Merry Christmas!

Oh how those two simple words change over time.

When I was a child, they meant excitement and delight.  Those two words held the promise of everything that was right in the world.  Growing up in Wisconsin, nearly every Christmas was a white Christmas.  I remember the way the snow would hang on the trees and bushes, the colored lights shining through the blanket of peace.  Snow is so quiet, and coming home from midnight services, the crunch of the tires on the unplowed streets laying a bass line under the carols on the radio.  The smell of the air was a combination of freshness, pine and firewood.  Running into the house, throwing off our coats, we couldn’t wait to put on our new Christmas pajamas and grab the book Mom bought us every year.  The faster we went to bed the faster the magic happened.

When I was a newlywed, those two words held the hope of a future filled with love.  Our first tree, our first, Christmas morning, crawling back into bed with a fresh pot of coffee and gifts snatched from under the tree.  The toasty warmth under a down comforter combined with the notion that it would last forever wrapping around the two of us…

When I found myself single again, “Merry Christmas” did not seem to be for me.  But I put up a tree and placed the gifts for my co-workers under it.  It didn’t seem right to place the crèche I received for a wedding present, so it stayed in the box with my joy, as I went through the motions.  Alone.  With my dog.  Who opened the meticulously wrapped candles I had lovingly chosen, ate the wax out of them, and then left a trail of vomit throughout the house.

When I moved to Florida, those two words seemed hollow as I tried to acclimate to Christmas shopping in shorts.   No snow.  No family.  No traditions.  No wonder. 

Andrew’s first Christmas…. He was so little.  He didn’t understand.   But these two simple words were again filled with excitement and delight.  Those two words held the promise of everything that was right. New sights.  New sounds.  New smells.  New family.  New traditions. 

And then, the Christmas when Andrew turned two…. My family came to visit.  My brother Bob, his wife Lee Ann and their three kids.  My mom and dad.  It was going to be amazing.  Bob and I were going to recreate the Christmas’ of our memories for our kids… without the snow and cold.  We talked about it for months, got all the kids new Christmas pajamas and books.  Found the recipe for Tom and Jerrys.  Planned, and schemed and dreamed of a picture perfect Christmas…

The only thing good about that Christmas was that Lee Ann and I were both skinny.  First, my mom insisted on talking about how she was going to die soon, probably at age 62 just like her mom did, although there was nothing wrong with her.  She detailed who should get what- designated beneficiaries of her jewelry.  It was morbid.  And depressing.  Next, Bob hit a parking meter with my car leaving a huge dent.  Then, I lost my diamond tennis bracelet while shopping at Best Buy. 

And on Christmas morning.  Andrew died. 

We were all up, getting ready to unwrap presents (or had we already done so?).  I was sitting on the floor by the tree and in surveying the scene, realized Andrew wasn’t where I had left him.  I got up, and went off to bring him back to the party.  When I passed the sliding glass doors off the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, I saw something in the pool. 

What the….? 

And then it clicked.

The life literally left my body on the scream that burst from my heart and exited my lips-my lips that had kissed every inch of my baby every day for the past 18 months.  I jumped in the pool. The shock of the unheated water heightening my senses in the very moment I did not want to feel.  I grabbed his lifeless form and passed him to the waiting hands of my husband while my brother called 911.  I sprang from the pool and assessed his blueness my mind screaming,

“He’s got to breathe. He’s got to breathe.” 

I tilted his head back, pried open his jaw, and reclaimed my son.

Once again, my breath his breath.  One more time, my life his life. 

And within moments, he reclaimed me- rejected the water, spewing it out, and then, like the moment of his birth, took his own breath.  Became not me, but him.   The blue from his lips returned to his eyes and my baby was back.  My life returned. 

When we were in the ambulance on our way to the hospital, he put his hands on my face and said, “No cry mama. No cry.”   Oh how I loved him.

Oh how I love him.

And that’s Christmas. 

Some suck.  Some don’t.  Some are picture perfect.  Some are messy and scary and nothing like we want.

But it doesn’t matter. 

Christmas is about God loving the world so much. 

He showed it through his son. 

He shows it through my son.

Merry Christmas.

  

I brought beef jerky to a yoga ashram.

Right there, under the ashram rules it states:

“…non-vegetarian foods, eggs, onions, garlic, and coffee are also

forbidden on ashram premises”

Crap.  I have canned tuna in my bag too.  

At least I left the bottle of wine at home, although with this view and a glass of burgundy, I would certainly reach nirvana.

We live in a world of zero tolerance.  A world where even here, at a yoga ashram where the guru was credited with saying, “There is something good in all seeming failures.”  Even here, at his ashram, we are handed a list of rules, we sign a multitude of consent forms and waivers, and are subject to the threat that our non-violent, personal behavior may “result in immediate expulsion from the ashram.”

The world wasn’t always this way.

