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