what it must be like for a single Mom.” Another time, a woman pushing her child-filled stroller on the sidewalk in the opposite direction from me stopped to comment. “Are they twins? My hat is off to you! You are one strong sister to be able to raise two by yourself.” (The first woman was White; the second was Black.)

* I cannot relate to complaints from some of my married friends (of any race) about their husband’s lack of help around the house. In addition to working full time my spouse also cleans and cooks. He even does little girls’ hair so long as what is required is a basic symmetrical afro. I once had a woman at an academic conference tell me that this was because we were a Black couple and Black couples are a lot more egalitarian than White couples and White men had a lot to learn from Black men. (You might be able to imagine where that conversation went from there.) Once again, the way that we have organized our lives, our parenting, and our household has become political. Yet our arrangements are really just what work for us. We do not join each other in a round of “I (She) Am (Is) Woman, Hear Me (Her) Roar” following a joint clothes-folding session or after tucking our children in bed at night. Things do not always go smoothly. There are “bumps,” as Michelle Obama said about her own marriage, and yes they are pretty continuous. But in general, things are good.

I often find it strange that I sometimes feel disloyal or embarrassed for saying so.

* “…Parenting in the White House is more complicated….” Actually, Parenting-While-Black is complicated enough already. The biggest challenges my husband and I face as a couple have less to do with us as individuals or a couple, and more to do with our roles as parents. As my battle conversation with my children’s school personnel over their decision regarding the President’s back-to-school speech illustrates, raising Black children in the USA can, indeed, be life on a battlefield. There are some negative things my children have faced that I thought were over with. There are new negative things they’ve faced that have completely bewildered me. They have also, however, been fortunate to be exposed to a similar diversity as I was in my parents’ 70s college-era environment. (Alas, not so much now as when we were in the Twin Cities.) Life as a Black couple parenting Black children is challenging—but not all gloom and doom.

As the great experiment of the presidency rolls on, the Obamas may finally learn definitive answers to the issues they have been debating over the course of their partnership. The questions they have long asked each other in private will likely be answered on the largest possible stage. They will discern whether politics can bring about the kind of change they have longed for and promised to others, or whether the compromises and defeats are too great. They will learn whether they were too ambitious or not ambitious enough. And even if they share the answer with no one else, the two will know better if everything does in fact become political — if their marriage can both embrace politics and also at some level stay free of it.

Then, in three or seven years, the president’s political career will end. There will be no more offices to win or hold, and the Obamas will most likely renegotiate their compact once more — this time, perhaps more on Michelle Obama’s terms.

The equality of any partnership “is measured over the scope of the marriage. It’s not just four years or eight years or two,” the first lady said. “We’re going to be married for a very long time.”

* In the end, that is what it is about with my own Black marriage, too. A belief in the long-range. A faith in the this-too-shall-pass. That to some my spouse and I are considered an anomaly, an outlier far beyond the normal data points—none of that matters. It should not make me feel more special than anyone else, or less “authentic” than anyone else.

There is no Black Marriage. There are Black Marriages. And mine is just one of them.

85 Years as President…

…That is how long it would take Barack Obama (or any POTUS at the current pay) to make what the CEO of Hewlitt-Packard makes in 1 year. This, according to the graphic reproduced here (from this original piece). Of course, we cannot all be leader of the fee world. If you are an “average worker” making around $40K, it will take you 836 years to reach H-P CEO bank.

"Monopoly." d0bb0, http://www.flickr.com/photos/d0bb0/2319191944/

I’ve heard some say that the next world war will be fought over water. Perhaps. But will the next US revolution be fought over income disparities?

Doesn’t seem plausible, IMO. Many folks seem to think that they—with hard work and a “quality education”—might one day pull down H-P CEO-type money, or position their kids so that they might. In the meantime, so much more efficient to blame affirmative action or immigration for any lack of personal income power.

Eating Obama (Again)

Here we go again with the Obama-food-racist imagery. This time the culinary delight is fried chicken. Apparently, one of the RNC’s Facebook fans uploaded an image of the President chowing down on what appears to be a chicken wing (no word on whether it is the left wing or the right wing) with text that read, “Miscegenation is a crime against American values/Repeal Loving v. Virginia” (Source, incl. image). The image has been removed—but it seems it was up for some time before this action was taken. This reminded me of this post from a while back, so I decided to re-post.

