MotherSister Brooklyn

Sixty days. Only sixty days is the difference between whether my heart will burst with joy and pride at the election of America’s first black president (something that I once held out little hope I’d live to see) or sink 6 feet underneath the ground beneath my feet at the alternative. (I can’t even utter the words. Thank goodness Judith Warner can.) Obviously this election is meaningful on many levels, but one that can’t be underestimated is the simple presentation of a black man running the country that, despite its failings, remains at the forefront of the free world.

Representations of black people are quite in vogue. Literally: I was one of the many who snapped up a copy of Italian Vogue’s Black Issue. Nevermind that it wasn’t entirely unprecedented — Trace does a “black girls rule“-themed issue every year (this year’s was guest edited by Spike Lee). As blazingly bland as fashion images have become in the past decade, it was a major gesture that a top fashion magazine (of course it wouldn’t have been milquetoast American Vogue) dared to suggest that black women are worthy of The Gaze. And you surely haven’t missed the stunning array of Obama poster and street art; academics are already furiously researching and publishing articles on the significance of the political imagery. Add to that the twitterpated media attention to the ascendancy of the next generation of black politicians, and HBO’s Black List, and you might start to think we’re getting somewhere.

There’s been hand-wringing about the possibility that an Obama presidency may enable some to conveniently and complacently claim that the battles are over, lookseeanyonecandoit, what are you complaining about? I don’t know, folks; the winning of the presidency is only the beginning of a very interesting moment in our history. How many different people will he piss off in his first 100 days, in ways we haven’t even imagined because never before has the White House been helmed by someone who wasn’t, well, white? Bet: We’ll get to see all the racial and social anxieties about black people — and, obviously, particularly about black men — play themselves out in HD on a global screen, shining light into the corners where the cockroaches usually flee.

But none of that touches the simple power of observing my 2-1/2-year-old son, up past his bedtime on the 45th anniversary of MLK Jr’s “I Have a Dream” speech and staring at our flat-screen TV in wonderment at the thunderous applause, looking back and forth between nominee Obama in full, fluent command and me enraptured and teary-eyed on the couch — my sweet brown boy sweetly puzzled at what the fuss is all about.

The Scamp is a good-lookin’ little guy. We can barely get out the front door before people — women, men, young, old, rich, poor — are gushing ecstatically over his gorgeousness. And that’s before he breaks into a smile. The social impact of attractiveness has been well studied, from the heightened attention that cute babies receive from their own parents to the perception of greater intelligence, and we all hope (consciously or subconsciously) to reap the perceived benefits of beauty (the cosmetics and plastic surgery industries are big bucks for a reason, after all). The Hub worries that all of The Scamp’s handsome points have been used up in his infancy, that maybe he’ll be a dog of an adult. My worry about his adult attractiveness has a different edge: Will my brown baby boy be so adored when he’s a grown brown man?

After the Clifton Place shooting last week, someone diligently visited the police precinct to view a photo of the suspect and report a description on a local message board. The description this viewing produced went something like this: “black male,” “young,” “very short hair,” “thin face,” “well-defined top lip,” “frequently on a bike.” I wish this description hadn’t been posted at all. Why? Well, here’s a black male:

And here’s another black male:

Lookie, another black male:

Now that I’m done fanning myself, it seems safe to say that the suspect wasn’t Isaach de Bankolé, Gary Dourdan, or Boris Kodjoe. Was the Clifton Place shooter light-skinned, dark-skinned, or of medium skin tone? Long, thin, broad, stubby nose? Dark brown, light brown, hazel, blue, green eyes? Thick or thin lips? Curly hair, straight hair, kinky hair, shaved, dreaded? Square-jawed, heart-shaped face? I could go on, but you get my point: Black people are as multi-hued and multi-featured as anyone else. If you know this, then you know “black” is a near-useless descriptor, as useless as “white.” (Truly: Who is actually black? Who is actually white? Those words are just stand-ins for presumptions and stereotypes.) I can understand a victim being unable to conjure up more details, but not someone who actually viewed a photo (even a crap one) with the intent of reporting details.

I have long hated most suspect descriptions for precisely this reason, and using them propagates confirmation bias. (Suspect is a young black male? Then all young black males are suspect.) Some media, like the Baltimore Sun (bless), won’t even publish vague descriptions.

