April 16, 2014

Planet of the Naps

The day I woke up with nappy hair, my husband punched me in the face, jumped out of our second story bedroom window and immediately started fucking the white woman next door. I would not have known what happened but for the swinging blinds beating against the windowpane and his warm imprint lingering in my bed. I stopped for a moment to feel sorrowful, the breeze from our open window forming goosebumps on my skin, but then realized I was probably a lesbian so it was all good.

I yelled “Goodbye!” to my husband from the window he left open and took my time emerging from my bedroom. I did not feel like showering and could only put together clothes that did not match and earrings that were loud and cheap. Confused and stupider, I emerged from my bedroom only to find my house in disarray. My children had gotten into my collection of lint and decided to throw it all over our living room. Unable to find the broom or vacuum, I bent down and swept it up with my hair. When it came time to wash it, as hard as I tried I could not remember how or if I ever had. I felt lazy, craved chicken and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to smoke weed laced with crack with Trick Daddy. Adorned in lint, I could feel my naps grow tighter, my skin grow darker and my lips grow fuller and fuller. A thin shield of ash formed across my skin and the more I licked it, the ashier I became.

I left for work late because I forgot to pay attention to the time and on the way out, I asked the garbage man to watch my kids and to give me five dollars for the bus ride there. Mistaking me for the raccoon that had been terrorizing our neighborhood, he pulled out a stick and hit me over the head. By the time I came to, he had already fled, leaving the garbage piled up in our front yard. Enjoying the smell, I sat amongst the garbage for a moment licking my ash and thinking about how much I loved salt and welfare. During my walk to work, I felt itchy and angry. I battled with deciding whether to steal something or protest. I decided instead to dance, scratch, and yell incoherent things to the people walking in and out of the local Starbucks. A police officer tried to arrest me. Despite my waning intellect, my superior athletic skills proved no match as I outran him through the streets of my town.

Remembering I had to go to work, I stopped off at McDonalds to dance and scratch with the patrons outside the store. Loving it, I enjoyed a super-sized value meal and took a nap on top of the ball pit under the slide in the children’s play area. The manager woke me up to join me in a short dance and scratch but then asked me to leave because I was distracting his employees. When I finally got to work, I had trouble getting in. Although the door was unlocked, I felt more comfortable sneaking in a window and I had trouble finding a window that I could break, instead of just opening. When I finally made it in, feeling hungry, sneaky and violent, I snuck into the break room and stole everyone’s food and drink. I wrote menacing notes in place of the food in breath fog and spilled flavored drink all over the floor without cleaning up. I took another nap before heading to my office. I dreamt about drug crimes, Hip Hop videos and yelling the word, “Bitch.”

When I finally found my way to office, my boss was waiting and fired me instantly. Among other things, he declared that my hair made me blacker and accused me of lying on my application about my Native American lineage. On the way out, none of my co-workers made eye contact. One, a cross-dressing black man named, Tyler Martin, did a short dance and scratch in solidarity, which, despite my unemployment, made me laugh all the way down the elevator and out of the building. I loved to laugh. When I exited, the police officer I thought I had outrun was waiting for me with handcuffs. I was indicted, convicted of Being Nappy and sentenced to life wandering the continent of Africa. The Judge offered to suspend my sentence if I agreed to serve three hours in a local beauty salon and be treated with Affirm Hair Relaxer and two packs of Indian Remy 1B hair. I chose the latter.

I’d like to thank Wendy Williams for her thoughtful commentary on Viola Davis’s choice to go natural for the Oscars for inspiring me to turn my life around. I would also like to thank hair relaxer, the people of India and celebrity hairstylist, André Walker.

Note: This post was fiction and meant to be satirical. Any feelings that were hurt in the drafting of the post were purely accidental. The author of this post is a mother of two who recently decided to go natural. Surprisingly, her husband has not left her, she kept her job, she continues to fight the urge to scratch and dance and she has not entered a life of crime. In fact, she thinks she looks kind of cute.

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara is native of New York City and reluctant resident of the DC Metro Area. She is a writer in her heart but a lawyer by profession. She is a wife and also a mom to two boys. She is a self proclaimed and self loving oddball. She is determined to find both spirituality and happiness and like any true totalitarian matriarch, impose both on her family. She is wise enough to know that this may not happen simultaneously.

