Catch a Tiger By His Toe: Speaking Back to the Woods Affair

Heard on this morning’s TJMS:

Tom Joyner: What’s the n-word in Swedish?

Sybil Wilkes: The same. It’s universal.

"precept." smcgee, http://www.flickr.com/photos/smcgee/309271236/

There seems to be a certain level of glee in the discussions about what might or might not have contributed to golfer Tiger Woods’ car accident near his home. Glee from all sorts of places, but right now I am interested in the glee coming from some quarters of Black folks.

I guess I should speak for myself in admitting that I have had an ambivalent relationship with Woods over the years. I am speaking for myself—but suspect others feel similarly.

I have rooted for him, and taken some level of satisfaction when he has achieved at the top of his field. I do not like golf one bit. Once when my father-in-law—an avid golfer since his childhood days—took me out to the course with him I got sunstroke and swore no golfing green would ever see my body again. Watching televised golf for me is only slightly more exciting than watching TV test color bars. But still I rooted for him and even watched SportsCenter highlight of his shots.

I have grieved for him. I sensed how close he and his father had been and knew what he must have been feeling when his first and biggest fan died. To me they made the cutest pair: the pride emanating from the elder man, Tiger with his baby face and broad grin by his side. I am not one to talk about folks “looking down from heaven” and being pleased (or displeased). I generally hope that if there is a heaven, there will be something more and better to do than keep tabs on the goings-on here on earth. But in Tiger’s case, I generally have hoped that his Dad was tuning in to tournaments and continuing to take pride in his boy’s accomplishments.

I have scratched my head at him. His characterizations of his racial identity have challenged me to walk my talk. I firmly believe that people should have the freedom to self-identify as they please, in such a way that feels authentic to them—the rest of us be damned. At the same time, I feel that choosing to self-identify as Black in a nation in which Black is degraded can be an important—and brave—political act. I believe that people should have the freedom to love who they want to love and who loves them back—the rest of us be damned. At the same time I am aware that some people in our society are deemed more “lovable” than others, and Black women are often holding the short end of the dating game desirability stick.

So against this context I took in the initial reports of Woods’ one-car collision. My first thought centered on the initial reports that his injuries were “serious.” I thought about how none of us really knows what is in store for us by dusk when we rise out of bed at dawn. How each moment is precious. How money and fame cannot protect us against the great equalizers.

Then the story seemed to stray off of the fairway into the rough. The developing story is starting to read like an action movie that starts out great, but then develops so many holes that you are no longer able to enjoy the plot or even the special effects. Your whole viewing experience dissolves into pointing out to your movie mates how implausible different aspects of the film are. This, actually, becomes the source of most of your enjoyment such that if these loose strings were somehow tied logically in the final act, you’d be disappointed. You cannot wait to review the film for all your friends and relations—telling them that they must see it for its non-intended laugh-value alone.

So the story of Tiger’s accident has developed. I’m not so much worried that he has suffered great injuries—and certainly I am no longer worried that he is on death’s door—as I am interested in the story he has given to the police (apparently) and to the public as well as the public’s reaction to that story. Which brings me back to the glee I am detecting in the reactions.

Again, I’ll speak to myself. (Though I think I could ask these same questions of others.)

I ask myself: do I feel vindicated to see that Woods is being exposed, perhaps, as a regular male human being with normal failings? Am I happy that White women may, after these rumors, no longer be perceived by some Black men as the higher value, lower drama alternative to Black women? Am I relieved that whatever happened in that driveway resulted in Tiger wearing cuts and scratched instead of his wife? Am I tickled and entertained at the implausible (though, I must say, still possibly true) details Woods is sharing with us? Am I titillated by the proactive “lawyering up” of the other woman identified in the gossip around this case? Do I secretly wish that through this experience that Woods may realize that no matter how loved and accepted he may be by mainstream media and White fans, he can still be knocked down to size (and race)?