Someday, The Scamp will be described as a young black male with very short hair and a thin face; you could argue that his top lip is well defined, too, a Cupid’s bow that I love to see puckered in concentration or to give me a kiss. He, like his dad, will probably enjoy riding his bike. I wonder if the same people who coo over how adorable he is at 19 months old will assume he’s as magical and innocent when they see him coming down the street at 19 years old.

* It seems appropriate on what would have been Charlie Parker’s 87th birthday to direct your attention to Chris Raschka’s Charlie Parker Played Be Bop, now 15 years old and one of The Scamp’s favorite books. Reviews tend to rate this one for children ages 4 and up, and I don’t know why, as The Scamp has been grooving on it since he was 15 months old. Said to be inspired by Parker’s reading of “A Night in Tunisia,” the text is a jazz poem whose pages barely contain its exuberance. As The Hub noted earlier today (while listening to WBGO’s birthday tribute), Parker’s work sounds like it was recorded just yesterday; likewise, Charlie Parker Played Be Bop never gets old.

* Yeah, yeah, the Langley Schools Music Project is great and all, reminding me of the days when schools had music classes, kids had to learn an instrument, and an hour of the school day could be devoted to singing “Tom Dooley” and “Let the Sun Shine In” instead of memorizing for the next standardized test. The stellar kiddie choral versions of “Space Oddity” and “Desperado” are in my iTunes library. But if you’re ready for the next level — kid musicians tryin’ to go pro — check out Home Schooled: The ABCs of Kid Soul, a compilation of soul classics by would-be Jackson 5ers like Cindy & the Playmates and Little Murray & the Mantics. “You Are a Dream (School Time)” is liquid lovin’, and I suspect that “Don’t Leave Me Mama” is going to haunt me all the way home the first time I leave The Scamp at nursery school. (And while you’re picking up new releases, don’t forget about Madlib.)

So in spite of the fact that it’s August and few people are answering their phones or replying to emails — even if they are in their offices — I’ve been juggling four different projects, a nap-striking Scamp, and physical therapy for my wrist (tenosynovitis, y’all — avoid at all costs), which is why I’ve been pokey with the posts for the past couple of weeks. But the MotherSister Posse is about to bail out of Brooklyn to spend a few days on a beach in Rhode Island, and this has me thinking about how and where black folks vacation.

When I was on staff as a travel guidebook editor, one of my obligatory biannual proposals was for a modest series of city guidebooks for black travelers. Such proposals require hard numbers pointing to proven successes; squishy intangibles and gut feelings don’t make a P&L work. But as Dale Grenier puts it in “Homegirl on the Range,” an essay published in Go Girl! The Black Woman’s Book of Travel & Adventure: “White travelers will never understand the complex dynamics that affect the travel experiences of their black brothers and sisters. Why? Because most white people can move about this land freely without anyone batting an eye or questioning (with a look, an action, or a remark) their right to be in any place at any time.” (Rebecca Solnit also touches on the challenges that blacks, women, and other groups have faced in roaming freely in her excellent book, Wanderlust: A History of Walking.) There are a few magazines and websites, but many black travelers I know still work their personal networks in deciding where to vacation and what to see and do while they’re visiting (even if they buy a guidebook as well). It’ll be interesting to see if any mainstream travel guidebook publisher ever ventures to capture this market.

There have been middle-class black vacation resorts like Idlewild, and, for the wealthy, there’s still Martha’s Vineyard and Sag Harbor, but I don’t really know of any beyond that. Movies like Matty Rich’s The Inkwell and books like Dorothy West’s The Wedding, Toni Morrison’s Love, and Jill Nelson’s Finding Martha’s Vineyard all offer windows into these havens, but I’m still waiting for a more contemporary, youthful take on existing communities. Would we buy a vacation home in one (real estate prices willing) and go there every year? I don’t know; I like keeping our options open. In the end, when deciding where to go this summer, we did what millions of other people do these days: started researching online and, on the basis of some alluring photographs, forked over some cash for a promise of a week’s respite in a cottage with a garden on a private beach, where The Scamp could run around naked underneath his superhero cape. There’s always the uncertainty of being a stranger in a strange land wherever you go, but I’m thinking the sand and the sun and the ocean will pay us no never mind.