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The Government Shutdown: Why I am angry (and you should be, too)

Boy, am I mad…

If you have been paying attention to the media lately, you know the federal government is on the brink of shutdown.  There are a number of ways to paint the picture of how we arrived at this point or who is to blame.  Understand simply, in accordance with Article I of the U.S. Constitution, Congress has the responsibility to appropriate funds to the U.S. government.  In an era where partisan politics have stripped individuals of any humane identity and reached a new low, Congress has been unable to reach an agreement.  In short, while the President proposed a budget back in February 2010, over a year later and almost two hundred days into the current fiscal year, Congress has yet to behave as rational adults, do their job and agree to a budget that is in the best interest of the American people.  With no budget and the last extension set to expire at midnight tonight, a federal government shutdown is upon us.

So what does that mean for you and me?   Well, if you are a federal employee, the answer is simple.  Your jobs will shut down indefinitely, as will your pay.  This means, while our elected officials are bickering over ideologies completely unrelated to your livelihood – your mortgages, rents, daycare bills and tuition payments will still come due.  The little mouths will still be waiting to be fed and your responsibilities will continue to mount.  This issue is particularly unique to the DC Metropolitan Area, home to thousands of government employees and an African American population of almost 50%.  Federal government and its employees drive the local market.  I overheard one federal employee, a single mother, fretting over how she would continue to support her young children when everyone in her family that would provide emergency support are government employees too.  Some federal employees have devoted their entire career to serving the needs of the public, an often thankless and under-compensated job, only to be tossed aside like a nameless toy soldier for the greater cause of pride and principle.  I think D.C. Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton put it best when she said a shutdown would be the functional equivalent of bombing innocent people.

If you are not a federal employee, maybe you are a government contractor or work for a company that contracts services to the government. Maybe you are planning to buy your first home with a loan guaranteed by the FHA.  Maybe you are awaiting a paper tax return from the IRS, a passport or a visa….  Maybe you are planning a family trip to see the Cherry Blossoms, National Monuments or a National Park.  Either way, you and your plans are suddenly pawns in a chess game that you have no control over.  It’s sad.  It’s sickening.  It is downright embarrassing.  I could easily get into the facts as I see them.  I try to educate myself with both liberal and conservative media because somewhere in between the two, a little truth can be found.  However, I will not.  The only fact that really matters is that this country is so divided over beliefs that we cannot see clearly to what really matters.

When I was a little girl, I arbitrarily decided that I no longer wanted to eat beef or pork.  It had no religious implications – but it really does not matter if it did.  I read somewhere that they were unhealthy and I wanted to live a long and healthy life.  I remember declaring it to my mom and the rest of my family.  My mother, ever respectful of my journey to individuality, said gently, “You don’t have to eat beef or pork, but I still love hamburgers.”  She did not vow to starve me for my arbitrary decision and I did not commit to destroying all the beef in the house.  I learned to make a turkey burger, and she still ate her hamburgers.  This basic lesson was one that we all learn.  Disagreement, diversity of thought and mind, differing opinions, they are all a part of the human experience.  I know we have all heard the adage before, “Sometimes, we must agree to disagree.”  Why is this basic childhood lesson something our elected leaders cannot seem to grasp?

We, citizens, are human beings.  We have goals and aspirations that go far beyond political quests for power, individual goals of imposing dogmatic ideology and most importantly, some elected leaders’ overwhelming goal of limitless wealth.  While I may be more interested in politics than many, it certainly does not flood my thoughts the minute I wake up until the minute I go to bed at night.  You know what I think about?  The love I have for my family, a laugh I shared with my friends and how thankful I am for every minute that I have with the people I love.  If either side, Republicans or Democrats, gave a damn about the average American, hundreds of thousands of Americans would not be worrying if and when their next paycheck would come.   It is arrogant.  It is irresponsible.  As the supposed leaders of the free world, I will say it again, it is embarrassing.  One thing is for certain, when elected officials fail, we elect new officials.  I hope we all keep this memory very fresh for the election of 2012.  I am writing down names and I suggest you do too.  Our government has failed all of us, regardless of which party you align yourself and we will continue to be failed until we show them that we demand a change.

We need a change.

Who is with me?

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara is native of New York City and reluctant resident of the DC Metro Area. She is a writer in her heart but a lawyer by profession. She is a wife and also a mom to two boys. She is a self proclaimed and self loving oddball. She is determined to find both spirituality and happiness and like any true totalitarian matriarch, impose both on her family. She is wise enough to know that this may not happen simultaneously.

