Strangers in the store

I grew up in the South.  The real South.  The kind of South where if a non-white person was in line at the post office, everyone looked, intently, and wondered who that person was.  They didn't mean it to be cruel, it was just unusual.  The same kind of look people gave us in Korea... the kind of look that says "I would know if I'd seen you before.  You don't look like us."

I grew up with the rest of Generation X in a time where noticing race was supposed to be taboo.  Everything after my rural Southern high school taught us to be "color blind."

And I just can't be color blind.  I think our modern society is slowly figuring out that no one really can be color blind and no one really should.  It's just that they should ALL be our favorite colors.  Why should I give up the opportunity to find Africans charming, Asians fascinating, Europeans educational, and South Americans friendly... and the opportunity to see that reflected in their descendants, Americanized and settled.

So I might notice you in the store.  Even if I'm in your neighborhood.  And if I notice you noticing me, I might smile (because that's the polite thing to do) and I'm just Southern enough that if we're waiting in line together I might even strike up a conversation, though I'm a little introverted so I might not, too.

And so I was in line in the store in a nearby, rather suburban, rather urban, rather hardscrabble neighborhood.  (How a place can be both urban and suburban is uniquely Pittsburgh, but if you've spent much time here, you know what I mean.)

In front of me was an older lady, racially some sort of African brown.  And definitely not upper class.  She was buying her food at the local grocery, counting out cash.  She made a tiny error... and her whole presence was just so positive that I looked up (my kids were driving me nuts) and everything about the woman next to me, who by all logic should have been a little stressed out and testy (as I myself was on the verge of being) was so gentle, I couldn't resist her.  I smiled and lest she think I was staring (the South dies hard) I went back to what I was doing... turning away, I could feel her smile back.

After she checked out, she came back into the store for something while I was checking out.  She slipped in behind my kids and my middle child practically backed into her.  And she did something so atypical of America in our generation... she gently put both hands on his shoulders and just radiated gentleness. 

Nobody would touch another person's kid these days... not even in such an innocent way.
And in our charged society, for a black woman to touch a white kid she doesn't know would be seen as asking for trouble.

But she wasn't on guard.
She was just being herself.
And it made me wish she was someone I knew. 

America, be more like that, please.  When it comes to race, and strangers in the store, and little mistakes and inconveniences that are just part of life, let down your guard and don't be afraid to smile.

And lady in the store, whoever you are, thanks for blazing the trail.

Its Not What It Looks Like...

A few years ago, I reconnected with a friend I had known since middle school.  Upon seeing a photograph of my three kids (all of whom were born in the years when she and I were not in contact), she gently asked me "am I right to assume that the youngest is adopted?"  She was apologetic, not wanting to pry or give offence, but curious.

I replied, "well, since you know my husband, either you are assuming he's adopted or you're assuming I'm having an affair." 

Yes, he's adopted.  Its obvious.  He's Korean, the rest of us are not.

An acquaintance, the father of a few biological kids, a biracial adopted kid and an internationally adopted Haitian kid, told me how his wife gets dirty looks when she walks down the street.  People in our semi-urban town assume that she's a "baby mama" with multiple daddies.

Yesterday, a very young looking woman told me what I hear from so many young moms, that she, too gets dirty looks from people who assume she's "too young" to have a child.   She frantically assured me that she was old enough, assuming I would judge her, too.

And all of those people who make assumptions and give nasty looks to "baby mamas" in the streets... every one of them is contributing to the rise of abortion, parental depression, and poor outcomes for those kids.

Every. single. one.

If you're old enough to produce a baby, you're old enough to be a parent.  There's no age limit.  Where we fail is in enabling those parents to BE parents. 

The same day I met the twenty-four year old mama, I met a divorced, tattooed, pierced, (etc!) single dad, who told me how much he treasures the times he gets with his son.  He didn't look like the kind of guy who would bother to be the dad, but when he walked around with that kid on his hip, he made a bold statement... he was a dad.  He was young, and "cool" and whatever else he wanted to be, but he was also a dad and he was going to be the dad every chance he got.

Yes there are moral laws governing how we should express our sexuality, make and raise babies, and generally live our lives.  But a lot of time those babies come outside the system of moral laws, either because the parents don't subscribe to those laws or because they have at some point stumbled.  But babies, all babies, are a blessing.  And when parents (birth and adoptive) step up to BE the parents, how dare society judge that.

I want to say to every "baby mama" out there, every presumed loose woman who has a multitude of multiracial kids in tow whether via adoption, marriage, or moments of human frailty.. don't be afraid to stare the world back in the eye and be the mama (or daddy).  

Now is the winter of our discontent...

Okay, its been a while since I've blogged.   Mostly I've neglected the blog because I have so much to do that there's little time to gather my thoughts and say something you all will find worthwhile to read.  I do try to be considerate  and post only when I have something to say.  Even then, I admit that half the stuff on this blog are probably pretty forgettable.  Maybe that's a better ratio than most of the blog-world, but still...

And its been a long, cold, snowy and unpleasant winter around here.  Even my husband has made mutterings about moving back down South.  I'd much rather be hot than cold.

