Category Archives: Cultural Context

Biracial Identity: I Chose “Neither” before I chose “Both.”

My biracial identity? Black/white. As followers of this blog know, I am the product of a white, Jewish mother and a black father, who were happily married for forty-six years before my father’s death. Williamsons 1970

Today on Multiracial Media, author and founder, Sarah Sarita Ratliff poses the question to the multiracial community: How do We Self Identify? Which got me thinking … 

When I was in my thirties, my twenties, in college and younger, I faced a lot of criticism—was even attacked verbally—for identifying as biracial instead of black. This came from black people who felt I was rejecting blackness, but also from biracial people who felt I didn’t look “mixed” enough to qualify.

Evolving Biracial Identity on Campus

I remember walking across my college campus in 1987 with a white friend, chatting and minding my own business. Two black guys passed us, appearing to be deep in their own discussion. But once they were about a yard ahead of us, one threw me a glare over his shoulder, amplifying his voice:

“… except for those of us who forget what their color is.”

I had no idea what declaration had come before, only that this snatch of the conversation was directed at me. I had a white friend, meaning I had forgotten that I was brown? But my mother is white, I thought. How is white not my color too? Of course, that thought filled me with guilt. I knew the problem with claiming “whiteness” along with “blackness,” no matter how light or dark your complexion. You can’t have a biracial identify. There is no way to identify with your white side and your black side, the logic went. You have to choose, and you’d better choose black, or you’re abandoning your people. But my other people—the white, Jewish people—had also faced struggles and bigotry. The white ancestors on my mother’s side had never owned my father’s black ancestors. (Though the white ones on my father’s side–with whom I do not identify—clearly had.)

From other mixed-race people I heard: “I confuse people. No one can guess what I am.” For some, this was a badge of identity unto itself. To these multiracials, I lacked ambiguity, which meant I was not really mixed. For some of my black-and-white friends, race was a costume they could change at will. For others, blackness, not apparent to the naked eye, was an identity they had to fight to prove–just as I would have to fight to claim my mother’s heritage along with my father’s.

And here’s another twist to my identity: Since I was a ballet dancer and completely immersed in that world for so many years—from the age of seven until my late twenties—Ballet was my strongest identity. Ballet was who I was. I didn’t have time to focus on racial identity until later.

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Me in the center.

I entered college as an exile of the ballet world. I was at the university by choice, but ambivalent, missing ballet, searching everywhere for an ally who understood what I had left behind. Anyone who was unusually thin and walked with excellent posture and duck feet might be a compatriot. And yet, here was all this pressure to identify myself by race.

As I scoured my university town in vain for a halfway decent pointe class, I kept facing the question: “What are you?” more than I ever had.

The question came from blacks more than whites. White people just assumed I was black (they didn’t need my membership anyway). Blacks who asked really wanted to know: are you with us or them? Now I understand why they needed an answer. Blacks were outnumbered, talked over, dismissed, deemed undeserving of the Ivy League education we were getting. Numbers were therefore precious to the group. I was being welcomed, not challenged. Not that I understood this yet.

For me, it was simply too painful and too complicated to choose one race or the other. I loved both my parents. They loved me. They loved one another too, and had created a joint culture in our home. And now I was expected to reject this inclusiveness? Instead, I plunged myself deeper into the world of dancers and theater people, who identified first and foremost as performers.

Racially, I chose neither before I chose both. Neither allowed me to be Lisa-the-ballet-dancer. Which I still am. Which I will always be.

Today I embrace all of who I am, racially, ethnically. Awareness of being black comes first I guess, because that is how I appear, but I identify just as much with my mother’s Ashkenazi Jewish heritage. I am biracial, black/white, blanche-et-noir, both-and. To embrace my white, Jewish “side” is not a rejection of my proud black “side.” I am married to a white, Jewish man, whose heritage is similar to my mother’s. We have two children who know both sides of their history and will take both into consideration as their identities form.

Thankfully, the older I get, the less likely people are to tell me I am not identifying the way they believe I should. Or, maybe it’s simply that I take the criticisms less seriously. I know who I am. My identity is what it is: inclusive, unshakeable, me.

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Ask Lisa: Ambiguous Looks, Identity Concerns

Posting my 4th “Ask Lisa: Advice for the Multiracial Community” column.

This week, I answer questions from a white mom wondering how to prepare her ambiguous-looking children for anti-ethnic hostility, a multiracial woman facing unexpected results of a DNA test, and a black mom concerned about her multiracial tweens’ preference for their white father’s heritage.