Am I hoping I am the first to think of the following board-game-inspired punchline to some joke about the affair: Mrs. Woods, in the driveway, with a nine iron?

Am I “wrong” for any or all of these reactions?

On the other hand, do I fear that the familiar apologies for domestic violence—e.g., most of the time it’s the woman who starts it—will be given fuel? Am I sad that whatever the case may be, two little children will have to suffer the upset to their family life and privacy? Am I wary that Blacks harboring unresolved ambivalence toward Woods will be singing the same chorus as Whites harboring unresolved bigotry toward him? Will I be tricked, as I have been in the past, by letting my attention drift to this new, shiny thing instead of focusing on more important national and global matters?

War Hobby

…During the “surge” in Iraq, when monthly death tolls soared above 100 for three months in a row, [Michael] White began breaking down.

“It was too much, too intense,” he said.

But slowly, the violence began to quell in Iraq. And with it, so did the interest in icasualties. White’s site dropped from 1 million hits a day during the surge down to 50,000.

“People may be fatigued on this,” said Matt Tatham, spokesman for the market research firm Experian Hitwise, which tracks usage of Web sites. “It may be the economy replaced the war.”

White came close to pulling the plug.

Jillian had never known a father who was not a keeper of death. Ashley thought her husband’s hobby had spiraled out of control.

But when Afghanistan heated up again, White realized his job was far from finished.

“Hopefully, that won’t last,” White said. “I wake up every morning now and hope there is nothing there.” [Source]

And so it begins: OSF Holiday Preview

I am not a shop til you drop kinda gal. Instead of hitting the stores today, I—along with Mr. Scribe and the two Scribe daughters—did yard work. My back is aching, my allergies are kicking and six yard bags are filled with leaves, twigs, and various other organic matter. I am envious of my next door neighbor who has hired a professional lighting company to deck her house in the most spectacular yet tasteful holiday display. Maybe tomorrow I will dig out our measly three boxes of decorations out of storage and begin our own decorating. I am especially excited to look at all of my thank you letters given to me by the third graders last year following my Kwanzaa presentations at school.

Whatever the case, I guess The Holiday Season has begun. As a preview, I’d like to offer the following Old School holiday songs. Enjoy!

“What Christmas Means to Me” by Stevie Wonder

“Baby It’s Cold Outside” by Jimmy Smith and Wes Montgomery

“Christmas Time is Here” (from Charlie Brown Christmas) by the Vince Guaraldi Trio

“What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” by Ella Fitzgerald

“Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” by Johnny Mathis

“Ave Maria” by Marian Anderson

***

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.

Thankfully Yours

Another one from the old blog. As troubling as the “Thanksgiving” holiday is from a political and historical standpoint, I like that it gives me an opportunity to reflect on the goodness in my life. Of course, I should not need a notation on a calendar to prompt me to do this kind of reflecting. I shouldn’t. But most times I do need a reminder of some sort. So here is my ode to two of the gifts I am thankful for.

Thanks. Full.

This holiday weekend in 1999: What was I thankful for then? Perhaps I was relieved to have gone a few hours without the terrible morning (actually, “all day”) sickness that had plagued me throughout the first half of my pregnancy. Or maybe I had been thankful for an “everything looks normal” verdict following the most recent ultrasound scan of my crowded and expanding uterus. I may have also been thankful for successfully navigating the first couple months of my PhD program.

But there is no doubt about what I was thankful for a few months after that Thanksgiving: These two little munchkins:

"Sunlit Babes." PPR_Scribe

I remember walking through our front door for the first time with our daughters swinging from our arms in their car seat/carriers. It seemed strange to suddenly be back in my own home after an extended stay in a hospital room. It seemed familiar, yet somehow completely not. These two little infants all bundled up in their too-big newborn clothes (they were about a month early) seemed to actually warp the space around us as we toured the house with them. As we whispered to them, “here’s your new house,” “here’s the crib where you’ll sleep,” “here’s the kitchen,” I sensed that this could not be quite right.