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Friday Reflections: More confessions of a social networker

So, the battle with my inner social networker continues.  The spouse forwarded an article to me last week about actor Bill Nye (The Science Guy) who collapsed while walking towards a podium to do a presentation at the University of Southern California.  While Nye was ultimately okay, the article’s author was more concerned with the peculiar behavior of the USC audience.  According to the article, rather than getting up to aid Nye, most of the students in attendance pulled out their smart phones and began to update their Twitter and Facebook statuses about the event.  Similarly, the article reported another incident where New Orleans comedienne, Anthony Barre, was murdered in the streets and witnesses chronicled his death by updating their statuses and posting pictures of him dying in the streets.

I immediately got into a pretty preachy discussion with a few of my friends via Facebook that involved a great deal of “smdhs” and “wtfs”.  I mostly felt overwhelmed by a generation who could be so emotionally and physically detached from their humanity.  It felt so wrong and unnatural – and I wondered what kind of legacy a generation of passive onlookers could possibly leave.  I stood on my figurative moral high ground and thought to myself, I could never do that.  I would never do that.

Then after a quiet Thanksgiving at home with my family, my husband and I sat down to watch Public Speaking, an HBO documentary on essayist and author Fran Lebowitz (The McCray’s know how to party).  Lebowitz, for those of you unfamiliar, is an author from my hometown, New York City, made famous during the Andy Warhol era for her hilarious social commentary.   In the documentary, Lebowitz, now 60, discusses a myriad of issues including this generation’s apparent disconnection with life.  She noted that she finds inspiration for her writing by traveling by foot everywhere in New York.  She said that, “No matter where you are, if you are doing this-”.  She paused and held her hands as though typing on an imaginary Blackberry.  “You aren’t really there – no matter where you are.” She concluded.

It occurred to me that while I was “smh-ing” and “wtf-ing” about those onlookers at USC and in New Orleans, why wasn’t I allotting similar judgment to my own behavior when I pause to update my Facebook status at the dinner table? Or take a moment to respond to a BBM while coloring with my son?  Or stop my husband from telling me about his day to finish responding to a text message?  I started to wonder just how much time I had spent being barely present in my own life.  A few years ago when my addiction to Facebook was just budding, I joked with one of my friends that I felt like I was beginning to think in status messages.  This leaves me wondering, if I am privileged enough to grow old, just how will I reflect on the hours I spend allowing my mind to attend an imaginary party while the world goes on around me? And if I do decide to become an active member of the planet and limit (or eliminate) my social media outlets, just how lonely will the “real world” be? (Think Bruce Willis in “Surrogates”.)

As a parent, I often wonder that if I am so susceptible to social media outlets what will that mean for my sons’ generation.   In January 2010, the Kaiser Family Foundation released a study that 8-18 year olds spend an average of 7 hours and 38 minutes using entertainment media across a typical day (more than 53 hours a week).  In a New York Times article discussing the study, one eighth grader reported that she felt her days would be boring without her social media outlets.  In theory, what could be more boring that staring at a tiny screen most of your day and not engaging the world around you?  While my own children are both under four years old, I often wonder how I will introduce these outlets to them… if at all.  What do you think WOH?  How do you manage your own time engaging in social media? How will you or have you regulated the time your children spend on the internet, smartphones, etc?  Something tells me society had a very similar conversation about television at its onset as well.

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara is native of New York City and reluctant resident of the DC Metro Area. She is a writer in her heart but a lawyer by profession. She is a wife and also a mom to two boys. She is a self proclaimed and self loving oddball. She is determined to find both spirituality and happiness and like any true totalitarian matriarch, impose both on her family. She is wise enough to know that this may not happen simultaneously.

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Friday Reflections: Boys don’t play with dolls

On November 2, 2010, a Midwestern mommy blogger started a bit of controversy when she posted photos of her five-year old dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo for Halloween.  Wondering what was so controversial? Well, her five-year old – is a boy.   I initially was made aware of the situation when a friend of mine sent me a link to her blog and less than week later, while I nursed my son and my husband got ready for work, I was surprised to see Sarah, the Midwestern Mommy blogger, defending her choice on The Today Show.   The segment was titled “Is it okay for little boys to wear dresses?” and joining Sarah was Dr. Harold Koplewicz, president of the Child Mind Institute and Cheryl Kilodavis, another mom.  Kilodavis, an African-American mother, recently authored a children’s book called My Princess Boy, based on her own son, Dyson, who expressed an interest in wearing dresses in preschool and continues to do so at the age of five.  Kilodavis discussed her initial reluctance to allow her son to wear dresses but that she ultimately concluded that her son’s happiness was more important than society’s rules for gender.  In a brief clip of an earlier interview with her husband, he appeared completely supportive of allowing his son to wear dresses.