Here is the link to the whole post on Multiracial Media.

Advice for the Multiracial Community #3

Today on my third Multiracial Media column:

  • A biracial man grapples with anger when his widowed, white father begins dating a white woman.
  • A young white woman worries about saying the wrong thing to her new black boyfriend.
  • Two American moms are alarmed and upset when their Guatemalan tween daughter rejects her culture of origin.

Click here for the whole “Ask Lisa” column.

Submit your own question on the Multiracial Media site!

“Ask Lisa” – New on Multiracial Media

I have been so busy with various new projects, I’ve neglected to share one of them here. I really meant to, as it’s relevant to my “Writings on Identity.”

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I am honored to say that several weeks ago, I was invited by Alex Barnett (the Multiracial Family Man himself) and Sarah Sarita Ratliff, publisher and writer and co-author of Being Biracial: Where our Secret Worlds Collide, to join the team at Multiracial Media. I accepted and am now run a weekly column on MRM: “Ask Lisa: Advice for the Multiracial community!”

Here is the link to the first column:

being biracial

and the second:

Though I’ve had so many ideas for blog posts here–countless ideas, going backward in time: the Women’s March, The Election, Thoughts on Cultural Appropriation and Who is entitled to Write What–I have been devoting my energies to the column, my private practice, my current novel (Oh yeah–did I mention I have a literary agent now? I have an agent now: the awesome Uwe Stender of TriadaUS!) and most of all … my family.

So, as a place holder for all those blog pieces that are swimming around in my head, I will provide a link to my Multiracial Media column each week. Please check them out and, while you’re there, check out the rest of the Multiracial Media Site, as well as Sarah’s book and Alex’s podcast. So much fascinating, thought-provoking insights for/from the Multiracial Community and beyond.

Wishing you some positive thoughts as we push ahead into the new(ish) year!

Lisa

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our Stories Make America Truly Great

 

If you voted for Donald Trump, we have our differences. I did not support your candidate; you did not support mine. But I do not hate you. I cannot hate you, because I don’t know your story. I’d be lying if I denied I was judging you, but my judgment is rooted in my own life’s narrative.

By the same token, if you judge me by my gender, by my speech—unmistakably Northeastern, liberal, educated—or by the brown of my skin, your judgment comes from within you. Any assumptions you make about me stem from the fact that you do not know my story, the story of my parents, the stories of my grandparents, any better than I know yours.

As a psychotherapist, as a writer, as a parent, I believe stories are the most important element of the human condition. We each come with our own and that is the magic of being human. Sharing our stories—trusting one another, listening with our whole hearts—this is also the key to reconciliation.

An acquaintance of my mother’s, who—like my mother herself—is white and Jewish, had a childhood marked by loss, struggle and misery. She and her sisters lost their parents early and grew up in an orphanage. Through enormous sacrifice, work, as well as the grace of strangers, neighbors and government programs, she and her sisters were able to get their education, including advanced degrees, find meaningful work, and in her case, a marriage that lifted her out of the middle class into affluence. Now in her late seventies, this woman owns her own Manhattan apartment, loaded with beloved books—stories, which include her own European and American history.

Several years ago, my mother shared with this woman a story—just one—about my father, whom she had already outlived.

Dad was an artist from early childhood. As a high school student, unable to make his mark as an athlete, as the other four black students in his otherwise white high school had done, my father gained fame among his peers as chief cartoonist for the school newspaper. He went on to receive an MFA from the Chicago Art Institute, studied at the Brooklyn Museum Art School and ultimately, was offered a job at a large, “Mad Men” style advertising agency in Manhattan. The date was 1964—smack in the middle of the famed television show’s timeline.

As I said, my father was offered a job at this agency. Dad was highly qualified in terms of education, experience and talent. He was also stylish, a trend-setter, who would probably have fit in well with Roger Sterling, Don Draper and their set. He was offered the job on a Wednesday, to start the following Monday.

There was a problem, however. The CEO—the big cheese, the head honcho—of this firm had been away on a business trip while the offer was being made. The subordinates had, of course, discussed my father’s candidacy with their boss over the phone, gone over Dad’s resume, raved about his qualities and exacted the director’s enthusiastic OK before offering Dad the job. The only thing they neglected to share with their boss was my father’s race. That was a detail the subordinates knew would be disqualifying, so they figured they wouldn’t mention it until Monday, when my father shook the hand of his new boss, who was, they thought, too much of a gentleman to reject him face to face. My father’s work would then speak for himself.