Yes, Obama makes some folks bat-sh** crazy ravenously hungry. Not to mention scared that he’s going to be the harbinger of Black men taking up with the all the White women eating up all of America’s friend chicken….

Eating Obama

One thing I know for certain: Barack Obama sure seems to make some people hungry.

We’ve had Obama Waffles (“Change You Can Taste!”), White House lawn-grown watermellons,  and Obama Bucks to buy all of this food. More recently there have been Obama Fingers—a tasty fried chicken treat, and this frozen ice cream treat that appears to be vanilla covered in nut-sprinkled chocolate.

On a less sinister note, we’ve also witnessed portraits of Obama in the medium of over 1,000 cupcakes, Obama campaign logo cookies, and even Obama (flavored?) hot sauce.

What’s going on with all this Obama-inspired culinary activity?

Are folks just hungry, and want to combine their love of (or hate for) Barack Obama with nutritional ingestion? Are some supporters on an Obama Eucharist kind of trip, thinking they’ll witness some kind of miraculous transubstantiation after eating foodstuff emblazoned in his image? We Obama supporters often were accused of looking upon the man as Messiah. But my answer to all that was always, “Don’t hate because you have a boring snoozer of a candidate. We Dems certainly have had to suffer with such candidates in the recent past.”

As for the more negative portrayals, is food just an efficient shorthand tool for expressions of racism? In the case of the non-US food companies, do they really just have no clue? Well, at least with the frozen treats, it seems as if the whole racial “____ on the inside and ____ on the outside” meme is a feature of their product line. Clearly they know more than they seem to be letting on. But perhaps they still see the product as harmless, even complimentary? The Americans—I have no sympathy for them. Everyone past a certain age who grew up here knows what they are doing when they invoke food-related racial imagery.

**Sigh**

I don’t know. Damn the Internets, though, for bringing this constant barrage of images to our front doors/browsers. It’s going to be a long 4-8 years…

Sometimes the smallest things make your day

Wandering around the small convenience store on campus. Finally decide on an overpriced bottled water and an overpriced variety pack of Now ‘r Laters. Get to the 20-something Black male cashier. He rings me up, says—pointing to his pal who had just ducked into a door behind the counter—

“My partner there says you look like Claire Huxtable. That’s a compliment.”

It surely is, young man. It surely is.

Old School Friday in Small Doses

I was in somewhat of a bind this Old School Friday. The theme is Sade.

My first thought upon reading that was–Huh? Come up with a tribute post to an artist who only has three albums?

Well, I looked it up, and actually she has 5 studio albums (plus a new one that is supposed to be released), a remix album, a “Best of” album, and a live album.  Still not a whole lot of material. (And of course quantity does not equal quality.) But that still did not explain my reticence to dedicating an entire OSF post to Sade.

I have seen Sade in concert and enjoyed it a great deal. I own two of her albums, and am looking forward to the new one. So why was I hesitating?

"My Old Medicine bottle/jar collection." aussiegal, http://www.flickr.com/photos/aussiegall/309391023/

Then I started listening to Love Deluxe—that I hadn’t listened to in full in years…and it struck me—That‘s why. By the time I got to “Kiss of Life” I was totally chilled out. Somewhat depressed. Lethargic. Sade is one of those artists I love—but that I have to listen to in only small doses. She does what I call “groove music.” You may call it “mood music.” I love Sade’s music—but only so long as I can deal with the mood it puts me in. As I was listening to Love Deluxe I wished she could have up-tempo-ed her mid-tempo songs just a notch. Maybe throw in a break with a Missy rap in the middle of “Cherish the Day”… Something just to shake things up a bit.

But no. Sade is for that mood and anything else would destroy the mood. Best to just sit back, relax, and enjoy.

“Like a Tattoo” by Sade

So this insight about Sade gave me the inspiration to adapt this OSF post to better suit my needs. In addition to Sade, I’d like to feature a couple other artists I love, but only seem able to listen to a little bit at a time.