My girlfriend sent me the email followed the link with a single question: what do you think?  As liberal as I say I am, I have to admit, I was at a loss.  My husband, however, was clear on his opinion.  Can you guess?  The thing is, if one of my sons came to me as an adult and told me they wanted to wear dresses I would deal with it and as long as he was happy and safe, I would support him the best way I know how.  However, if my three-year old expressed a desire to wear dresses, the answer would be much less black and white.  The topic stayed at the forefront of conversation in my household for weeks – primarily because my husband was uncomfortable with my ambiguity about the subject and I was uncomfortable with his seemingly indignant opposition to the idea.

For him, it all boiled down to the fact that boys don’t wear dresses.  He made no apologizes about opining that such behavior was unacceptable in society and would leave him vulnerable to bullies and harsh judgment.  For me, I had to really dissect what was at play here.  My response would all depend on my ability to differentiate between what was just childhood experimentation and a possible life style choice.  And even if that differentiation could be made, I still wasn’t sure if it should matter.  If my son expressed a decision to dress as a girl and I knew it would ultimately result in him identifying himself as transgendered later in life, I was pretty sure any early discouragement on my part may play a role in him embracing that part of himself and possibly remaining in the closet… or worse.  If you are wondering what’s worse consider that the suicide rates for gay and transgendered youth are much higher than heterosexual youth.  My mother always tried very hard to make it clear that I could tell her ANYTHING and I would still have her love and support.  It is my biggest goal to create the same environment for my boys.

On the other hand, I would be reluctant to stifle my sons’ individuality.  A couple of weeks before I heard about this story, I was shopping in a toy store with my son and he saw a little baby doll.  He immediately expressed an interest in having the doll.  While my visceral reaction was to pick up the doll and toss it in the cart, I then started to think: what will the spouse think? What if my son wants to take the doll to school?  If I chose to say no, the only explanation I could think to offer was that boys don’t play with dolls.  Luckily, he was distracted by a Thomas, The Tank Engine and I got that instead.  However, I couldn’t help but wonder how much damage I would cause by taking these little chips at his individuality.  Would he wonder what else boys didn’t do?  Would he feel bad for wanting something that boys shouldn’t want?

As a young woman raised with two brothers and now a married heterosexual woman with two sons, I find the roles of men in society very confining.  Men, especially black men, are constantly told to be macho, aggressive, don’t cry, watch sports, be a provider – not a nurturer,  etc, etc.  Just how much should these social and cultural norms effect my son’s definition?

Consider this, when I was 20, I studied abroad in Senegal, West Africa.  I remember walking on the campus at the University of Dakar and being stunned at how men walked arm and arm or hand in hand across campus.  Were these men gay couples? I wondered.  I later learned that in Senegal, it was socially acceptable for men to be more affectionate.  Like women here in the US, men felt comfortable embracing or holding hands as a purely platonic gesture.  Such gestures surely would send a different message here in the states.

If rules on what boys can and cannot do are stemmed in culture and society, where is the wisdom in continuing to place these burdens on our boys?  Would reactions have been the same if it was a little girl dressed as Spiderman?  Would I have had the same hesitation if I had a daughter and she asked me to purchase an action figure?  As a parent, I want my children to be extraordinary.  Where do all these rules and restrictions leave them room to be anything other than ordinary?

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara is native of New York City and reluctant resident of the DC Metro Area. She is a writer in her heart but a lawyer by profession. She is a wife and also a mom to two boys. She is a self proclaimed and self loving oddball. She is determined to find both spirituality and happiness and like any true totalitarian matriarch, impose both on her family. She is wise enough to know that this may not happen simultaneously.

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Screaming children will NOT be tolerated

I like to consider myself a cool mom… and despite the innate uncoolness of that previous sentence, I really do.  I married fairly young at 24 years old and had my first child at 26.  So now, at 29, with one foot in my twenties and most of my girlfriends still doing their “Samantha Jones” thing, I like to think that I am still aware of the world outside of my married-with-kids universe.  However, an article I recently read on MSNBC has finally forced me to choose sides.