If you ever watched Mad Men, as I did religiously, you will remember the premiere episode of season five, where Sterling Cooper—an exclusively white agency—put out a mock ad seeking to hire blacks. While the waiting room filled with people of color, partners Roger, Don and Burt cowered inside, trying to figure out how they were going to get around this hurdle, without compromising the Old-Boy-scotch-at-ten am-sex-with-a-secretary-at-three  culture of theirs. In the end, they hired a single African American woman, Dawn, who became Don’s secretary.

And what of my father and his shot at Mad-manhood? Someone—no one knows who—squealed. Whoever it was got a message to the CEO in the lounge where he was schmoozing potential clients.

So, boss. The cracker-jack new art director you can’t wait to meet on Monday? He’s a negro.

Which, no doubt, led to the CEO sputtering on his martini, spitting the olive clear across the room.

A what?

You heard right.

That Friday evening, my father received the call. He would not be integrating the ranks of the agency after all. The man they hired, though he lacked my father’s experience and credentials, possessed one qualification my father could never aspire to. Can you guess what that was?

The epilogue to the story is bittersweet. Shortly after losing this opportunity, my father was snapped up as art director for a major publishing house. It was a wonderful fit for him, a job that introduced him to authors such as Saul Bellow, Nadine Gordimer and even Don Freeman (best known for Corduroy). His first assignment was designing the cover for Bellow’s bestseller, Herzog. My father worked at the publishing house for most of my childhood. He resigned in the 1980’s when I was entering college, due to his failing eyesight.

Dad was replaced by a younger man who was his friend and mentee, though nowhere near as qualified. Dad vouched for this man—who was white, by the way—and trained him in the practical work as well as advising him on publishing house etiquette.  Soon after relinquishing his position, my father learned that the young man’s salary would be on par with other executives at the publishing house: four times what my father had been paid.

When I learned about this, I was already an adult and it shocked me. My father had asked for raises every year, but was denied point blank. The publishing house knew Dad wouldn’t leave. Even if he could find another house to hire him, that one wouldn’t pay him any more. My dad was highly skilled, cheap labor.

When my mother told this story to her then-friend, the woman grew indignant, but not in defense of my father.

“Why didn’t he stand up for himself?” she demanded. Her personal story had taught her that no failure was insurmountable as long as one applied sufficient elbow grease. The moral she took from my mother’s tale was that my father had been weak or lazy.

What this woman failed to understand, or did not care to learn, was the story of being black in twentieth-century America. When my mother told me about this interaction, I thought about the woman’s ‘up-by-the-bootstraps’ story and the glow it cast on my father.

If I could have spoken to this woman, heard her tale first-hand, here’s how I would have responded to her:

“Try that life again—the parental loss, the orphanage, the cruel streets, the poverty—all of it. Try it again, only this time, do it while black.”

She probably wouldn’t have agreed with me that the outcome would have been different, but the discussion might have given her pause. Maybe she would have considered that going through life with black skin is quite different from ‘living while white.’ But the woman’s judgment came from her story. With all the pain she’d grown up with, she couldn’t conceive of a life harder than her own. What she lacked was curiosity about other worldviews.

One of my main criticisms of the Donald Trump Campaign was the rationale behind his slogan, Make America Great Again. Who was it great for? And when was this “great” time to which we want to return? The Jim-Crow era? The 1940’s? The era of Japanese American Internment Camps?  The late 30’s? When America turned away 900 asylum-seeking Jews aboard the SS St. Louis? I could list countless stages in our country’s past when things were less than great for many.

Trump supporters talk about opportunities that were once readily available in exchange for hard work and determination.  ‘If you applied yourself in the good old days,’ that story goes, ‘you could get ahead.’ What I question—and I am far from alone in this is—is the identity of the “you” in that statement. My father worked hard, was determined and applied himself. But blackness was a huge barrier to his success. The truth is, during the Good Old Days you could count on whiteness—the state of not being non-white—as a leg up, a handout. On the other hand, if ‘you’ were not white, you were out of luck. Pull all you like, your bootstraps would not cut the mustard.

Let’s not forget the role unions once played. Unions protected their members, increased job security and insured a living wage. Yet historically blacks were—and in some cases still are—excluded from unions.

Some things have changed in our nation. For better or for worse, the class you were born into limits your opportunities as much, in some cases more than your race. Race no longer corresponds directly to class, though frequently it does.

In any case, our multiple experiences, our pluralistic narratives—these are what will make America truly great for all of us. A first step is to listen to one another, to be eternally curious, and to challenge ourselves to exchange judgment for understanding wherever we can.