When I was a kid, we made soooooo many mistakes.  We pushed the boundaries, we messed up, we got yelled at (sometimes with a belt), apologized, and learned.  But we weren’t expelled, banished, or left without another chance. 

We got caught smoking behind the grocery store one time.  I was probably 10 and I am quite certain it was my cousin Jim’s idea.   The police caught us.  Did he arrest us?  Did he write a citation?  Did he call our parents?  No, he made us get on our hands and knees and pick up every cigarette butt in that alley way, hold them all in our sweaty fists, the mixture of fear and stale, burnt tobacco seeping into our pores, nose and consciousness.  He never said a word.   When we were done (and it took quite a while), he simply held out an empty lunch bag and we reluctantly opened our hand, the evidence of crimes from countless kids spilled into that sack.  He looked us in the eyes, rolled the top of the bag closed, got in his car, and drove away.   We were petrified not knowing what would come next.  Would he tell?  Quite possibly as my mom worked for a circuit judge.  Would he tell?  Quite possibly since Jim’s dad, my uncle, owned the liquor store not a block away and the cop stopped in there after work nearly every day.  And then what?  We had no idea… so we talked, we analyzed, we beat ourselves up.  We fantasized, we frantisized, and we swore a blood oath we would NEVER smoke again.

But that’s not today. 

Today kids have to be perfect.  There is no tolerance for nearly anything.  The rules are no longer a line in the sand but instead are etched into stone tablets that describe nearly every possible offense and are annotated with an accompanying matrix of consequence.  This is good, right?  Kids don’t have to think about what might happen or even consider the chain reaction of their choices.  No, they simply can look it up, and as rational actors, weigh the pros and the cons in advance.  If only they were emotionally developed to do so. They’re not, so instead, they are corralled by their parents, helicopter moms and drill sergeant dads who spend every waking moment hovering over their children to make sure they know where the lines are and run interference should one toe come close to being out of bounds.  And moms and dads of means are able to make parent patrol a full time job.  But what about those parents who can’t?  Maybe there’s only one instead of two or maybe they they have to ride three buses to and from work morphing an 8-hour day into 12?  Or maybe they just think kids should be kids?  When those kids fuck up, and they do- after all, they’re kids - the consequences are extreme, life changing, and permanent.

That almost happened one time to Derek. 

He was in the 6^th or 7^th grade, I’m no longer sure.  But one day, at work, nearly 60 minutes away, I got the phone call. 

“Is this Derek’s mom?”

Without waiting for my complete reply, they continued:

            “First, Derek is fine.  He is not hurt…”

Then why in the heck are you calling me in the middle of my shift?

            “…however, there has been an incident.”

I am not sure if I responded, or even if I could respond since they had punched me in the gut, forcing the air out of me. 

“We will be conducting a crisis evaluation according to the code of conduct matrix found in the Student Handbook you were presented with both online and in orientation or you may friend us on Facebook for a copy.”

Seriously?  What?  I snapped to attention:

“WHOA!  You aren’t doing anything until I get there.  You are not talking to him.   You are not evaluating him.  You are not matrixing him until I get there.  Do you understand?”

            “Well, Mrs. Choate, I can assure you this is all a matter of protocol…”

            “I said, I am on my way.  Do. Not. Talk. To. Him.   Now, put him on the phone please.”

            “Derek, are you ok?”

            “I think so.”

\

            “Don’t say anything more.  To anyone, and I mean anyone.  I am on my way.”

When I got there, I found out Derek had been accused of having a potential weapon at school and there is zero tolerance for that.  Automatic suspension, expulsion, and quite possibly a scarlet letter etched into his forehead with Sharpee.  Red or black.  Your choice.

The weapon?  A hollow plastic “bullet” from his Halloween costume.

I only had one thing to say.  Zero tolerance.

Of course, once I was there, nothing happened.  The principal apologized.  I took Derek home.  And I tried to explain the crazy ass world he was living in.   The world that was so afraid of being unfair, they had to have one size fits all rules. The world that was so litigation prone that every incident came with its own cover your ass protocol.   A world that no longer operated with “it takes a village” but instead adapted “not in my school” or backyard or city or town or state or country. 

And to make it even worse, I had learned to navigate that world.  I learned to demand my rights to protect his.  I learned that as the white mom of a black boy, my built in privilege sometimes would balance the cumulative disadvantage of his race, and gender, and age. I learned that I had to defend, advocate and fight for my kids instead of working hand in hand with those in whom I entrusted his care.  I learned there were no silent cops willing to take the time to offer a life lesson.   I learned there is no longer room in our society for my kids to analyze, frantisize, and swear a blood oath to NEVER make that mistake again.

So here I sit.  My beef jerky and canned tuna disguised in plain unmarked brown wrappers.  Stashed under my yoga pants and Namaste tshirt.

I learned all right. 

But it’s not all right.  

I named her Jordan...