I may be risking my (perhaps already in jeopardy) Black woman card here. But another artist that fits this bill for me is Erykah Badu. I have every single album she has ever commercially released. But I still can only deal with Ms. Badu a little at a time. In her case I think it is all the super-spirituality-new-agey-earth-mothery themes in much of her music. I can deal for a while—but only for a while. Then her music gets to sounding just a little pompous, like she takes herself a little too seriously. I know; I know. She’s an artist, and she’s sensitive about her s***.

Again, when I am in my Baduizm phase, it’s best to just relax and enjoy.

“Drama” by Erykah Badu

The last small-dose artist I’d like to feature is someone I didn’t get into until I started dating Mr. Scribe. At the time, I thought it cool that this Black dude was so into such a wide range of music. That meant he wouldn’t make fun of me for my own musical tastes! The list of artists he turned me onto is quite long, including Lenny Kravitz, the B-52s, Nirvana…

And Sinead O’Connor.

Sinead’s music is also moody. And she also seems a little full of herself at times most times. But I still love her stuff. Even if I do want to shake her sometimes and say, in my best Heath Ledger Joker imitation, “Why so serious?”

“Nothing Compares 2 U” by Sinead O’Connor

So this week, as my fellow OSFers feature Ms. Adu, I think I will spread out my Blog visits over the whole weekend. Wouldn’t want to OD on the chill pills!

Happy OSF and have 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.

Way to Wonderful

It’s OK to head out for wonderful. But on your way to wonderful, you’re gonna have to pass through alright…

~Bill Withers, in doc trailer “Still Bill” (via Afronerd)

(Also see “Somebody to Lean On“)

LOLObama

As this blog is not even a year old yet, it may be too soon to do a re-post. But I think this post is an appropriate one to re-examine given my little piece of fiction from yesterday on the subject of humor. (And for anyone who read Part 1, Part 2 is on the way. I know you just were on the edge of your seats waiting to find out about the lady with the clown make-up!)

I first posted this February 19th, just weeks after Barack Obama’s historic innauguration. Considering all that has gone on since, it seems like a lifetime ago. It also seems like there has been a lot less political humor, and a lot more incivility and anger—on all sides of the political spectrum—than I hoped for or think is healthy. What do you think—of these two examples of political humor specifically and the state of political homor in the “Obama Age” generally?

(Also possibly of interest, the follow-up post, “Ur, hoa evr, doin it rong…“)

Humor in Post-Post-Racial USA: Ur doin it rite, akshully

Nation’s Blacks Creeped Out By All The People Smiling At Them:

WASHINGTON—A majority of African-Americans surveyed in a nationwide poll this week reported feeling “deeply disturbed” and “more than a little weirded out” by all the white people now smiling at them.

First witnessed shortly after President Obama’s historic victory, the open and cheerful smiling has only continued in recent months, leaving members of the black community completely unnerved.

…According to the poll, more than 92 percent of African-Americans have noticed a dramatic increase in the number of beaming Caucasians in their vicinity, as well as a marked rise in the instances of white people making direct eye contact with them on the bus, engaging them in pleasant conversation, and warmly gazing in their general direction with a mix of wonder, pride, and profound contentment. All respondents reported being “petrified” by the change.

“Yesterday, I’m pretty sure the cashier at the Giant Eagle winked at me,” said Eddie Wilkes, a Pittsburgh resident who described himself as “not a politics person.” “Then she said something about what a happy day it was and tried to bump fists. The whole thing gave me the willies”…

Discussion here before about the complexities and challenges of joke-making in this so-called Age of Obama. Joke-tellers everywhere may find themselves walking a thin line between forging new paths in comedic observation and retreading old paths of racist humor. Joke-listeners everywhere may find themselves challenged with their reactions to such jokes. When is offense and indignation justified? When do we allow ourselves to lighten up?

The above Onion satire is, in my opinion, a good example of a hopeful direction in this comedy and is well worth a full read.