At this critical juncture in American History, we need nothing so much as an appreciation of one another’s full American stories.

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Aboard the USS Pampanito: A Story for Veteran’s Day

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Stories are what make us human. Our personal stories make us unique. And, during this time of discord and resentment, I believe that curiosity about one another’s stories can heal us.

On Veterans’ Day, we look to the past—recent and distant—honoring those who have fought, bled and died for our country. We celebrate their stories—some of which we know by heart and some we can only imagine—because they are part of our national identity.

Here is a story about a story: my encounter with a man, a World War II Naval Veteran, whom I’ve been meaning to write about for some time. I don’t know this man’s name, though I wish I did. I should, given what he and his crewmates did for our country and its allies.

I met him while I was vacationing in San Francisco with my husband and children a year and a half ago, visiting the USS Pampanito (SS-383).  A World War II Balao class Fleet submarine, the Pampanito is now an experiential life museum and memorial, docked at Fisherman’s Wharf. As you walk up the gangplank, there’s a sign that says something to the effect of:

80 men, 1 shower, 600 feet beneath the sea.

Beside this is a photograph of the crew circa 1944, all smiling and bearded.

I descended by ladder into a past far removed from anything I’ve experienced. Inside the Forward Torpedo Room, full of bolts, switches, dials, torpedo tubes and a handful of bunks, I tried to imagine this room full of sailors focused on their mission, far from home, hundreds of feet below the surface. My husband and kids were heading for the next room, so I followed through a narrow, circular opening into the Forward Battery Compartment, where mild claustrophobia set in.

There is a reason the spaces on a submarine are called compartments rather than rooms. Conditions were cramped to say the least. I felt it and I am a small woman. The eighty men must have had constant neck cricks from crouching and ducking. They must have known one another by smell, had no secrets whatsoever.

The Mess and Galley compartment was a bit more spacious, with four booths and a radio playing ballads from the early forties. Sitting at a table beside a framed photograph of Betty Grable, was a man, a veteran sailor. Eighty-something, I’d guess. Sparse, white hair, round, wire-rimmed glasses, deep smile lines around his eyes and mouth. From the badges on his uniform, I knew immediately that he was one of the few surviving members of the crew.  He sat, listening to the music, nodding slightly, glancing up now and then as people passed by en route to the After-Battery Compartment. Other tourists, my family included, seemed too fascinated by the well-preserved machinery and living conditions to pay him much attention. But I wanted his story.

“How were you able to do this?” I blurted, startling him. “There were eighty of you in these tiny little compartments!”

“Sometimes more than eighty,” he said, and shared the story about rescuing seventy-three British and Australian POW’s who had survived the sinking of a Japanese ship. On that mission, the sub was filled to almost twice capacity.

I wanted to know if he’d been scared of being on a submarine. I wasn’t even thinking of the enemy, of the bombs–only the pressure, the close quarters, the implications of being surrounded by seawater.

“Did you ever find yourself thinking about all that water?” I asked. “How far you were from the surface?”

“Never gave it a thought.” He told me how each crew member had been selected, how they were tested in comparable conditions—even in isolation tanks—to make sure no one had the potential to panic under the stress. I asked more questions and learned more from him than I would from any guided tour.

I nodded at the photograph of Betty Grable, in her famous over-the-shoulder pose.

“We always had a pin-up on board,” he said with a sideways grin.

I smiled at that, though on some level maybe I should have found it sexist or objectifying of women. I didn’t though. I knew that Betty Grable and other glamorous movie stars helped guys like him get through their grueling missions. The days with no sun or moon. Betty and girls like her were pieces of their hearts, their homes. She made them feel human when nothing else did. She was part of their story.

Now, I cannot romanticize entirely. I have no doubt that there were other stories aboard the Pampanito, stories of crewmen who might have chosen Clark Gable over Betty Grable, who had to keep their true longings, their true selves locked up for fear of abuse. Nor was it lost on me that, in the photograph of the crew, I saw not a single sailor of color. (There were integrated submarine crews during WW II, however, including the mostly-black manned USS PC-1264.) But I was there to see this surviving vessel of the Second World War. I was there to appreciate this veteran’s story for its own sake.

Before moving on, I thanked the man for speaking with me and for his service to the country.

To my surprise, he thanked me. “Most people don’t stop to talk. A lot of them don’t know why I’m sitting here.”