Was everything that these babies needed really here in this little two-bedroom townhouse? Yes, all the outlets were stoppered with clear plastic plug covers. Yes, their cream colored bedding was all tucked in place in their brand new matching cribs. Yes, the electric double breast pump had been delivered and was out of the box. But this place was no hospital.

And who the heck was I?

I recall feeling in those first couple of days that at any moment we would receive a call from the hospital: “We have made a terrible mistake. We are sorry for any inconvenience. But you must bring the children back here. Immediately.”

Of course that call never came. Nope. These babies were ours, free and clear. And very soon any such insecurities about my new role as “parent”‘ evaporated in a hazy cycle of cleaning and nursing, bathing and napping, cuddling and soothing.

Yes. I know I must have been heart-overflowing with thanks for our daughters during those first few weeks–just as I have been ever since. But in a sense these babies were not just a gift to me, my husband, and our family. They were also a gift to the world from us. And so, as the world embraces these now five year old girls and whispers to us this weekend “Thank you” I whisper back, “You are welcome.”

Ginormously Important Blog Post

From my old blog, c. 2005. Funny to read this post now: As of 2007 this word is now part of the official American English lexicon: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ginormous.

"Keri's Titanic Toes Terrorize a Tiny Person." Great Beyond, http://www.flickr.com/photos/tonyjcase/2740985980/

I did not receive the memo about “ginormous.”

I have ascertained, from the usage that I have overheard, that this is combination of “gigantic” and “enormous.” Over the last week or so I have heard the word used by at least a half dozen people, both men and women, young and older, in various places. Each time, the person who the speaker was speaking to did not stop and correct the speaker or question the speaker so I can only gather that this new term is being or has been accepted into our current lexicon.

I do not object to the creation of new words. I do not, even, have anything against “made up” words (or names, for that matter). Afterall, all words (and names) are made up at some point by some one.

It is just that I was neither informed about nor invited to participate in the discussion around ginormous. Was enorgantic ever under consideration? Gimongous? As a social and behavioral scientist I am very interested in scaling: What is the metric for ginormous? Twice as much as gigantic and/or enormous? More than gigantic but not quite enormous?

Where did this term originate? I am somewhat out of touch these days, so perhaps I am just unaware of a movie or a television show or a song or a celebrity that has made the word popular. Maybe this is just a Minnesota thing?

Well, at any rate, have a Happy Monday. Hope your Thanksgiving is ensafable.

“When did you discover you are African?”

"When did you discover you are African?" PPR_Scribe

"MOAD Exterior." PPR_Scribe

That is the question asked at the Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco.

While I was in town recently for a conference, I dragged my old college roommate there. Although she has been a resident of the city since we both left Boston, she had never visited the museum. I remember being very excited about it when it first opened in 2005; in fact, I think I even wrote a post about it on my old blog. So I knew I couldn’t visit the city and not visit MoAD.

I am tempted to compare MoAD to the National Underground Railroad Museum and Freedom Center, which I blogged about this summer. That would be, perhaps, an unfair comparison.

The Underground Railroad museum is working with probably 10 times more space for one thing. The exhibits are more emotionally charged at the Underground Railroad Museum just by nature of their content, and are a lot more participatory than the exhibits at the more gallery-like MoAD. There are also probably important differences in terms of ownership of the real estate that the two institutions inhabit that might partially account for how MoAD is able (and unable) to use its building, though I do not know for sure what all these details are.

"Museum of the African Diaspora, exterior." PPR_Scribe

Given these differences, though, I do think that MoAD could better utilize its small space. The exhibit space was small to begin with, and configured strangely—Rule number one of any public space is that it should not be so difficult to find the restroom.

But I was happy to see that the space was being used as a community gathering area: During my visit there was a respectable group there to hear artist Richard Mayhew speak. We did not have time to listen to the lecture but did enjoy the retrospective of his work.

