How long, oh lord, how long? All your life, Charlie Brown. All your life.

With a nod to Charles Schultz and his creations, Charlie Brown and Lucy, I’ve been facing the possibility that the country I was born into is not capable of facing the truth of how the United States came into being.

It’s Black History Month. That’s a good thing. It’s the shortest month of the year. That’s a bad thing.

I have an understanding of the struggles a black person goes through in this country, because I was the partner and then wife of a black man from 1978 to 1993. We lived in the West Village of Manhattan for most of those years. Without doubt, outside of the Castro in San Francisco, this was the most liberal neighborhood in our country, and we experienced racism on a daily basis.

With years, hopefully, come wisdom. I now understand that a racist is an insecure person who needs to put someone else down to feel like they have power over someone and are therefore in control of their life. You see it in the grins of the white men and women beside the hanging corpse of a black man they just murdered. I despise it, but I understand it.

What I cannot understand is the person who can look at the scope of history and not acknowledge that this country was built on the blood, sweat and tears of the African slave. If every slave owner had to pay their slave a living wage, we would have never created these United States of America.

That’s not insecurity. That’s greed. And that’s where I despair.

Yes, there are improvements. The separate white and colored water fountains of my youth are gone. Thurgood Marshall succeeded in getting Brown vs. the Board of Education passed. But we now have a woman in charge of education for this country who is systematically trying to dismantle public education and elevate private schools. This can only be calculated as a systemic change to bring back segregation by creating a system where only those who can afford a good education get it. If you keep someone ignorant, you can control them and manipulate the system to your own benefit. Like I said: greed.

We are currently held hostage to an administration that is built on greed. Will we collectively be able to acknowledge this and reverse course in the next election? I wish I was confident that we will. But there are so many powerful people who are silent. I suspect that they are silent because the radical actions of this administration is leading to their bank accounts growing exponentially.

Can we build a collective conscious to face our past, our present and build a wiser future? Of course we can, but will we? Or will we forever be the football Lucy pulls away from Charlie Brown at the last moment? All our lives. All our lives.



After my last blog post, I’ve expanded what I believe is important to put into the world about racism.

Can our white society fully acknowledge the chilling travesty and lasting impact of slavery?  If ancestors were treated as beasts of burden, the experience for both sides never goes away. The great great great grandchildren of the enslaved feel that betrayal in their marrow. White people flinch at the sight of that great great great grandchild, knowing in their marrow that their ancestors benefited from slave labor and the concept of white supremacy.

Both know this in the instant. It is the dark skinned group that will later find the humor in the encounter. That is the genius of the culture. It is the white group that will lynch, burn, and break spines in police vans to confirm something about themselves by the blacks’ terror of them.

Why is media required before we believe dark skinned people’s stories? Without television, Bull Connor’s hoses, billy clubs, and attack dogs, unleashed against peaceful civil rights demonstrators, would not have been exposed and thus believed. Without smartphone video apps, we could not witness white police shooting black suspects in the back or kicking their heads into unconsciousness. Credibility of the dark skinned person’s victimization requires visual evidence that is shoved in the public’s face.

Countless essays and poems and novels have been written about this. W.E.B. DuBois’s “The Soul of Black Folks,” Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man,” James Baldwin’s “The Fire Next Time,” and most recently, Claudia Rankine’s “CITIZEN: An American Lyric.” This searing and compassionate book of prose poems and art is the only thing I have read that conveys to a naïve white person what living as a black person is like. Will it change the way white people think? I do not have hope. Will it change the way a few white people think? Probably, but is that enough?

The Museum of Modern Art in New York is exhibiting Jacob Lawrence’s The Migration Series. Lawrence researched and painted these 60 works of art in Harlem from 1940-1941. They detail the exodus of blacks from the South to the North. They are together for the first time in a very long time. “Two impressions stand out. One is the terrifying obstinacy of racial injustice on the eve of the Second World War. The other is the moral grit that was needed to overcome it.” Peter Schjeldahl, art critic for the New Yorker magazine.

To celebrate this achievement, ten world renowned black poets were invited to write poems about Lawrence’s work and the experiences that inspired this collection. On May 1, 2015 they gathered at the museum to read their poems. The video of this remarkable event is available on the internet, documenting that Lawrence’s effort was not to make art history, but to change the world.

This caused me to circle back to “CITIZEN: An American Lyric” with its unannounced sledgehammer art dropped like bombs amongst Rankine’s poetry. The combination of poetry and art creates fierce beauty and wisdom.

Would I be as sensitive to all of this if I had not walked through the world for sixteen years beside my black husband? Absolutely not. I am a fifth generation Texan. I grew up in segregated Sweetwater, Texas, and remember with shame the last time I said n*ggertown. I was a sophomore in college before I fully understood the racism in a word that was commonplace. My husband had to teach me about Emmitt Till’s murder and point out how insulting the black characters in Gone with the Wind were drawn by the author and Hollywood. Racism is complicated and simple.

To understand the micro-aggressions Ms. Rankine reveals in “CITIZEN: An American Lyric” requires either personal experience or careful and empathetic reading.

How can we generate understanding and empathy in the hearts and minds of the white people of the United States of America? The press is full of speculation about what Barack and Michelle Obama will do, after they leave the White House, to improve our race relations.

Baldwin said it isn’t the politicians or the priests, it is the poets who create the space to invite understanding. Yes, it is the poets, artists, playwrights, essayists, dancers, filmmakers.

These visionaries must continue to tell the truth by any means necessary, even if that means being enslaved by the media to deliver the message.