Why it works: Like many Onion pieces, this one has an air of borderline (at least) plausibility. Polls like this are taken, names of people and organizations are real and familiar, and the behavior described is not wholly unbelievable. The joke can stand as an observation of the (perhaps temporary) goodwill and brother-/sisterhood towards humans that seemed to sweep many quarters of the country in the time leading up to election night right through inauguration day. Viewed deeper it also subtly pokes fun at the notion of a “post-racial America”: Blacks and Whites still have different views of the same phenomenon, some Whites are still clueless as to their impact on people of other races. The simple regard for Blacks’ humanity is shown simultaneously as previously missing from much interracial contact and likely just a blip in such interactions.

Who might find it especially funny: Some Blacks who have experienced these kinds of reactions might be especially inclined to laugh uproariously at this piece, similar to how I reacted the first time I explored the Rent-a-Negro and Black People Love Us websites. Others who are fighting the feel-good idea/myth/wishful thinking of a post-racial world might also find the piece humorous, regardless of their race and ethnicity.

Who might have problems with it: Some people may take offense at how the butt of the joke is mainly White people and, perhaps more specifically, the largest segment of White people who supported Barack Obama during the campaign (urban, well educated, young). Obama-age humor will be particularly prone to having a “strange bedfellows” quality to it. In this case, both some Black people—both who did and did not supported Obama—and some White conservatives and others who did not vote for Obama may be laughing. But for different reasons.

Let’s try another one. This one is from the popular user-generated Pundit Kitchen site. It depicts a loving moment between the Obamas. Michelle is saying, “Let’s play Naughty Nurse meets the President again.” Barack responds, “Okay, but this time I get to be the President.”

Why it works: Classic comedic reversal of expectations. Because Barack is, in fact, the President—and, is male—the initial assumption from the first line is that when the two play this game Michelle is the “Naughty Nurse” and Barack is “the President.” Of course, the second line throws this expectation on its head.

Who might find it especially funny: Someone who feels that Barack Obama is too “soft” and Michelle Obama too “manly.” So, this might be funny to some detractors of the Obamas. But also, the joke might be funny to someone who believes in the empowerment of women, the positivity of sexual expression, gender egalitarianism, or other such notions. Particularly the empowerment of Black women, the positivity of sexual expression in Black couples, etc. Again, different segments of people will be laughing for different reasons.

Who might have problems with it: Someone who is troubled by what they see as the sexual fetishism that seems to be directed toward this particular President and First Lady, and the racial overtones involved in it. Black women as sexually loose and emasculating, Black men as sexual studs, etc. Also, some feel that this type of joke-making about the leader of our nation is inappropriate no matter who is in office. The presidency should be held in high esteem, according to this view, so this kind of focus on the President’s sex life is disrespectful and inappropriate.

Me? I find both of these examples extremely funny. Hard times are here, with harder times to follow. We’ll all get through them a lot easier if we are able to laugh at ourselves, each other, and our leaders.

Saturday at the Front (Part 1)

Violating the posted rules of the conference room, Saturday had brought liquor.

And a stack of red ribbed plastic cups, a bag of ice, nonalcoholic mixers, bar tools, and plastic containers of olives and sliced lemons and limes. Wednesday looked at the collection and scowled.

“I assume coffee will not be necessary,” Wednesday asked.

“Not unless you want an Irish Coffee.”

"Saphhire." ilmungo, http://www.flickr.com/photos/ilmungo/75994061/

Monday walked in, balancing a pile of papers. One sheet fluttered off the top and escaped through the open door. A split second later came Tuesday, clutching the apprehended sheet in one raised hand.

“Thanks”: Monday to Tuesday. Then, noticing the makeshift bar, to Saturday: “I do not suppose it would be worth my time to remind you of the explicit rules regarding alcoholic beverages.”

“You suppose correctly…or, is it, you do not suppose incorrectly? Really, Monday, your language could use a colonic.”

Friday and Thursday entered next. Sunday, last.

As Saturday had already taken residence at the head of the table, the others filled in as per order: Sunday to the chair immediately right of the head, then Monday and on through Friday. Monday closed the door and glanced clockwards: “It is early still, but because everyone is here, why don’t we begin? It is Saturday’s turn at the front and it seems we are to be treated to happy hour in addition to a joke.”