Last week I lamented the dearth of worthwhile magazines that don’t treat parenting like a trendy lifestyle choice available only to the very wealthy, the very urban, the very heterosexual, and the very blond. Keki Mingus kindly took some time away from her studies to answer a few questions at length about Violet, and what I learned was that to publish a Magazine That Doesn’t Suck, you have to run an obstacle course like something out of Super Mario Bros., barreling over mercurial investors, leapfrogging copycat competitors, and avoiding pits dug by unabashedly prejudiced vendors. It’s a wonder she has the stomach to try it again, but I for one am glad she does.

More with Keki after the jump.

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I’m a magazine junkie. Somewhere in my parents’ attic is the entire run of Sassy, as well as some late ’80s/early ’90s editions of Details and The Face. I also couldn’t resist junk-food equivalents like Right On!, Seventeen, Mademoiselle, and Vogue. I’ve generally curbed my habit to quality reading — Granta, Wax Poetics, The New Yorker — but occasionally I break down and buy some fluff to scowl at. My latest favorite object of derision is Cookie, which made the mistake of sending me a subscription invitation a month ago; I scrawled a kiss-off to the editor on it and returned it in their generously provided SASE. Of the many reasons I loathe Cookie, one is undoubtedly their apeing of superior mags, one of which is the now-suspended Violet.

Violet was the brainchild of Carolyn “Keki” Mingus, who wanted to create a magazine for people with children that didn’t assume they’re all Stepford wives and husbands. Yes, the cover subjects included the likes of Juliette Binoche and Donovan Leitch, but it covered them in a way that suggested that they’re muddling though parenthood and trying to create a good life for their kids like the rest of us. You could indulge in a little aspirational lifestyle reading without feeling completely sick to your stomach by the time you reached the last page; best of all, it took it for granted that children and parents come in all colors and deserve to be represented. Like Milk, but American, rainbow-hued, and less cool-cool obsessed.

Unfortunately, a year ago, subscribers received a postcard notifying them that publication was being suspended. Seeking an update, I caught up with Keki, who explained that her financial backer abruptly pulled out, leaving their in-a-garage operation in the lurch. She sounded pretty down about the situation, but talks with a new possible investor are ongoing and there may be some positive news in a month or so. Subscribers seem content to wait; Keki said that only two had requested their money back. Back issues of the original four-issue run are still available though the Violet website (but be patient — orders are filled once a month).

Why am I on about this? It’s just a parenting magazine, right? Well, I sometimes feel that issues surrounding our children are the last bastion where racism is tacitly allowable. (Look no further than the American school system, from daycare to academia, if you claim not to know what I mean.) Media representations of children and family — especially in magazines — reflect, on a basic level, what is considered adorable, desirable, supportable. As I wrote to Cookie’s editor, brown people have money and love their children, and I’m not interested in supporting any enterprise that actually works to pretend we don’t exist. So here’s hoping that Violet makes a much-needed return, on the double.

A few days ago I took The Scamp to a toy store; I try to stay a step or two ahead of his development, and it was time for a couple of new fun things to strew around his bedroom. I set him free to play with a train table, and I idly browsed some nearby Playmobil figure sets. Ninety-nine percent of the figures on the shelves were white, so I was surprised to spot a brown-faced veterinarian, complete with a doctor’s bag, an alligator, a lion, and a camel. I snatched it up immediately, and figured that when I got home, I could find more online at Playmobil’s website. (After all, if they have a black veterinarian, surely they have a couple of black children, a mom, a dad, a Moorish king, something.)

But no, actually, they don’t. Besides skeletons, Rebel and Union soldiers, and a HAZMAT crew, they have…American Indians in tribal dress. (I guess to go with the cowboys.) Disappointed, I emailed the German company and received a swift reply: “At this time we have not many multi-cultural figures. Thank you for your suggestion, we will pass it along.” I didn’t think it would be a novel concept to a German company that manufactures figures to play to American touchstones like the Civil War, Wild West standoffs, and HAZMAT personnel to also make some contemporary figures in a few shades of brown. Crazy me.

I can either build a wild-animal scene around our lone brown veterinarian, or I can give up on Playmobil for now and try Plan Toys or Ryan’s Room, both smart enough to make “ethnic” (black and Asian) family figures. There’s something about Playmobil’s style I really like, though, and I hate to abandon them; on the other hand, I think it’s important for my brown baby boy to see people like him represented in fantasyland.

(ETA: I found another one — a biker boy! Also settled on a zoo and a safari van. So we have a nice multiculti starter set after all. If there’s demand, maybe Playmobil will introduce more colored figures in its larger 4+ line. If not, we’ll have to settle for this tan surfer.)