According to the article, the owner of a restaurant in Carolina Beach, North Carolina is raising controversy after posting a sign saying “Screaming Children Will NOT Be Tolerated”.  The restaurant’s owner claims that since the sign has been up, the restaurant has seen a noticeable increase in business.  Naturally, the article has sparked a great deal of controversy with debates heating up all over the internet.  One article on Shine, notes that movement spreads far beyond North Carolina borders.  A restaurant in Brooklyn, New York recently banned babies after 5.p.m.   As further evidence of the growing anti-kids sentiment, the article points to a group on facebook titled, “Ban Kids From Restaurants!” where it seems extremely bitter individuals lament about how the behavior of children has yet again ruined their peaceful meals.  The group has over two-thousand members.

Now, the empathetic side of me understands that there is a certain degree of unspoken etiquette I must practice as a parent.  No. I won’t be taking my children to a 9pm six-course meal at a wine bar.  Moreover, I have even been known to leave a restaurant early if I think my three year old has a tantrum brewing.

However, what strikes me the most about the ensuing debate is the bizarrely heightened degree of passion from the “movements” supporters.  I was stunned at how easily words like “brat” and “bastard” were thrown around.  I made the mistake of visiting the facebook page and was disgusted at how easily the sites creator referred to one such disruptive child as a “little sh#tbag” and a “wailing little insect” among other things. 

Reading these comments brought back memories of last year’s controversy over the stranger who slapped the crying two year old little girl in Wal-Mart.  Remember that? Apparently, the child’s mother wasn’t handling the situation – which seems to be another complaint of these individuals.  Bad parents.  You know… because the children of good parent’s never have tantrums. 

I am being ridiculously sarcastic.

Legal arguments aside, what is it about children that makes these self righteous, grossly misinformed individuals so intolerant? Why is it so socially acceptable to engage in anti-child rhetoric?  Why are children who act out and the parents who raise them last on the list to receive a little dose of empathy? What about the group of drunk and belligerent twenty-somethings whose loud and profane antics at their table interrupted my family on our night out? Or teenage girls whose cell phones went off again and again throughout my meal? Or that family at the table beside mine speaking loudly in another language? Or that blind man whose walking cane hit the side of my chair on the way to his table? Or that guy who can’t stop sneezing? Or hey, how about that ugly couple facing me from across the room?

No matter how much courtesy we all exercise, there is a certain amount of discomfort one must expect in public.  Unpredictability.  Diversity. Strangeness.  If you want to eat a meal strictly on your own terms, stay home.  Until then, my money is just as green as yours.  So if I am at a restaurant at the table across from yours and my kid starts to cry uncontrollably because his chicken nugget fell on the floor and for some reason this means you can no longer enjoy your meal.  My advice? Take a bite of your Caesar Salad, quit whining, be a grown up, and suck it up.  At least my kid has an excuse. What’s yours?

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara is native of New York City and reluctant resident of the DC Metro Area. She is a writer in her heart but a lawyer by profession. She is a wife and also a mom to two boys. She is a self proclaimed and self loving oddball. She is determined to find both spirituality and happiness and like any true totalitarian matriarch, impose both on her family. She is wise enough to know that this may not happen simultaneously.

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Waiting on the world to change

This post was originally published on Then Came Isaiah in February 2010.  In light of Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s recent remarks and similar questionable celebrity behavior I found myself reminiscent of this emotion.

When I was in the fourth grade my mom took me out of the school I was going to in my neighborhood and put me in a school about forty-five minutes across town. She said I came home one day bragging about the 100% I had gotten on a test and when she looked it over, she realized it was full of errors. After examining my school for a few weeks thereafter, she realized it was not a mistake… the teachers weren’t grading my papers properly. So, she put me in one of the top private schools in a wealthy neighborhood where I was one of three brown faces in the whole school (the other two were twins).

I was nervous because up until that point I had gone to predominately black schools but my mom put me at ease assuring me that I always made friends quickly and everyone liked me. She even reminded me that my best friend from summer camp, Sarah, was white… and we weren’t all that different. Sarah even got me a black Ken doll for my birthday – which in the eighties, was impossible to find. So, with my stylish new hairdo and cute new uniform I started my new school.