Saturday just smiled, unscrewing the top off of a bottle of gin. “What can I get started for everyone?”

Protests…requests for nonalcoholic drinks…claims of I’m not thirsty…were all dismissed by Saturday, who commenced to mixing whatever came to mind for each of them. Soon a filled red plastic cup sat in front of each; eventually, in all cases, one sip followed another, all protests forgotten.

Said Monday, “Before you get started, do we have any old business?”

A few moments of silence were broken by Wednesday. “Will you please let us know who is to get coffee next time? Will we skip whoever’s turn it was supposed to be this week, or will we proceed where we left off last?”

Monday consulted notes, while around the table came the sounds of sips and sighs. “That would be me, if we do not skip. Oh. But that is the day I have that meeting to go to and—”

Tuesday, quickly: “I’ll be happy to take your turn. Then I’ll do next time as well. It’s fine.”

“Alright. Thank you, Tuesday. So, moving on—”

“I would just like to ask, then, Monday, what your plans were for today. Since it was to be your turn and you apparently had not made plans to get the coffees.”

“Yes, Wednesday, I was running late today. But I had still planned to make the run. Perhaps we should set aside this topic until a later date and move on to new business. Anyone? No? Then, Saturday, the front is yours.”

“Fan-tas-tic! First I’d like to make a toast.” Holding up a cup and waiting for the others to do the same. One by reluctant one, they did. “A toast to Tuesday, who always knows just the right thing to say, and when to say it. Usually, of course, right after Monday. To Tuesday!” Saturday sipped. The others repeated, less enthusiastically, “to Tuesday,” before sipping.

Tuesday said, “Thank you, Saturday, for that unexpected, if somewhat backhanded, compliment.”

“Yes, Saturday, as the…’compliment’ engaged me by implication, I ‘thank’ you as well.”

“No need to—” here Saturday demonstrated exaggerated air quotation marks— “thank me, friends. That was quite sincere. And now, for another. A toast to Wednesday, for keeping our toes to flame on such important matters as coffee and tea! To Wednesday!”

“Alright, we can all see where this is headed. I think you should stop with the toasts and just—”

But Thursday interrupted, red ribbed cup held high, “To WEDNESDAY! Who I follow with GREAT honor!” Thursday’s loud, prolonged gulps were barely heard over the reluctant, non-unison mumbles of “To Wednesday” from around the table. Sips, less brief than previously, filled the space between this exclamation and Saturday’s continuation.

“And to all the rest! My peers and friends! Without whom I would be nothing! Here-here!”

“Here- here,” in unison, this time, if not all as enthusiastically as Saturday’s cheer.

After this round of sips, Saturday began refilling all of the cups—with little logic, it seemed. No questions this time about what everyone was drinking; indeed, no one received the same drink as the first time. But this time, no protests.

“Soooo, my selection today involves this joke I heard. But this isn’t about the joke per se. Instead, I would like to…to deconstruct a joke and the joke-telling and joke-creating process. And I would like this to be participatory.”

“Sounds like it might be fun,” said Friday, reaching for a lemon wedge.

“So long as you are open to the criticism such participation may entail,” said Wednesday.

“Oh, perfectly open. In fact, that would help me a lot. See, it occurs to me that my jokes have not been as funny lately as I would like them to be. At first I thought, well I just need more jokes—better jokes—jokes no one has heard before. But now I’m thinking it might not be quantity or even quality, but delivery. I’ve been obsessed with this. I think about it all the time. I can barely sleep and my eating’s been off, too. I even considered medication…like, maybe I’m clinically depressed or something.”

Saturday paused, and everyone’s eyes focused front, computing this unexpected show of reflection and self-doubt. Then Thursday spit out a spray of  rum- and spit-laced fluid halfway across the table in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a laugh. Saturday kept the straight face for a moment, but then joined Thursday’s guffaws.

“OK,” said Saturday. “I haven’t exactly been depressed. But it has been bugging me.”

“Saturday,” Wednesday said, sliding an empty cup across the table to Saturday for refilling, “have you considered that the context for humor has changed? Frequently your jokes are, well, questionable, at best, when it comes to…race and gender.”

