magnify
in an earlier blog, i commented on my paternal grandfather being a grand dragon in the KKK. on the other side of the blanket, my maternal grand father was a black slave, maternal grandmother a frenchwoman. this sparked quite a lively conversation with my friend cheryl, and the similarities between our upbringings from so diverse parts of the country...she from here, and me from the south.
what started boiling in my little brain after that conversation, was, wondering if my grandfather knew this little tidbit of information. was that why he was so mean to me? not to say that i didn't feel loved by him, i did... he just picked on me, and laughed. i know i gleaned the information that there was a "nigger in the woodpile" from my father...not my mother, who is, if anything, more prejudiced than my KKK papa. i never felt like daddy held it against me, though, not like she did. i was the butt of her mean little jokes when i was small. when she and my daddy broke up, we were asked if we wanted to stay with mother, or go with daddy...i hightailed it with daddy and my older brother, because even at five, i knew where my bread was buttered. later, when i re-met her at 18, she was absoulutely HORRIFIED to learn i had dated a black man... she ranted and raved and she finally got 'round to asking if i was fucking him. i told her it was none of her goddamned business. (shut her up for 10 whole minutes...^5 me! ) i also wondered if that was why my mother was so mean to me when i was too small to defend myself. i have no memories of my mother reading to me, singing to me, or simply holding me as a small child, only humiliations and beatings ... because the tarbrush so clearly shows in me? i'll never know, i guess, she still don't like me so too very much. we don't talk unless i put myself deliberately in her path.
i don't experience this so much from white folks anymore, living up here for so long. northwesterners are vastly different from southerners. easy going, laid back, accepting...willing to take the time to know someone. in the south of my childhood i had a few frightening experiences, most of which i'll not go into here. but i will tell you, i remember whites only/colored only fountains and restrooms. i remember being yelled at for sitting in the back of the bus in san antonio, by the bus driver, and made to go up front "little lady, get the hell up here, away from all them nasty niggers!! " (1967) i remember in every picture of my papa i ever saw, stood Buckshot, til the day he died. i remember him(vaguely) in person, but i was very small when he passed. my papa was born in the late 1850's, and Buckshot was his slave. NEVER did i EVER hear Buckshot referred to as anything other than "Pa's nigger". i am sincerely glad that life is not like that for people of color today. we all need to celebrate our glorious diversity. the goddess made rainbows to show people what love looks like. she made rainbows out of people, too.
now, this woman whom i call "mother" has to know her father was a mullatto. i've seen his childhood pictures, and knew looking at them and him as an adult that he was a mulatto. (my son wishes to say here that this is a very nice way of saying "halfrican" ...lmao! i love what the kids do with the language, it keeps me on my toes - it also keeps me laughing!). i also know, however white my skin, every one of any color other than white that i talk to for 5 minutes, or sees me with my hair dressed just so, knows too. it's something i've experienced all of my life..."hey, lil sistah, y'all passin'?" i tell them, not on purpose, it's just what it says on my birth certificate.
(passing...passing for white)
"i believe/in kingdom come/and that all colors/bleed into one/bleed into one..." © U2-the joshua tree "i still haven't found what i'm looking for"
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