What Are You Gonna Be When You Grow Up?

What are you gonna be when you grow up?

Standard question. Usually posed to a six-year-old. Generally by someone who doesn't want to be talking to a six-year-old. 

The predictable answers-- a teacher, police officer, whatever profession mommy or daddy are currently 'suggesting'--not so much the problem. The real issue? The casual planting, into young impressionable minds, of a universally belief that can easily torture them for the rest of their lives.

This concept of 'be-ing' when you 'grow up'. 

Because, truth is, aren't you just raising more questions? Like when do you grow up? And how are you supposed to 'be' once you get there? 

I'd hazard a guess most people believe the growing up part is supposed to be over and done with by 40. Wanna hazard a guess at the most depressed group of people in the United States according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention? Yes siree. The grown-ups: ages 40-59. Coincidence? Highly doubtful.

So, hey, here's a radical thought. Maybe we need to stop gauging our progress by preconceived notions and assumptions that are supposed to go along with maturity. You know, those physical, financial and professional benchmarkers ripe for self-comparison and self-loathing.

And maybe if you stop worrying about what you're going to be when you grow up, you can focus on the real task at hand.

 Of just fricken growing.

He Had A Dream: My Tribute to Martin Luther King, Jr.

Way back in November, 1992, I went on my last first date, with someone dark and handsome. (I initially thought he was tall. Not so much.) 

Cue 'Ebony and Ivory'. 

In the post Seal and Heidi, current Kayne and Kim world of 2013, where we've elected a black president to two terms, interracial love seems like no biggie. Twenty short years ago, in rural Rhode Island, trust me, it was. 

The facts: I graduated from a high school that had exactly ONE person of color. Yes, that would be any color, other than white. My school's integration came courtesy of John, a junior, who arrived on scene during the start of my senior year. Fall. 1988.

Yet, apparently, he wasn't the first black man to call Burrillville home. According to my grandmother, who was born in 1909 and showcased a racial political correctness reflective of her times, John was preceded by a cat, 'fondly' referred to as 'N---er Johnson', as well as a local branch of the Klan, you know, to keep the threat in-line.

My exposure to people of color, first came during my formative years courtesy of Sesame Street (Gordon, I owe you, man), then via a blind college roommate situation that ended badly. Very badly. So, when this dark and handsome co-worker asked me, to see, drum roll please, Malcolm X, this was, on many levels, one of my biggest tests. 

Ever.

I wish I could say that I easily stepped up to the challenge. But initially there wasn't anything easy about it. I remember thinking our relationship would be perfect--if we could only stay by ourselves, safely tucked away from the world within the confines of Andre's apartment. Here, there were no judgements.

Part of the problem was that I was used to going through my everyday life without a second glance. Or at least without the addition of complete-stop-in-your-tracks, head turning stupidness. Sometimes in curiosity. Sometimes in spite. All completely new to me. A co-worker once told me Andre and I were a 'striking couple'. Often, I have to go there, in order to avoid strangling someone.

In addition to the rubbernecking, I had to really open my eyes to what it meant to be black in America. As a young white woman, I never had to experience life as a minority--or be at the end of other people's prejudices. No driving while black scenarios for me. No, quite frankly, bullshit situations. There were so many things that Andre had to deal with on the daily that I never even considered. And now, if he was going to be part of my world, I needed to be part of his.

So, I had to make a choice.

Adapt and grow. Or give in, give up and take the easy way out. 

I don't think much thought is given to interracial relationships, or the type of person you have to be to work one successfully. You have to be incredibly strong. And freakishly confident. And not care that people are starring, sneering or yelling "OJ stay away from that" from a speeding car. You have to grow a pair. Say I don't give a fuck. And know that real love conquers all. 

But there's also a delicate balance. Because while you need to be able to protect yourself in this often non-colorblind world, you don't want to live life on defensive default, making untrue assumptions that everyone is going to give you a hard time. That just makes you a perpetuator of the hate. So, you've got to move beyond the angry, to a place of peace, where you see most people as good. Because, indeed, they are.

Fast forward to 2009 and the Essence Music Festival in New Orleans. The R&B concerts of all R&B concerts. I was in musical heaven. As well as solidly within the minority. More like in the minority of the minority. In, fact, as a white person in America, you'd be hard pressed to come up with a social situation, where you could be more of a minority.

And it was a beautiful thing. 

Because I finally realized how truly comfortable I was, both in my own skin, and as Andre's wife. And people responded. A young usher displayed the most gracious of Southern hospitality and lent me a hand down the stairs. Another older woman, gave us directions and told us to 'Hold onto each other so you don't get lost'. Ladies in the bathroom asked if I was having a good time. 

No one cared what color my skin was. 

Because I didn't.

And really, isn't that how it should be?

How We Can All Honor Newtown

This was me at six. 

 It's okay. You can laugh. As long as I don't hear you. 

 And you stop. 

 Soon.

As you can probably tell, intense would have been a fair description. I was a serious kid; full-on frivolity didn't find me until MUCH later in life. (Partially, I blame the hair. And the height. And that outfit. Um, did anyone get the memo that I wasn't a boy?)  

But beneath the shy exterior, or more importantly, in spite of it, the dreaming was already in full effect. I was hatching a plan to bust out of my small town, where I never felt like I fit in, move onto a bigger, more diverse experience, and write, although, even thirty-five years later, I'm still honing the details.

Those beautiful Newtown first graders? Brutally robbed of that luxury.