There were creative uses of some of the spaces: Both the stairwell and the elevator were covered in hundreds of images of the people that make up the African diaspora, for example. And the space itself is gorgeous from a design standpoint. The small gift shop was impressive. The staff was welcoming and knowledgeable—the two young Black men working there who tried to talk us into attending the lecture were especially wonderful to see. The place had the feel of an intimate, cozy, vibrant cultural salon. And the on-line museum is user-friendly, aesthetically pleasing, and educational.

That the museum exists is reason enough to be happy. Hopefully with more time—and more monetary support—the space can be transformed (and maybe enlarged) to better host its important themes.

It was definitely worth the visit.

"Ancestor Image Stairwell." PPR_Scribe

"Ancestor Image Elevator, detail." PPR_Scribe

"Transformation-MoAD Lobby." PPR_Scribe

Census and Us

Just a quick plug: When you receive your 2010 U.S. Census forms, fill them out and return them. At the Scribe house, we turned the whole experience into a civics lesson for our kids. They were in charge of interviewing me and their father: reading to us the questions and filling in the American Community Survey forms. My daughters not only learned about the census—why it is done, what the data are used for—but also learned a thing or two about me, their father, and our family during the course of their “interviews.”

Hello Kitty and Smurfs: Because Sometimes You Need a Break from the Insanity

Things have been pretty quiet here at Post-Post-Racial Life. Working on a college campus again means I am once again yoked to the academic calendar and all the work that means for this time of year. I have also been traveling for work. I have also been less than my usual 80%, health-wise; Nothing serious, just a chronic condition flaring up worse than normal. I have also been on a pleasure-reading binge—brought about, I think, by my brilliant though simple move of bringing a comfy chair from the living room and a floor lamp from the office into my bedroom.

But mainly I have been quieter than usual because I have become exhausted by about 99% of the news and analysis in Blogland.

This is no fault of bloggers. Bloggers have been observing and analyzing and discussing the day’s events with skill, sensitivity, and often, humor. But the news they have to report on is just so incredibly heartstucking. From abuse and murder of little kids to continuing racism and veiled (and not-so-veiled) violence against the President. It is all just so…much. As I have said before, sometimes a body needs a break from all this. Sometimes self-care must trump the desire to post—or to even read and comment on other posts.

Research has shown that people who watch a lot of television news have unrealistic perceptions about the prevalence of crime, who commits crime, and where crime is likely to occur. I think the same might be true for bloggers. It may be that heavy diets of blognews and bloganalysis might be warping our views about the amount of nonsense that exists in the “real world.”

Or it may be that we haven’t even scratch the surface.

But whatever the case may be, sometimes we should hit the “re-set” button on our perceptions. Just for our own sanity and piece of mind.

"brainy smurf was a tagger." deepwarren, http://www.flickr.com/photos/fuzzhead/11287941/

Recently a blog friend commented on a post and said her blog had been fluffy and weak as of late. I reiterated my thought that maybe she just needed a break, and opined that “fluffy” does not equal “weak.” I joked that real fluffy blogging would involve posting about Hello Kitty and the Smurfs.

But really—what is so bad about a little “fluff” every now and then? That is one of the things about the Old School Friday meme that I love so much. Even when the weekly theme is pretty serious, being able to express it through music makes blogging soul-enhancing instead of soul-sapping. But I have even missed posting OSF entries lately—two Fridays in a row!

I tell you: That will not happen again, if I can help it!

So what is the point of this post? I am not retiring. I’m not even “resting” per se. But the topics of my posts for the next…how many ever days I need…will be less weighty than is often the case here.

I have photos to share. I’ll catch the blog up on some music offerings. I even will get to Part 2 of my latest “At the Front” tale. And I have a couple other tales that might finally see the light of blog. I do not plan on actual posts on The Smurfs or Hello Kitty or The Care Bears. But I’m warning you: I may come close.