And she was right…

… at first.

I made fast friends with two girls in the class, Lisa and Clara. I remember my first slumber party at Clara’s house. We danced to Material Girls by Madonna and painted each other’s nails. I loveddd Madonna but in my neighborhood, it was all about hip hop and my brother’s wouldn’t have me blasting a Madonna record. But hey – I taught them the running man, all about my curls and cornrows and my adoration of LL Cool J and it was great. I stayed me – but became a better me, because I didn’t have to just be one side of me – I could listen to my Madonna and my Salt N Pepper.

Anyway, Lisa’s mom used to pick a number of us kids up from school in the afternoon. She would take most of the kids home but because I didn’t live in the area, she would take me back to her house and my mom would come get me after work. It was a great set up because Lisa and I were great friends. One afternoon, I was running to get in her mom’s van and I squeezed into the last seat in the front row. I must have pushed passed another one of my classmates, Gaby, on her way to the van because when she got in the car she was maadddd. She wanted the seat and I took it.

Not one to be intimidated I said, “What’s your problem?”

“You’re in my seat.” She snorted.

“It doesn’t have your name on it.” I responded.

She stared at me for a minute. Keep in my mind – back then, “not having your name on it” was a pretty awesome comeback.

I could see her struggling to say something.  If I close my eyes, I can still see her face as she struggled to say something.

And then she said…

“BLACK.”

She spat it – like it was a dirty word. Like I needed to be reminded that I was different, less than, a transplant into her world.  I was quiet. No one ever said that to me before. No one ever told me I was black and made me feel bad about it.

A few months later, I had a crush on a boy named Jon, who was also my classmate. I wrote him a note.

“Do you like me? Yes or No.”

He called me a Nigger.

I never cried so hard in my life.

I will always remember my kind music teacher who stood with me in the cubby closet until I stopped crying.

Funny thing was, I found out years later that Jon was biracial.

I bounced back but I was guarded. For awhile, I was scared to feel too accepted, sing my Madonna songs too loudly, for fear that everyone was just waiting… waiting for me to cross that invisible line and be reminded.

For the most part, I can look back on my days at that school fondly. I still keep in touch with many of my friends and afterwards, I continued to go to schools were I was in the vast minority and that was okay… I knew who I was… but I was guarded still – just a little.

 I am an adult now and I move in many circles. I love everything that defines me and being a women of color is just the icing on the cake for me. I feel like so many things define me that I will never fill anyone’s stereotype. I want my son to feel the same way. I am 6’1, my husband is 6’4… my son will be a tall, beautiful black man. For many – he will be scary, built for athletics… etc. I want him to always know that I love him completely – he can be whoever he wants and I will love him – he can be a clog dancing gay man and that’s okay – I just expect him to be who he is.

 Last week, I read about John Mayer’s statements in Playboy and it brought me back.. If you haven’t heard about it and don’t feel like reading it – aside from some insane things about his ex girlfriends, he said that the fact that he has a large black audience gives him an “hood pass” or a “nigger pass.” He also compared his penis to a white supremacist because he doesn’t date black women. Sadly, I have always loved John Mayer’s music. The first time I heard Your Body Is A Wonderland, I was in college and I heard him sing it acoustic on The Late Show. I thought… wowowow. I felt all tingly and I wanted to be in love. Apparently, I wasn’t actually relating to the music when I bought his album… I was handing him a Nigger Pass.

 I remembered that little girl again.

The one shocked in the carpool van.

Crying in the cubby closet.

I was just reminded that no matter how dynamic of a human being I am, no matter how complex and multi-faceted… for some people, my skin color will be all they see. Believe it or not, I forgot for a second – so caught it in my own class-ism… elitism… my belief that somewhere along the line, I crossed the line and no one cared anymore.

Hey – Barack Obama is President.

I thought everyone saw me.

It made me sad last week… because it hasn’t changed and although I can handle it, I am painfully aware that I will have to feel the reality all over again through my children’s eyes and I am pretty sure that will hurt worse.

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara Faith McCray

Tiara is native of New York City and reluctant resident of the DC Metro Area. She is a writer in her heart but a lawyer by profession. She is a wife and also a mom to two boys. She is a self proclaimed and self loving oddball. She is determined to find both spirituality and happiness and like any true totalitarian matriarch, impose both on her family. She is wise enough to know that this may not happen simultaneously.

More Posts - Website