Will we ever learn?

Will we ever learn?

Claudia Rankine’s “Citizen: An American Lyric” is deeply searing and compassionate, and the only thing I have ever read that conveys to a naïve white person what living as a black person is like. Will it change the way white people think? I do not have hope. James Baldwin lost hope. Now I know why.

“Citizen” will weigh on you as it should. I wish I could main vein it to all white people everywhere. I’m no longer naïve because for sixteen years I moved through the world beside my black husband, and her dense searing truth presses on me like an anvil. There are also whiffs of humor of course. That is the genius of the culture. She’s from Jamaica and an academic and still the experience is the same as my late husband’s.

This is not a time for an e-book. She insisted on a heaviness to the book when you hold it, and Graywolf Press delivered.

I saw Ms. Rankine on CSpan2 at the Los Angeles Book Fair in an excellent interview: which occurred on April 19, hours before Freddie Gray died in police custody in Baltimore.

I implore you to watch this video and to hold and read her prose poetry. You see, I lied. I can’t give up hope.



For six years I’ve been living in my mother’s house. I’m 67. My mother is 96. Technically the house is now mine. Mother gifted it to me when I left my life in New York City to move to Fort Worth, Texas to look after her. It never feels like mine.

Mother lives in an excellent independent living facility. She pays her bills with her still beautiful signature and checks her bank balance on-line, but she needs help. The ways I am called to help range from grocery shopping to navigating the best anesthesiologist for a hip replacement at 91. This year her energy and focus have waned and I am needed for more common sense solutions to every day concerns. We are fortunate that our worries are minimal when others around us are into assisted living, at-home nursing or hospice care.

She raised me with a practical hand. My daily survival needs were met, but a hug or laugh were in short supply. Stuff took high priority. Antiques, spotless white kid gloves, good posture in church were important to her and so they were important to me. Through the years I associated the prized teapot collection and sterling silver flatware with maternal care. If I took good care of them, I felt worthy and surely loved.

I’ve avoided clearing out many items she had squirreled away in the numerous closets. Some hold childhood memories. Some are the result of her efficient bargain shopping. I should clarify that I haven’t been here exactly six years. April 1 will be the official anniversary. As I approach this mystifying yet significant milestone, I am determined to claim this house. To do so I must exorcise my false hope in stuff.

The satin robe she wore when she brought my baby brother home from the hospital will not bring love. Calling her each morning to measure her mood and her health will.



Reading James Baldwin is simultaneously a window into what America was and what America is.

Earlier this month, David Remnick in the New Yorker magazine called Baldwin the American Orwell and quoted a passage from his 1960 essay “Fifth Avenue, Uptown: A Letter from Harlem.” The passage is a manifesto to acknowledge “police incompetence, injustice, or brutality…. It is hard, on the other hand, to blame the policeman…. He, too, believes in good intentions and is astounded and offended when they are not taken for the deed…. — and yet he is facing, daily and nightly, people who would gladly see him dead, and he knows it.”

Baldwin wrote this 55 years ago. Everything and nothing has changed. A black man in the White House is an astonishing accomplishment of hope and healing, yet on the ground, day in and day out, the struggle in the streets remains the same.

When terrorists attacked Paris, I was reading “James Baldwin The Last Interview and Other Conversations.” Near the end of his last interview in 1987, only weeks before his death, Baldwin said, “The whole American optic in terms of reality is based on the necessity of keeping black people out of it. We are nonexistent. Except according to their terms, and their terms are unacceptable…. And all this, because they want to be white. And why do they want to be white? Because it’s the only way to justify the slaughter of the Indians and enslaving the blacks — they’re trapped…. And the world is not white and America is not the symbol of civilization.”

A million people, including the leaders of every major country except America, marched in Paris to proclaim that terrorist will not win; fear will not win; courage, commitment and effort will win. Why weren’t our leaders there? What can America possibly expect to be if we aren’t being honest about our heritage? How can America claim to be a civilization when we were missing from one of the greatest civil actions in history?

Struggling with Ferguson

Unfortunately last night we saw what was, in my opinion, a most reckless decision by the Ferguson grand jury. I’m having difficulty writing about this because my anger and frustration are running the show, so I’m re-posting a blog entry that Jenny Lawsen wrote today. I’m not in as hopeful a state of mind, but I applaud her focus on compassion.

A very personal problem

I am frustrated by the media coverage of domestic violence. In our culture, sensationalism and caricature replace discussion of the intimate human experience. Until we are honest about why people become abusers or victims, we will not be able to stop fixating on the “other.” When it comes to domestic violence, there is no “other.” One in four women are victims of domestic violence. That isn’t one in four women you or I don’t know. That is one in four women that you and I know, and perhaps that woman is you or me or your friend or your colleague.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. It is also the awareness month for breast cancer. How much good do these awareness months do? Honestly, I have no idea, but as a woman who lived in domestic violence I feel obligated to write something. I do not wish to add to the myth that all women who are victims of domestic violence don’t leave because they don’t have the money. This automatically floods the reader’s mind, if they are financially stable, with images of someone other than them. Many women trapped in an abusive relationship are not financially stable, but it is dangerous to paint this fact as the norm. Such an assumption blinds us to understanding how pervasive domestic violence is in our society.

Why do abusive men become abusive? Why do abused women become abused? We need to be honest about what we can do to change that, and not indulge ourselves with the NFL or the latest easy target. All that does is shine the spotlight on a remote event which should be revealed for its outrageousness but not as the solution to a very personal problem.