When we decided to adopt babies, it was the 90s. Communism had collapsed. Fukuyama called it “The End of History” and proclaimed security achieved through the victory of liberal democracy and capitalism.  Tony Robbins had us hanging up pictures of our material goals and Bill Clinton promised that by fixing “the economy stupid” we’d all be happy, and healthy, and wise. The world was revolving to a new beat as Hip hop spread around the world via MTV and the internet with Nas, Tupac and Snoop Dog giving voice to millions.  So, when the social worker said to us, “Are you prepared to raise black children?” it was easy to say “YES!” with swag.   

The call came. Our daughter. Our little tiny African American daughter.  With the curly hair and the huge brown eyes.  All newness and freshness and hope was placed in our arms with love, to love. 

The debate to name her was not an easy one.  Like all buoyant parents, we took this task seriously. Like all adoptive parents, we took it gravely seriously.  Her name would anchor her to the world.  Her name would attach her to us.  Her naming was the first step into her future.   I wanted to acknowledge her history.

Kimani - beautiful and sweet. 

Ashanti- aggressive warlike

Chikelu-created by God. 

David , my then husband, her father, wanted to give nod to our history.

Christina- follower of Christ

Jessica- God beholds

Emily-industrious, striving

This name was her bridge to both worlds.  It needed to be a name that declared she could do anything.  She could be anyone.  Not like when I was growing up, coming into my own having to crouch under the pressure of a too low glass ceiling wearing perky bows and being chastised for smirking at incompetent male bosses.  Her adoption into our white home crossed a cultural divide and she needed a name that would give her latitude to move among peoples.  One that gave her strength and power.  One that she could wield in, or against, or with the world- as she needed, as she chose.

Jordan- both masculine and feminine 

Jordan- symbolic of the river that both descended and gave new life

Jordan-a name that would allow her to straddle worlds and be strong in them all

We were happy.   We were hopeful.   We were ready.  It was the 90s.

Nothing prepared me for 2016. 

It had been 22 years

22 years after we told the social worker

“YES!” we can raise a black child. 

 “YES!” she can have white parents.

 

“YES!” her name is Jordan.

Here it was, 2:07 AM on a Friday morning, almost exactly four days after “we the people” propelled a celebrity into the highest office in the world.  A celebrity who refused to quell white supremacists, who said black people were lazy, and whose answer to crime was stop and frisk.  He was now our leader.  He was now in charge.  I was reminded of the scene from “The Greatest Story Ever Told” where the temple curtain was ripped in two- a harbinger of the divide to come.  I felt the country had been ripped in two, a chasm so wide we could no longer see the other side.

When I posted this picture on Face Book, the responses gave voice to the depth of the gorge.

My black friends:

“SMH”

“The sad part is they’re racist at such an early age.”

“It’s everywhere”

My white friends:

“I hope she called the police”

“Maybe they can lift prints?”

“I would leave candy on the doorstep with a note saying - "dear haters, please help yourself to something sweet. I forgive you for not understanding why you think the things you think. I hope you have a good day." 

Excuse my abbreviations, but WTF!?!?!?!?!

This is our NEW WORLD!  This is our LOCAL COMMUNITY!  This is my DAUGHTER!

Don’t my white friends know…. Today my daughter is black.   Do they not understand the police won’t come?   And even if they did, they will take the note and crumble it up once they get back in their car?  Speed away into the night as fast and as far from FAMU[1] student apartments as they can? 

Do these white  FB “friends” not know the very responses they post reflect their privilege in this crazy ass world, segregated world, where we take delight in hearing “The tribe has spoken” “You are the weakest link” and “You’re fired!” 

Do all my friends, black and white and inbetween, understand that when we all succumbed to the seduction of  “What do you have to lose?” in this election, we opened the lid on the box that struggled to constrain bigotry, injustice, and hate?

Their anger, their Face Book confined, outraged words mean nothing!   Be honest.  Be real.  Be 100%   

For me and many of my friends, our very whiteness gives us insulation much like the styrofoam surrounding our Heinekens. 

You are privileged. 

I am privileged. 

She is not. 

No one can be adopted into privilege. 

By virtue of the color of her skin, my daughter has no privilege.  Any that we thought she had has gone up in a puff of smoke.  And now, while our very whiteness allows us to look at the world from the safety of our homes, my daughter has racial slurs taped to her apartment door.   This is not reality TV.  This is reality.

Is it the fault of a reality TV star?  Is it because of a man who taught us to say “You’re fired!” based upon a single challenge?  One mistake?  One opinion? 

My white friends are in an uproar.  They are calling for his attention, his resignation, his head.  My daughter?  Jordan, she tells me not to worry.  She tells me she’s got this.  She tells me she’s fine.  It will pass.  It's all good.  

When Pandora had released every trouble known to humanity, she managed to keep one spirit contained- hope.

Pandora named hope Elpis

I named her Jordan. 

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[1] FAMU Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University  A Historically Black College in Tallahassee, FL