The Queen is Quitting; Long Live the Queen

From The Root’s quote round-up “Oprah’s Blackest Moments”:

I thought nothing could beat the folly of Beyoncé showing Oprah how to gyrate to “Bootylicious.” But, then I watched Jay-Z’s cipher with Oprah this September and realized if this wasn’t one of her most overdue black moments, it definitely was one of her most memorable ones. While I gained rare insight into Jay-Z’s editing and freestyle rapping, his spitfire precision and mid-phrase self-correction, I couldn’t help but chuckle at Oprah’s earnest attempt to repeat the most basic of Jigga’s verses: Little boy from Brooklyn, made it from the ‘Stuy/girl from out the South made it to the ‘Chi/Only goes to show that the limit is the sky/if life give you lemons then you make lemon pie. Yes, in this episode of the African-American Horatio Alger story, of black mogul to mogul love, Oprah was too eager, too unfamiliar with the basic rhyme pattern, and pointed her finger too much as she was rhyming. But, there was also something else at play here, for Oprah, patiently guided by Jay-Z and cheered on by both the simple DJ beat and the bobbing heads of her audience, reached her arms out to the hip-hop generation, and finally, if only for a moment, and I mean close to a nanosecond, rocked the mic.

~Salamishah Tillet, regular contributor to The Root

Saying Goodbye to Old Friends

I did something yesterday that I absolutely hate: I said goodbye to old friends.

I had been building up to it for a while, trying to prepare myself emotionally. Over several days I had gone through and caressed all of them, trying to decide which I would keep and which would be gone from my home. Finally, I decided I was ready.

Light tan bankers box, emptied of hanging file folders containing remnants of two semesters of my graduate school career. (Which I saved. Never know when I might need, for instance, my notes from a family theory course from the early 2000s.) Okay, I said to myself, only what will fit in this box. Any that do not fit in the box will go back on the shelf.

I had made a stack, a tall tower on the floor that reached up to counter height. A few were books that had been given to me as gifts, but that turned out to be not my cup of tea. Two taboos broken here: never say goodbye to a book and never return a gift. Yet those went in the bankers box fairly easily. A few were books that I had bought, tried several times to read, but never managed to finish. (One, We Who Are Dark, I put back on the shelf. Didn’t I just read a review of that book that brought up an interesting aspect that I had not considered? Maybe it was worth a third try.) These, too, went from the tower to the box.

"Fillmore St. Marcus Books." PPR_Scribe

There were three titles making up the tower that were duplicates of ones still on my shelves. I don’t know why I kept these multiple copies. Perhaps I thought I might one day open up my own book store? The Women of Brewster Place and John Henry Days duplicates went in the box. I imagine some bored teenager who had just seen the film version picking up my copy of Gloria Naylor’s first novel and becoming transformed. I imagine someone in the bookstore searching the fiction section looking for a book by some author whose last name starts with W—Richard Wright, maybe, or Thomas Wolfe—not finding it, but happening upon my copy of Colson Whitehead’s book and deciding to give it a go….

But I put the Breaking Ice anthology duplicate back on the shelf. That copy was one I had bought when it first came out. Around the same time I had just begun dating the now-spouse. He had given me a copy of the book too, which he had signed and wrote a very nice note on the inside cover. For years the two copies sat on my shelf: the one that I bought and the one that I had been given. Without both red spines on my shelf, how would I remember the story behind them, the story of one of the earliest and most meaningful romantic gestures from the man I love?

Several Patricia Cornwell books from her Scarpetta series went in the box. As much as I love the doctor’s hunt for clues from the dead, I consume the books like cotton candy and there is no reason to hold onto them after I have read them. Plus, I figured they are ever popular and should fetch a high price as the sell-back counter. The three José Saramago books I own owned went in the box. Blindness had been my first and favorite. It disquieted me for days after I finished the last sentence. I experience mind tremors still, today, when I think of it. I have avoided the movie version because I love so dearly that feeling I got from the book and fear that the movie will be a huge let down. If I were filming that movie I’d just have audio and a white screen. I’m guessing that’s not what the actual movie’s director did.