And I had the flu.  Foo on the flu.

But the world marches on... we have a new Pope and he seems really awesome. 
North Korea has new sanctions and is yowling over it. 

Mostly I'm glad to see both North Korea and the Pope in the headlines.  The Pope because he's given the media no choice but to report on a Christian who means what he says about the Gospel being good news for all people.  North Korea because it is good for Americans to see an enemy state that needs our compassion as much as it needs our vigilance. 

In fact, I saw an article a couple of weeks ago (kicking myself now that I don't have the link for y'all) about a guy who is trying to break a world record for having his picture taken in the most countries in a short period of time.  And he recently went to North Korea.... and his basic thesis for his entire project was this: There are awesome people everywhere.  The article coupled that with the fact that this guy was recently in North Korea.  Yes, there are awesome people in North Korea.

And America needs to know that.
There are some awesome people in North Korea.
Awesome people who love their families.
Who don't always get enough to eat.
Who don't all get to stay warm at night.
Who don't know any sort of lifestyle  other than the one they live.
Who want to know more about the world around them.
Who have curiosity, a sense of humor, and a vibrant, colorful culture.
Whose history goes back five thousand years
And means a lot to the people who inherited it.
Whose landscape is beautiful with rivers and lakes and seaside and mountains.
Who are not responsible for their governments decisions
Who are pawns in the game
Or worse victims of the players.

I am not criticizing UN policy.  I'm not making a political statement here.  I'm just noting that when we realize that our enemies are like us, they become easier to love... or at least like a little bit.

I saw recently also that 28% of North Korean children are malnourished.  Obviously that quarter of the population is less likely to live in the Capital.  They are the children of "hostile" classes who have never even gotten to see their capital city.  But its the number we're talking about here, more than one out of every four. 

And women who defect into China too frequently become sex slaves and prisoners on one side of the Yalu River or the other. 

And those numbers mean more when we remember that these awesome people love their kids as much as we love ours.

I don't know what is right and wrong in making policy.  I have no idea what the best way is to bring North Korea into the global community.  I just know that the more we understand about one another, the more reasons we'll have to stop the saber rattling and learn respect for one another.

I'm preaching tomorrow... Palm Sunday when we celebrate the one that the people thought would be the king who topples earthy regimes, and they were disappointed when they learned that his kingdom is not of this world.  When they came before him waving symbols of their national pride before he took up the symbol of his Kingdom humility.  When they thought he'd come with fire and fury and take care of those who, as they say, "Needed killin'" but were shocked when he himself died for the sins of others. 

History is full of powerless people.
No wonder they were shocked to see their greatest hope for victory, the one in  whom all power did indeed reside, lay aside his power and die.

For us.
For our enemies.

Eye of the beholder...

I stopped by the Korean grocery today.  English is definitely not the first language there, but I go in often enough that despite the language barrier they recognize me.  Its friendly, if not exactly real relationship. 

And as I stopped in the back corner for the unlabeled plastic clamshells of kimchi (and marinated meat, too... you have to know what you're looking for and be able to read Korean labels to find this stuff!) I looked over, the door to the storage area being open, and saw on the floor a Korean grandmother, shredding scallions by hand.

I think she was making the kimchi I was buying.

She looked a little surprised to see a white American woman there, though not in the "you don't belong here"... more of an "oh, hello."  She smiled in the "I don't speak your language" sort of way, and I presume that despite living here, she truly does not.  I nodded and said hello in Korean, grabbed my kimchi, smiled, and went along.  I don't speak Korean, after all, beyond "Hello" "Do you speak English" and the stupidest question in the world "Where is the restroom?"  (The question is stupid because if you ask in a language other than your own, when you really gotta go, and someone answers you in the language you just asked in... have you helped yourself, gained information? or just wasted precious moments doing the potty dance while trying to remember "left" from "right."  See.  Stupid question.)

But after I got home, I still thought of this woman.  Simple.  Silent.  Doing what every Korean Halmoni has always done.  Unassuming and sitting on the floor in the back room, but where she could keep an eye on the comings and goings in the store.

I thought of how Americans don't like seeing from where their food comes.  How many people would be less comforted, not more, to think they were buying something made by a Korean gramma in a storage room right there in the store.   How many would never buy a plastic clamshell container of non-professionally packaged food, at all?  Especially if it was totally without a label, in the back of the Korean grocery store?

Of course all of those people would be missing out on the kimchiest kimchi in Pittsburgh.

 But they'd all be missing out on Korean Halmonis who have mystery behind their eyes, and a peaceful and timeless presence.  She could have been any woman in any shop around the world, making native food in the native ways, and nobody would have thought a thing about it.  But because she's in America, she's a curiosity.

And moreover, she's beautiful.   She's beautiful because she's not a super model.  She's beautiful because she has wrinkles.  Yes, because of them.  She's beautiful because her hands make something that people use.  And she's beautiful because she smiles, even with her eyes, at random Americans who mispronounce Korean hellos and awkwardly attempt to sound out labels for kimchi.

I wish we valued more of that kind of beautiful.