I'll say, in beginning this post, that much of my initial blogging may be about my childhood. Not because it was so terrible or so wonderful, but because it exposed me to a fantastically eclectic encounter with the world, and shaped much of how I see myself today. I'm sharing this memory because it was one of those events that puts a pinpoint in your life. I have recounted it to friends twice before, and they both cried. Funny, because I find it absolutely hilarious!!!
I was born in Iowa City, Iowa. My parents moved there so my Dad could work on his PhD, and my mom taught nursing. Although the University spawned an impressive multicultural subculture, my family lived in Coralville, and that was just White. Its residents were some of the best people I've known in my life, but not big fans of Amie Cesaire. The situation was not much different in my kindergarten classroom, in which I was the only Black child, and the only child that couldn't read. It's not that my parents were illiterate or lazy. It's just that my father had a fundamental belief that little kids should spend time being little kids, and book learnin' could wait until they started school. (Could someone please remind me to kiss that Daddy the next time I see him?) So, because I was Black and illiterate, my teacher sent me to the play area to play while she taught reading and math.
A few months into the school year my parents received 2 shocking revelations at once: (1) their daughter was not being taught, and (2) she had adopted a new arch nemesis that would bring tears to her mother's eyes.
I brought my simple a** home one day, and announced to my parents that not only did I get to play every day while the other kids read, but I had whupped Stinky good that day and she deserved it! "Stinky" was the only Black baby doll in our play area. In fact, she was the only Black image at all. At one time I'm sure she'd been a cute toy that smelled like powder, but in our classroom she was a f***ing pariah. She had been stripped naked, scalped, and had her head scribbled on with a permanent magic marker. At each play session our teacher smiled on as we hurled Stinky at one another, exclaiming that whomever she touched had the cooties! It was an uproarious game, and fun for all. I'd scream at the top of my lungs any time she came gliding in my direction, and laugh like a lunatic when her venom was spewed against some other unsuspecting victim. On the night of my casual recap of the day's activities my mother sat dumbstruck, with her mouth open and tears in her eyes. I had no idea why she seemed not to appreciate the joy we all shared. She looked at me with a gaze filled with both anger and pity and whispered, "Don't you know that they hate that doll because she looks like you?" The answer to that was easy! "Stinky don't look like ME!" My father stepped in, looking less angry, but equally concerned. He spoke calmly, "We'll talk to your teacher this week. Tomorrow, you're going to bring that doll home, and give her a proper name. Your mother will take you shopping for a doll dress and some hair. On Monday you can take her back in and RE-introduce her to your classmates."
Devastated does not begin to define the way I felt. I cried on the way to the store, at the store, and all the way to school on Monday. During show-and-tell my teacher (appropriately shame-faced) announced that I would be making a "special" presentation. I drug my feet toward the front, carrying the doll by the hair, as my classmates snickered and gave shout-outs to Stinky in her new duds. Through tears, I managed to say, "This is our new doll...Susie. She has a new dress and nice hair, and we should treat her nicely. [sobs] BUT I STILL THINK SHE'S STINKY!!!"
My parents transferred me to a new school for first grade. By Christmas I was reading and doing math at a fourth grade level. But, it would be years before I understood that Susie was, indeed, me.
I was born in Iowa City, Iowa. My parents moved there so my Dad could work on his PhD, and my mom taught nursing. Although the University spawned an impressive multicultural subculture, my family lived in Coralville, and that was just White. Its residents were some of the best people I've known in my life, but not big fans of Amie Cesaire. The situation was not much different in my kindergarten classroom, in which I was the only Black child, and the only child that couldn't read. It's not that my parents were illiterate or lazy. It's just that my father had a fundamental belief that little kids should spend time being little kids, and book learnin' could wait until they started school. (Could someone please remind me to kiss that Daddy the next time I see him?) So, because I was Black and illiterate, my teacher sent me to the play area to play while she taught reading and math.
A few months into the school year my parents received 2 shocking revelations at once: (1) their daughter was not being taught, and (2) she had adopted a new arch nemesis that would bring tears to her mother's eyes.
I brought my simple a** home one day, and announced to my parents that not only did I get to play every day while the other kids read, but I had whupped Stinky good that day and she deserved it! "Stinky" was the only Black baby doll in our play area. In fact, she was the only Black image at all. At one time I'm sure she'd been a cute toy that smelled like powder, but in our classroom she was a f***ing pariah. She had been stripped naked, scalped, and had her head scribbled on with a permanent magic marker. At each play session our teacher smiled on as we hurled Stinky at one another, exclaiming that whomever she touched had the cooties! It was an uproarious game, and fun for all. I'd scream at the top of my lungs any time she came gliding in my direction, and laugh like a lunatic when her venom was spewed against some other unsuspecting victim. On the night of my casual recap of the day's activities my mother sat dumbstruck, with her mouth open and tears in her eyes. I had no idea why she seemed not to appreciate the joy we all shared. She looked at me with a gaze filled with both anger and pity and whispered, "Don't you know that they hate that doll because she looks like you?" The answer to that was easy! "Stinky don't look like ME!" My father stepped in, looking less angry, but equally concerned. He spoke calmly, "We'll talk to your teacher this week. Tomorrow, you're going to bring that doll home, and give her a proper name. Your mother will take you shopping for a doll dress and some hair. On Monday you can take her back in and RE-introduce her to your classmates."
Devastated does not begin to define the way I felt. I cried on the way to the store, at the store, and all the way to school on Monday. During show-and-tell my teacher (appropriately shame-faced) announced that I would be making a "special" presentation. I drug my feet toward the front, carrying the doll by the hair, as my classmates snickered and gave shout-outs to Stinky in her new duds. Through tears, I managed to say, "This is our new doll...Susie. She has a new dress and nice hair, and we should treat her nicely. [sobs] BUT I STILL THINK SHE'S STINKY!!!"
My parents transferred me to a new school for first grade. By Christmas I was reading and doing math at a fourth grade level. But, it would be years before I understood that Susie was, indeed, me.
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