The book and its siblings (The Cave and The Double) went in the box. Someone else should get the chance to love them.

A Mercy went in the box. Then out of the box. Then back in the box. Now it sits on my bedside table. My promise to Ms. Morrison is that I either re-read the book within the next two months, or I give the book away to someone else to read and enjoy. I additionally promise to do a review on this blog of the novel, based on my second reading of it. I will have to have the book in order to re-read and blog it, right? So I guess you could say the bankers box, then, was A Mercy-less.

None of my textbooks went in the box. Not a one. On the spot I made up a rule that only in the process of major residential moves will I say goodbye to textbooks. My last big move I got rid of dozens. It is not yet time to get rid of more. Not sure why this decision was elevated to “rule status,” but I am comfortable with it. It has a ring of seriousness and formality about it. It stands.

In the end, that still left a very full bankers box of books. There were a couple of odd gaps left in the box, so I stuffed a couple of pulp paperbacks in the spaces. The box was heavy. That is as it should be. Before anyone gets rid of a shelf full of books, she should feel the literal weight of such a serious decision. It should be a little painful. The cardboard cutout handles of the bankers box should bore into her fingers, leaving a reddish mark for the next 40 minutes. She should get a back spasm from lifting the boxed books into and out of the passenger car seat. Her thighs should ache from where the box repeatedly bumped them on the long walk from the parking lot to the store.

My daughters went with me to say goodbye to my books. They were fascinated by the new (to them) process. Their reaction reminded me how infrequently I do this kind of purging, and I promised myself to do it more. Maybe…one book out for every two books in? Something like that. Maybe keep a fresh, empty bankers box in the junk room or in my home office labeled with thick black permanent marker “TO BE SOLD”? Maybe.

My daughters assumed we were going to be wealthy from the sale. I think they were imagining riches like those that awaited Alladin in the cave. They excitedly pulled my jacket sleeve when they heard the bookstore clerk call my name over the loudspeaker, indicating he was ready to give me my offer after inspecting my collection of volumes. Calm down, I said to my daughters. I’m guessing it will only be about $20.00.

At the counter the clerk gave me the verdict: $25.00.

Before I even left the store I saw my copy of The Scarpetta Factor on the shelf in the new titles section. I had to restrain myself from buying the book back. The three of us bought books that totaled a little over $7.00. I left the store, then, with almost 18 extra dollars and two new, lovingly used books. And, I guess, I also left the store with the satisfaction of knowing that now others will now get to experience the joy of discovering books that once sat on my shelves.

And an empty bankers box.

*Image: Marcus Book Store, 1712 Fillmore St., San Francisco

Streets of San Francisco: Jazz Writing on the Wall

"Jazz Graffiti." PPR_Scribe

The streets of San Francisco are no joke. If I had a few more days of walking while at my recent conference I would erase several years of being out of shape. At least I was rewarded on my walks with surprising wonderful sights, like this wall of graffiti.

"Lady Day Sings Forever on the Wall." PPR_Scribe

Closer shot: Billie Holiday sings urban art.

"And on keyboards, Thelonious Monk." PPR_Scribe

And a closer shot of Thelonious Monk.

"1300." PPR_Scribe

More jazz at the 1300 Restaurant: extremely upscale soul food and two rounds of Bourbon Street Sunrise.

"Fillmore Street, Jazz." PPR_Scribe

I will have to think of way to get back to San Francisco soon—perhaps for the Fillmore Jazz Festival next July 4th holiday.

Black in Black and White

I meant to post a link to this amazing slide show from the end of October a while back:

In the 1950′s, photography was hardly considered art. If you wanted to be taken seriously as a photographer, you snapped mountains and models — not your neighbors. It also helped to be white. But Roy DeCarava, turned all of that on its head. He died this week at the age of 89…. (Source)

Link includes slide show, an NPR story and an interview.