The N Word and the Jungle on Wheels

Someone recently asked me if my son has had to deal with any race-related issues so far in his life.  I thought about it for a moment and then responded that he hasn’t had to deal with any overt issues that I know of.

I think it was the next evening that he told me a kid in the neighborhood had called him “the n word.”  He actually said the word, but I don’t even feel right writing it.  Anyway, it happened at a neighborhood park and he didn’t know the kids name, so there was nothing I could do about it.

Then, today, only a few weeks later, he called me at work.  He had just gotten home from school and called to tell me that some kids were picking on him on the bus.  He had gotten in an argument with  a fellow 6th grader.  It had somehow escalated to the point where 7th and 8th graders on the bus jumped in and were threatening to beat him up (?) and encouraging him and this other kid to go fight behind the local elementary school near our house. 

The details of these stories tend to be a bit fuzzy, but one thing thing he said wasn’t: one of the older kids had called him a nigger.  Needless to say, this is unacceptable.  The “funny” thing is that we live in a predominantly Latino neighborhood.  He has the same color skin as most of the kids in the neighborhood, except he doesn’t speak Spanish and has a headful of long, curly hair.

I am so glad he maintained his composure.  He knows the N word is one of, if not THE, worst name you could ever call anyone.  He knows about Martin Luther King, Jr.  As he gets older, he will understand the depths of the offensiveness of that term.  Fortunately, he spent most of elementary school in an affluent neighborhood of a college town, where terms like the n word and “fag” were not part of the local vocabulary.  He knows that some kids use these words…and some kids don’t.  He realizes there is something is wrong with kids who use words like that and that there is nothing wrong with him.

And for every boy that calls him the n word or otherwise makes fun of him, there are at least 10 girls who think he’s gorgeous.

Emptying the dishwasher…with tongs?

I told my son that if he helped me clean and took a shower (his response, “What?!!!  A shower?!?!?”) I would take him to work with me.  It’s Sunday.  I don’t work on the weekends.  We just go to “work” for the internet (and multiple computers to use it).  I find that if I get caught up on personal internet-based stuff on Sunday, I can get more computer-based work stuff done during the week, which after all, is what I get paid the big bucks for.

Big bucks for the non-profit world, anyway.  Everything is relative.

As I’m getting out of the shower this morning, I hear a bunch of repetitive clinking noises coming from the kitchen.  Repetitive noises drive me crazy.  And guess what?  My son loves to make repetitive noises.  It’s one of the subtle signs of his very mild autism.  I tell him, “Stop!  That’s annoying”…a few times.

By the time I make it out to the kitchen, I’m wondering why it’s taking him so long to empty the dishwasher.  My eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw that he was using a pair of tongs to empty the dishwasher.

“What are you doing?!!”

“I forgot to wash my hands.”

“Wash your hands!.”

“Okay.”

Kids are weird.

Hungover From (Middle School) Speed Dating

Last night was “back to school night” at my son’s middle school.  There was another meeting beforehand that we attended, so we ended up spending more than 3 hours at the school.  I’ve been feeling unusually out of it all day today and it finally occurred to me that my brain is fried…because of last night!

After sitting through an hour-long meeting about an upcoming experiential learning program, we proceeded to go through our kid’s schedules, literally.  I’ve never tried speed dating, but that’s what I imagine it feels like, but 100 times worse.  At least with speed dating, there is mood lighting and alcohol involved.  To the contrary, back to school night didn’t so much as feature a single refreshment…of any kind.  Also, I needed to, um, use the bathroom, but didn’t know where they were, nor did I want to re-experience a middle school bathroom (do they still smell like cigarette smoke and hairspray…or was that high school?).  Plus, the night was so action-filled, there was no down time go to the bathroom.  I guess that’s why they didn’t offer us refreshments.

Anyway, we went through his 8 classes, spending just enough time in each class to relive the hellish experience we call the “US public school system.”  Except for two or three classes, the fluorescent lights were freaking blinding.  How many fluorescent light bulbs does one ceiling need?  Add sunglasses to the outstanding list of school supplies he needs.  Then there was “passing time,” where they gave us 4 minutes to get from one class to another.

It was a bloody obstacle course.  I wonder whose idea it was to stick various large “informational” tables in the hallways?  Each transition was stressful…it was like being caught on the Capitol Beltway during rush hour, except the traffic was stopping because of the tables that were in the way as well as people stopping to take in the scenery.  I had to laugh at one point when the people ahead of us stopped to greet someone they knew.  I’m not sure what country they were from, but it was a three-kiss culture.  Kiss one side of the cheek, then the other, then the first one again.  If they didn’t look so happy to see each other, I would have been irritated with them. 

I don’t know how kids make it through the day.  So much noise…time is going by too quickly…or worse, too slowly.  Trying to weave through unpredictable traffic in the hallways under time constraints.  And the worst part was the lights.  I am absolutely exhausted.  I feel kind of guilty for sending my son to school in that kind of environment.  I am lucky that I have an office…I never turn on the overhead fluorescent lights.  Instead, I have two lamps with fluorescent bulbs (at least they have shades so I don’t have to wear them) and a series of about 7 small halogen lights.  My office is very relaxing…and quiet!

Please Don’t Call Me a “Single Mom”

It triggers my gag reflex.  Call me a single parent or single mother, or what they call it in some European countries: a sole parent.

In 2000, I relocated from the Midwest to Washington, DC with my then 3-year-old son.  I moved to DC with about $1,500 in cash and no job.  I’m a single parent in the truest sense of the word.  I’ve never received a penny of child support from my son’s father.  My family and friends thought I was crazy and/or brave to move to a new place with no job…and a preschooler.   There was no guarantee things would work out. 

I guess single parents, especially those with young children, are not supposed to take risks?  I guess you are not supposed to risk greatness once you join the mommy club.  And worse than the mommy club, I was a “single mom.”  I loathe the term to this day.  The term single mom has a strong negative connotation in my mind.  Here are words that come to mind when I think of the term: pathetic, used, unwanted, washed up, rejected, undesirable, pitiful, sad, lonely, desperate and eternally hopeless.  The term “single mom” connotes a tragic occurrence, something outside the realm of regular human experience.  It’s a tragic juxtaposition of concepts. 

The fact that you were once married implies you were once youthful, pure, and desirable.  You were worthy of marriage.  Someone wanted to marry you.  Then you proceed to achieve the honorable status of mother (think mother’s day cards, brunch, and flowers…that sort of thing).  Getting divorced is like getting a (dis?)honorable discharge from the societal institution of marriage.  It’s a point of no return.  You lose the status of wife, but maintain the status of mother.  You can get married again, but it’s not the same.  You are considered lucky to have found someone who doesn’t view you as damaged goods.   You are perpetually stuck between a rock and a hard place: in the pergatory that is the Madonna/whore dichotomy.

In case you haven’t figured it out, I think all of that is nonsense and I don’t buy into it one bit.  When people feel sorry for me based on my “single parent” status, it totally irks me.  I generally provide as little information about my situation as possible when I first meet people to avoid any of these stupid notions being burned permanently into their poor heads.