Doing Life Together

Let me preface this entire post by saying it’s pretty much the most uncomfortable thing I’ve probably ever written. And this coming from someone that wrote a book with an entire chapter about my sex life with my husband; so there’s that. But after what I will refer to as “The Incident” I felt I had to tackle this topic head on.

Let me give you a little background before we get to the good stuff. I grew up in a part of Boston called Dorchester. It’s about as racially diverse as any community could want to be: Haitians, Laotians, Vietnamese, Irish, African-Americans, you name it we had it. And not just is my home town diverse but the Northeast in general is pretty much a melting pot. So in 2001 when I moved to Arizona it took me a while to figure out what it was that seemed off. Something was missing and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. What could it be? Hmm, let me think, let me think – ah yes! There are no black people here. Okay that’s not fair, there are about three, no wait five.

I’m not making this up, folks. According to the US Census Boston’s African American population is 24.4% (Dorchester clocks in at 28%.) Washington DC where I lived for a few years is a whopping 50.7% and Phoenix – drum roll please – eeks out a mere 6.5%.

So weird and disconcerting, right? No biggie though – some of my best friends in Phoenix are black (dying laughing but had to write that – but I swear to God it’s true.) So here’s where I miscalculated – it’s not a big deal for me who has perspective and the ability to create a racially diverse circle of friends. But my two white boy sons living in lily-white Cave Creek Arizona don’t have any of that and now it’s starting to show. Let me be clear: my boys could easily go months without seeing a black person. In fact, I’ve been known to occasionally tease my friend Susan, who is African-American, by calling her and telling her that my children are starting to forget what black people look like so Auntie Susie needs to get her a** over to our house for dinner STAT.

So now that you have the background and context let’s tackle “The Incident.” It all began innocently enough two nights ago during family movie night. My sons had picked out the movie Dr. Doolittle to watch. As the movie opens Eddie Murphy is seen in his kitchen with his wife and two daughters getting ready to start their day. So a typical family moment, right? At their home. Sharing a normal morning breakfast. When my seven-year-old turns to me and says with all the innocence of a child….. “It’s like Africa-Town, mama.”….. At first my mind goes blank, then I see my husband in the kitchen with both hands over his mouth trying to choke down his shocked laughter to the point where he then has to duck down onto the kitchen floor behind the center island. And then my son repeats it, like he’s proud of his observation. My little Montessori educated, Kumbaya son trying to incorporate his limited knowledge of the world. I can see his mind working: “Mama look at how smart I am that I know black people live in Africa.”

After my initial thirty seconds of stunned silence I feel a flush of anger. I got super defensive and I looked at my son and say rather rudely (you know because all seven-year-olds should be ridiculed for not completely understanding social norms) “Or, Jack, it’s like America. Like an American family in America, it’s like that.”

Stricken, my son looks at me completely crestfallen, having no idea what he’s done to provoke my anger. Then all of a sudden I’m ashamed at me and me only. Because clearly I haven’t done a good job as a parent or my son would never say such things. And now I’m beating up on a seven-year-old for my own shortcomings as a parent. Total shame spiral.

But I know what I need to make this right. I need a black family. Like yesterday. Preferably one with two sons about six and seven. And where can I get my hands on old Cosby show episodes? If the Huxtables can’t save me no one can.

And has it really come to this? Do I need to start stalking black families at the grocery stores and playgrounds and beg for a play date? Because what I really yearn for is the ability to do life with folks who bring the diversity to my family’s life naturally – like what I had growing up. I don’t want to preach it or read about it I just want it to be as unconscious as breathing. And part of my desire is totally selfish. I simply just can’t handle adding one more item to my to do list – and certainly not one as cringe worthy as this!

So don’t say I didn’t warn you – if you are a nice young black family in the greater Phoenix area please don’t take out a restraining order when I make unnecessary small talk at Chuck E. Cheese’s or Barros Pizza and then invite you for a sleepover. And for the love of God, Auntie Susie, get your a** over here – and bring some nephews please!

If you like my blog you’ll love my book. Buy The Working Mommy’s Manual on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Working-Mommys-Manual-Nicole-Corning/dp/0615637418/ref=cm_sw_em_r_dp_6ZRcqb0QFT7P8_tt