“And sex. And profanity,” interjected Sunday.

“Or stupidity and childishness,” said Monday.

“Actually, what I was getting at, is that there was a time when you could depend on  marginalized groups not being able to speak out against some jokes. Not to mention,” continued Wednesday, “that the contexts in which jokes are told are much more likely to be diverse now. Which means it is harder and harder to tell some jokes without them offending someone listening.”

“I hear what you are saying, Wednesday—I hear what all of you are saying. But I can usually deal with aspects of a joke that might make it…problematic for some audiences. Here, I’ll give you an example. Let’s say I want to tell a joke that involves two little old African American ladies arguing in church.” To Monday, who was taking notes in between sips: “Now, this isn’t my actual joke, I’m just giving an example.”

Then, back to group: “This is an old joke; you’ve probably heard it. But it’s a good example. OK. So there’s two Black old ladies arguing in church. Now, I would only tell this joke in front of people who’d already get that these are specifically two Black church sisters. I’d make my voice do like,” and here Saturday’s voice transformed—more nasal,  “dis like I hab a mouf full of faws teef or sometin an ima ole lady—see, that’s how the audience would already know.”

“Yes.” Friday’s voice was as laced with sarcasm as with vodka: “and we all know how much Black audiences love to hear themselves sound like that.”

“Ah. But this is a joke originally told by a Black person. Context. Like Wednesday was saying. This would have been a Black joke told by a Black joke-teller to a Black  audience. So—where was I?” Sipping: “Oh. So this joke’s about these two old church women arguing and—sorry, Sunday—in the original version, there’s a dirty word repeated. You could use lotsa words, some dirtier than others. Like, if you wanted to tone down the dirtiness, you might use ‘dick’—again, sorry, everybody. I’ll just say ‘the d-word.’ OK. But to amp it up you could say co— I mean, the c-word, for…you know…that part of the male anatomy.”

“Will you be actually telling the joke, Saturday,” asked Thursday, pushing an empty cup down for a refill.

"two old ladies in Vienna." loungerie, http://www.flickr.com/photos/loungerie/2103105240/

“Yes. Sorry. But just as an example, right?” Saturday did not miss a beat, pouring, mixing and talking simultaneously.  “I explained that the original joke is contextual and involves profanity. And part of the humor comes from the image of these two little old ladies, in church, talking in this funny voice, saying this word—either the d-word or the c-word. But I could change all that, easily, to remove the racial aspects, the profanity, the religious stuff. And the joke would be just as funny. So here’s the joke in it’s new form:

I ran across my neighbors, old Mrs. Johnson and old Mrs. Jones, the other day while I was walking Rex. They were arguing on Mrs. Johnson’s front porch.”

“—Now, see, this is something else I did with the joke,” said Saturday in self-interruption. “I put myself in it. That’s personalization. Makes it even funnier. And I could even make it funnier by giving the dog a name the listeners all know. Say…my dog, Wednesday—”

“—Except, that might not be funny to Wednesday,” said Wednesday in self-reference.

“Ah, but a joke doesn’t have to be funny to everyone listening, as long as it is funny to most. Joke-tellers often make an audience member the joke’s butt, for more laughs from everyone else.”

“AND…” Monday, making an exaggerated tapping motion with fingertip to wristwatch face.

“Oh, sorry. So:

I ran across old Mrs. Johnson and old Mrs. Jones the other day while I was walking Rex, arguing on Mrs. Johnson’s front porch. ‘I says, ‘What’s going on?’ Mrs. Johnson said, ‘What’s going on is that she said that my late husband, rest his soul, had warts on his wee-wee.’

Notice how now I am just talking in a high-pitched, frail, universal old lady voice? And notice how calling it a wee-wee is still funny?

‘I did not say your late husband had warts on his wee-wee,’ said Mrs. Jones. ‘I clearly heard you say my late husband, rest his soul, had warts on his wee-wee.’ ‘Bertha, I did not say your husband had warts on his wee wee!’ Well, by now Rex is straining on the leash, and I’m thinking I could be here all day.