To me, the most valuable treasures on board were this man and his stories. I feel so lucky to have met him, because a year later, I went back and he wasn’t there. I hoped it was his day off.

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Wishing you and your loved ones a peaceful Veteran’s day.

 

Internalized Homophobia Wreaked Doom at Pulse

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As a psychotherapist, part of my job is being open to the inner worlds of people who may be different from me, culturally, ideologically, religiously, racially, in orientation and in gender identity. I am trained to be curious and non-judgmental, to make people of all descriptions feel safe and accepted. When people are hostile and negative, I am trained to look to their pasts for explanations: trauma, loss, abandonment. My training tells me that every person is a living story, searching for an outcome to ease their deepest emotional wounds.

That said, I believe Omar Mateen was a monster. The kind of monster whose hatred-of-self led to the destruction of a free and joyous group of people whose joy and freedom was hard earned and long-overdue.

I am furious at him for robbing these young people of their futures, robbing their families of them. I know I would be incapable of treating him in my therapy practice. Nevertheless while families, friends and the nation mourn the forty-nine young, vibrant lives he took Sunday morning, I am trying to look at Mateen through the lens of my profession.

He was mentally ill, according to some of the reports I’m reading. Bipolar, violent toward his wife. Radicalized. A word I take exception to because of its passive tense, as if radicalization were something done to him. No, he was a radical, not radicalized. His homophobia knew no bounds, as is so often the case with the closeted.

I am familiar with this kind of inwardly-born, outwardly-directed homophobia. I once saw a young couple who were planning a family and were concerned about how their different beliefs would play out when it came to parenting. The woman was a Christian, she said. Her husband, though he was skilled at quoting the bible, had declared himself atheist.

When I met with the man alone, as I do with each member of a new couple I am seeing, he began unprompted, by condemning gays. Nothing about homosexuality had come up in the couple’s session, so my ears were pricked for relevance. Gays were sick, he told me. They needed to be corrected, not tolerated. America, he went on, was a weak country because it was accepting of homosexuality. He said that there were no gays in countries that condemned it, providing several African countries as examples. When I asked what connection the subject had to his marriage, he brushed me off, continuing his tirade. As I listened to this rubbish (the word in my mind at the time was considerably stronger), I couldn’t do my usual active listening, where I focus on the client’s every word, nodding, asking validating questions. Instead, I sat frozen, as his condemnation grew increasingly dark and hateful. If I had been seeing him longer, I might have asked him gently, what was so personal to him about homosexuality (I could guess). Why it was so important to him that I knew his feelings about it?

But I didn’t know him well enough as a client to probe or challenge what I strongly suspected was fueled by shame. Nor did I have it in me to engage this guy without getting political and possibly argumentative. He was six-four, with shoulders nearly the width of my loveseat. Confrontation would not do. Besides, he was a client, in my office for support. When the hour was up, I let him go, confident I would not see him again. His wife came a few more times on her own, sessions in which she expressed her worries about the late nights her husband often kept.

I think of that couple sometimes, wonder whether or not they stayed together, if they ever had children. I hope with all my heart not. The possibility of that man parenting an LGBTQ child is unthinkable.

He was not a killer. (Based on the admittedly flawed assessments I did for homicidal and suicidal ideation.) But if my hypothesis was correct, his hatred of gays was rooted in his inability to accept his own complex—or not so complex—sexuality.

This is not an uncommon theme at all. Look at recent American History. The most outrageously LGBTQ-hostile politicians—Randy Boehning, George Rekers and Roberto Arango to name a few—and clergy—Tedd Haggard and countless others—either came out as gay, were outed, or else were at the center of sex scandals involving young men.

Similar implications about Omar Mateen are dribbling out in the news. He may have been using a gay dating app; he had been a patron of Pulse long before the murders. His widely professed animosity toward the LGBTQ community amounted to protesting way too much.

It has been suggested that one reason so many sex offenders have been drawn to the priesthood—where all sex is prohibited—is the wish to silence their own urges. Similarly, Omar Mateen may have found in radical Islam—the part that condemns homosexuality—a balm for his own self-loathing.

Mateen was a Muslim, but from some reports, not a terribly devout one. I believe his homophobia had little to do with the Qu’ ran, and more to do with his inability to accept his own sexuality. He could not tolerate the mirror that the Pulse’s vibrant clientele held up before him. Nor could he stay away.

Mateen could not see beyond his own image to take in the beauty alive in Pulse that night. Instead, raging on internalized homophobia, he sought to destroy it. He failed though. In our memories of and tributes to the victims, hope and promise live on.

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