It was only after the school shooting last week that I realized I'd actually been to Newtown, more than once. Their Starbucks became our pitstop on visits to family, serving as the marker that we were almost there and it was safe to drink an iced coffee. And while, until last Friday, I never knew exactly where I was, the quiet rural countryside, peppered with historic homes, always reminded me of where I had been. 

And now, those small children, forever frozen in time, remind big me of little me.

I have no doubt we shared the same unshakeable feeling of safety that comes from living in a small town. As well as the luxury to dream, a gift that comes directly from the calm, quiet and complete lack of urban stresses. We all stood in that magical place together, where barriers don't exist. Where nothing, either real or imagined, can slow you down.

But, as we all know, life gets in the way. There's mortgages. And car payments. And credit card bills. And obligations that you never even could have imagined when you were six. The dreams dry up. Or worse, we decide to kill them off ourselves--because it's less painful not to have dreams at all, than to believe that you'll never reach them. 

We become angry. And bitter. And hate on those who have the luxury to live the life that should be ours, even though we're the ones to blame for not having the courage to take any risks. We look backwards, instead of ahead, pining for a time when we were young and innocent. And life was simple and perfect. We refuse to believe the best is yet to come. And there's so much to appreciate, if we could just look beyond the negatives. 

Which brings us to what started as just another ordinary Friday in December, but ended as another wake-up call. Proving that life is fleeting and there are no guarantees. And just being alive is really all the power you need to pursue your passions. No matter what your age. No matter what your circumstances.  And to me, there seems no better tribute to all of those first graders lost, both inside the Sandy Hook Elementary School, as well as the one that still lurks, deep within yourself.

Poverty? Your Problem.

Blame the Rhode Island Affordable Housing Bond for sending me officially over the edge. The referendum called for $25 million to fund the construction or renovation of about 600 affordable housing units statewide. It got approved alright. By the smallest margin of all the referendums. Why? Because no one gives a shit about poor people.

Barrington, Foster, North Smithfield and West Greenwich, thank you for proving my point. For those of you who don't call the Ocean State home, what these communities share is the luxury to be removed from the situation. In other words: Not my problem.

The percentage of people voting to reject the affordable housing bond in these communities was, respectively: 54.2%, 51.2%, 54% and 50.6%. (November 7, Providence Journal).  How does this compare with the child poverty rate? Pretty darn directly. According Kids Count, the 2006-2010 stats, per respective community, are: 2.4%, 3.1%, 5.6% and 9.3%. But in Providence? My  'hood? The child poverty rate clocks in at 35.6%. Let that marinate for a second. Over one third of the kids living in the capital city live under the poverty line. Here, the bond got approved by 80.5%.

Go figure.

Newsflash: This IS your problem. This is my problem. This is everyone's problem.

The mindset we've created in this state, where fake casinos have become the third largest source of tax revenue--your problem. (Trust. No one's going to confuse Twin River with Foxwoods. Ever.) The culture created where big money goes to a washed-up major league pitcher to create fantasy jobs--your problem. That the 'affordable' in-state university now costs $10K + for tuition alone--your problem. The fact that I've recently counseled four young people in my community about getting a GED--all your problem.

And what do these 'poor people' have in common with you? Humanity for sure. A desire to do better. And yes, economics. I was recently floored by a point made by Race 2012 on PBS that presented a concept that should change the tide of opinion, and needs to be re-broadcast. Loudly, even though it's strictly financially based and a sad commentary that money always commands attention, especially over social reform.

So, hear this:  Those uneducated young people that have no place in your world? Those 'poor, poor people' that you manage to avoid on the daily, so you won't catch something from them? Someday in the not so distant future, you're going to need them. That's right. This young generation, currently deemed as disposable, are someday going to be the ones to finance YOUR social security.

I repeat. Your problem.

The amazing thing about poverty is that it's just a symptom. It's not a lifestyle choice. It's not a grand aspiration. It's not a death sentence. And the solution? Shockingly easy. Education. For all. So can we just commit to doing our part to help?

As I was feverishly typing this, my husband recruited me for a mentoring opportunity at Rhode Island College, called Learning for Life. Its mission? To provide support to help first generation college students stay in school and obtain their degrees.

No accidents. I'm in.

And you?

Live At Five

When I was younger, I had an overly simplistic view of the of the world. People were either bad or good. Their actions? Right or wrong. But, as you go through life, and manage to amass any bit of personal growth, you realize things are usually a whole lot more complicated.

And, sometimes, not all that easy to resolve.

Take last Sunday night.

I didn't know what I had come home to, well, because I couldn't see beyond my nose. Literally. The sun was at a perfect angle on the horizon, making it impossible for me to see into the glare and down the block.  I now realize the universe had graciously protected me once again.

The only thing I knew for sure was in the time it took me to pull up to the curb, cross the street, open the gate and walk back to my car, my neighbor had peeled rubber out of her driveway and was speeding down the street.

Later, the police showed up next door, with the animal control unit. But the details? Still a mystery until Tuesday night, when a tv news crew arrived on my street, to broadcast, live at five, what went down next door.

Parental warning. Pretty disturbing stuff:

Until that point, my opinion of the accused was straight forward. He's a hard working, friendly guy, who came out early for the neighborhood clean-up last spring, even after working the night shift. He's the type of guy who stops his car to make sure the drunk dude passed out on the sidewalk is okay. He loves astronomy, sharing glimpses of the night sky from his sidewalk telescope, with anyone who wanted a look, until you were excited too.

That guy, the one I've known for nearly four years, wouldn't have killed a puppy.

But on Sunday, someone who I clearly never met, was accused of doing just that.

And I'm left, very unsettled, trying, in vain, to make sense of it all.