So I says, ‘Look, you two have been best friends for so long. Why can’t you just let this go?’ ‘But I can’t let it go! Sheee said that my late husband, rest his soul, had warts on his wee-wee!’

‘For the last time, Bertha, I did not say your late husband had warts on his wee-wee. I said it always looked like he had warts on his wee-wee!’ “

Saturday paused, and a split second later the laughter began—first a small trickle, swelling to a sustained outpouring.

“For the record,” said Wednesday, laughs subsiding, “there remain problematic aspects even after you have removed the d-word and the racial elements. Age-ism, for one. The joke depends on a myth of elderly women not being sexual beings. Not to mention the implication of infidelity.”

“But,” said Tuesday, “even you, yourself laughed. That would seem to suggest that a significant portion of the populace accepts these tropes as humorous. Which, of course, is not to say that they are less problematic.  I guess I am just trying to say…” Trailing off. Less sure. “Well, anyway, I think that this is a good example of how a joke could be adapted.”

Said Sunday, “I like the use of wee-wee,”  followed by chuckles and more beverage spray.

“Yesss,” said Monday, “When all else fails, resort to toddler-influenced potty language. So. Saturday. Example noted. But are you going to get to your point? We only have the conference room for—”

“One hour fifteen minutes. I know.” Saturday poured seven new drinks in fresh cups and passed them out. Most had not finished with the drink in front of them. Moments of indecision round the table were resolved by strategies of quickly downing existing drinks, adding old contents to new cups, or setting aside old cups in favor of the replacements.

“As I was saying. I don’t think good joke-telling’s a matter of context or times. All that can be overcome. It’s the delivery. And I think it just took a good joke-teller—someone even better than myself—to make this clear to me. And here’s where I’m gonna tell this joke I heard, but I have to give you the background first—” Here Monday again turned watch-checking into high drama— “But it will only take another few moments.”

Sipping.

“It happened the other day when I caught a cab to go uptown. I’d just climbed in when this woman piles in beside me and asks if she can share the ride with me to J Street.”

“Wait just a minute,” protested Tuesday. “This is a joke, right? You’re going to say that her right breast was exposed and she left her baby on the bus.”

“Nooo, that was from last time. And it was her left breast. This isn’t a joke. It was a a real woman and she wanted to be dropped off at J Street uptown. Fully clothed. Oh. And she was wearing clown make up.”

“Clown make up?” Monday’s note-taking paused, pen in mid-air.

“Yes. Clown make-up.”

.

.

.

***End, Part One***

***This crew appeared in a previous two-part post, Friday at the Front Part 1 and Part 2***

On Grief and Guilt

Folks who followed me on my Old Blog know that my research area was child adoption. With my new gig, I do not get to follow the adoption literature as much as I used to. But every once in a while I come across a story in the mainstream press that makes me feel my time in the trenches was of value and that reignites my desire to get back to that work someday in some capacity. The former Anti-Racist Parent blog—rechristened as “Love Isn’t Enough” (tagline: “on raising a family in a colorstruck world”)—features an excellent post on one such recent story.

Whenever one of these stories surfaces, I am usually involved in giving the other side of the man-bites-dog aspects, assuring people that in the majority of cases it is the other way around but that dog-bites-man is deemed to not be a very interesting news story. Alright. Perhaps not the best metaphor. But the point is, despite stories like a family “returning” a child they had adopted, most adoptions do not entail this result—even most special needs and transracial and transnational adoptions. This is in large part due to the increased skill and preparation of many adoption agencies in screening and preparing potential and prospective adopters. (I’d like to think that academic research and the adoption blogosphere has also played a role, but that is a separate story…)

Nevertheless, stories like Anita Tedaldi’s usually strike a chord and, in the process, reveal much about our attitudes about family and privilege. Thea Lim’s piece is one of the best I have read discussing the issues. She concludes:

Tedaldi describes her feelings as “grief.” Grief is what we have when we lose a friend or a family member to death, or to the vagaries of life. Grief is not – at least not mainly – what we have when we utterly fuck up and totally let someone down. That is called guilt.

Grief is also what we have when we lose a dream. But D. is not a dream, not a realisation of the adoption fantasy Tedaldi admits to having had her whole life. He’s a human.

This is not a story about a mother and a child. This is not even a story about a woman and a baby. It’s a story about two humans. But that keeps getting lost in the mix.

Original posting at Racialicious! (plus lengthy comment thread)

@President Obama: “Why do people hate you?”

Well, you might have missed it—what with little kids being aloft in balloons (or not being aloft in balloons) and interracial couples having the nerve to get married in Louisiana (or not getting married in Louisiana), but yesterday was the President’s town hall meeting at the University of New Orleans during his first trip to NOLA since becoming president.

Not a whole lot of solid or new information from the meeting. (The White House does have an 8-page document detailing recovery progress in the region thus far; scroll to bottom of the press release.) But the town hall was worth the price of admission because of this interchange, straight from the From-the-Mouths-of-Babes files:

THE PRESIDENT: …All right, I’ve got time for one more question. It’s a man’s turn, isn’t it? It’s a guy’s turn. Okay, here’s — this young man, right here. I’m going to let him use my special mic. Hey, this is a big guy — don’t go “awww.” Come on, man, I mean, this is a — all right, what’s your name?

Q Terrence Scott (phonetic).

THE PRESIDENT: Terrence Scott. What do you have to say?

Q I have to say, why do people hate you and why — they supposed to love you, and God is love and –

THE PRESIDENT: That’s what I’m talking about. (Laughter and applause.) Come on. That’s what I’m talking about. Terrence, I appreciate that. What grade are you in?

Q Fourth.

THE PRESIDENT: You’re in fourth grade? Well, now, first of all, I did get elected President, so not everybody hates me, now. I don’t want you to — (laughter.) I got a whole lot of votes. I want to make sure everybody understands. But you know, what is true is if you were watching TV lately, it seems like everybody is just getting mad all the time. And, you know, I think that you’ve got to take it with a grain of salt. Some of it is just what’s called politics, where once one party wins then the other party kind of gets — feels like it needs to poke you a little bit to keep you on your toes. And so you shouldn’t take it too seriously.

And then sometimes — as I said before, people just — I think they’re worried about their own lives. A lot of people are losing their jobs right now. A lot of people are losing their health care or they’ve lost their homes to foreclosure. And they’re feeling frustrated. And when you’re President of the United States, you know, you’ve got to deal with all of that. That’s exactly right. And, you know, you get some of the credit when things go good; and when things are going tough, then you’re going to get some of the blame and that’s part of the job.

But, you know, I’m a pretty tough guy. Are you a tough guy? You look like you’re pretty tough. And so you’ve just got to keep on going even when folks are criticizing you. Because as long as you know that you’re doing it for other people. All right? (Applause.) So thank you. You’re a fine young man. I appreciate you. (Applause.) Give Terrence a big round of applause.

OSF: Hate the Song; Know Every Word

Really, I pretty much covered this week’s Old School Friday theme—Songs I Detest But Know All the Words To—a while back when I posted about songs that never should have been made. Every single one of those incredibly annoying songs songs that I am not particularly fond of from that post are ones that I, unfortunately, know every word to.

One of those songs I am going to have to re-post today, though—and again, I do this out of love. “Detest” is really such a strong word, but it is very fitting when it comes to this song by one of my all-time favorite artists. This is a live version of Stevie’s TV commercial jingle song “I Just Called to Say I Love You.” Apparently the ditty is a big crowd-pleaser. Poor Stevie will be hobbling on stage behind a walker on Reunion and Nostalgia concert tours and be forced to croak out “…and I meeeean it from the bottom of my heaaaaarrrrt…”

The next song may not actually fit in the theme. I do not detest it—in fact, I absolutely love the song. But I cringe when I sing the words. I feel a little dirty every time I sing the words. I am a little ashamed of myself every time I sing the words…. Big city lights! Back-room head-giving shenanigans! Gay youth and he-to-she trandformations! And soul food and the Appollo Theater! All right up there with drug use as examples of the amazing degeneracy fun that can be had on the dark wild side! And as an extra added bonus, at every chorus you can sing along with those sassy colored girls: “doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooooooo…”

(But. It’s a great song.)

Have 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.