Hey Guys, I wanted to end our Feminism series by offering up some everyday solutions — not just complaints — for the current state of Feminism, so here goes. 1. Stop congratulating men for doing what they should have been doing in the first place. Now I went back and forth with myself on this one, b/c I’m a big believer in positive reinforcement and encouragement. However, it’s hard to say that men and women should be equal when I can’t count on two hands the number of women who have told me that I’m “so lucky” to have a husband who changes diapers. Really? Now I think I’m lucky to have found someone I love as much as I love CH, but the straight-up fact is that I would never have married anyone who doesn’t change diapers. Parenting is a two-person job. If one person isn’t willing to help out then that makes the other person “unlucky” IMO, not me “lucky” for having a husband that does what he’s supposed to do. I also see this in other aspects of society. Single fathers getting all sorts of TV shows, book deals and love for going above and beyond while single mothers are just a fact of life. When a busy male executive cuts out early for his daughter’s play, “Awww.” Busy female executive — well, that’s why she didn’t get the promotion. I once had an ex who informed me after our relationship ended that he had been an awesome boyfriend, b/c he had never cheated on me. Again, really? Did that make me an awesome girlfriend b/c I also didn’t cheat? When did it get so bad that some men started thinking that they should be congratulated for staying faithful? I mean...

So Halloween has been interesting for me this year, because though there are a ton of cute and appropriate costumes for the infant-toddler set, somewhere around six-years-old it all seems to become either princess or (IMO highly-inappropriate) kid version of the sexy [name your profession here] costumes often peddled to adult women. Mind you I’m the one who at the age of 12 wore a plastic She-Ra costume to her super-popular cousin’s basement Halloween Party (I’m fairly sure I was only invited b/c her mom made her). Back then it was either that or you had to make your own. Everyone else either wore street clothes or made their own, while my sister and I sweated the night out in our matching plastic costumes. I stopped getting dressed up for Halloween after that, so I wasn’t quite aware of how “far” costumes had come. Pushing the sexy girl costumes aside — those won’t even be considered — I find the princess look equally disturbing. Has Disney taken over our costumes? And if so, why aren’t we encouraging more girls to be more creative than princess? For instance, I think Betty would be adorable as the cowgirl from Toy Story or a pirate from Pirates of the Caribbean or even the Porsche 911 from Cars. Vroom! Vroom! Outside of pop culture, I would love to see more girls dressing up as lawyers or librarians or scientists or doctors. There’s nothing wrong with a princess or two, but at the last Halloween party I went to, it seemed like the vast majority of girls had chosen princess. Though there were two charming homemade exceptions of pig (this was obviously her ballet leotard and tights with a tail attached, a pig ear headband, and a nose) and...

Because I like to rep my hood, a lot of you know that I bleed blue and grey — that is I’m a super-proud graduate of Smith College (or Smithie, as we like to call ourselves). I never really intended to go to an all-women’s college, but I was legacy at Mount Holyoke, thanks to an aunt on my father’s side who got in on full scholarship during the 70s, and I had promised that I would at least look at Holyoke on my college tour. MH wouldn’t put me up on a weekend. But a dear teacher who thought that I would like Smith, given my personality and then-just-budding feminist leanings found a sister of one of her SAT prep students, who was willing to host me during Family Weekend (though back then it was called “Parents Weekend”), which happened right around now every year. It was just one stop on my college tour and not a school I was seriously considering, but I got off the Peter Pan bus the morning after a Halloween party at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, where I had been allowed to drink copious amounts of beer for the first time in my life. Duffle bag on shoulder, I walked up the slightly inclined State Street until I came upon Smith College in all of its black-gated, fall-leafed-up glory. And I fell in love. I can still remember thinking that I wanted to go to school on this campus, as I walked until I found and opening in the gate. And everything that happened that weekend seemed to confirm it. I asked my hostess how she liked going to an all-girls school and she answered that she loved going to an all-women’s college. I had always been...

So I want to come clean, because last week I said that CH and I didn’t argue over our differences. That was a lie, because we have hit one HUGE roadblock in our relationship as parents from two very different cultures. It’s actually rather hard for me to talk about in this venue, because I get upset just thinking about it. So I’ll just say it quick like ripping off a Band-Aid. CH told me … CH keeps on insisting that our dear innocent daughter… I can barely say it, the notion is so foul, but I must if I wish true healing to begin. CH wants Betty to cheer for the San Diego Chargers. I hear your audible gasp and I’ll reaffirm what I just said. Yes, he actually wants her to cheer for the San Diego Chargers. I’ve argued and argued with him on this subject, explaining that the Pittsburgh Steelers are the One True Team, to which he answered that it’s unseemly to cheer for a team just because they win. I explained that I don’t cheer for the Steelers just b/c they win, but because they are the best football team in America and a dynasty that has no match. He says Betty should cheer for the Chargers because she’s from California and it’s too dangerous to cheer for the Raiders. He also pointed out that I wasn’t from Pittsburgh to which I answered, “I spent my most seminal years in the the great olde town of Pittsburgh. To say I’m not from there is an insult of the gravest nature. Also, one need not be from Pittsburgh to know that they are the greatest football team of all time, so excuse you, sirrah! Excuse you!” Yet CH sticks to...

Interestingly enough, I received this Newsweek article from three different people, which I took as a hint that I should mention it on the ole blog. The article can basically be summarized as this: even if white parents think they are teaching kids not to see race, kids still see it, and not only segregate themselves accordingly, but also consider their own race superior. This is mostly because as it turns out when most white parents say that they’re teaching their kids not to see race, what they really mean is that they don’t talk to their kids about race. Like at all. And so kids come to their own conclusion, like that their own skin color is the best, and oh yeah, that their liberal parents don’t like black people. Now I find this last point most interesting, b/c if you had asked me whether my parents liked white people when I was a child, I would have said no. Not because they didn’t like white people (I found out later that they both considered it a waste of time and energy to hate on white people), but because I never saw them with white people. They didn’t have any white friends and the only white people that ever came over to our house were invited by my sister and me. So no, I didn’t think my parents liked white people. And I imagine that it doesn’t matter how liberal you are or what you say. If your kids don’t regularly see you with people of other races, then they’ll probably come to the same conclusion as the kids in the featured Newsweek study. Oh, and another off-main-topic point from the article: the vast majority of people have a same-race best friend. I,...

Now here’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately: How exactly am I going to spin being biracial to Betty? It’s interesting, because I grew up in the wake of the Black Pride movement, and even as formerly Afroed boomers were rushing to get perms and trading in their dashikis for business suits, they were encouraging my generation to hold our heads up high, and to take pride in where we come from, and you know, say it loud. So yes, I’m black and I’m proud. And CH, he’s … well he’s white. And Betty she’s biracial. Now, I’m not talking about picking one or the other. After talking with all of you about this a few months ago, I’ve decided to encourage Betty to embrace being both black and white, even if others are too small-minded to do so. It’ll be good practice for life, because people are always trying to tell You who You are, and what You are and are not capable of, and how You should be. But of course only you can do You, and really you’re the You expert, so you’ve got the last word on all about You. But I am wondering how one goes about spinning being biracial. I grew up feeling I was special, born of a storied people, who had overcome much. But how to instill both black pride and white pride? One is referenced often in a joyful way, and the other is the stuff of skinheads and racists. The simple answer to the question of Betty is that she is a testament to our love and an awesome example of two races coming together. But does this make her special? Should I tell her she is special for being biracial...

. a blogumn by Amy Robinson In the spirit of Ernessa’s Month of Minefields, I would like to toss in my own sparkly firecracker.  This isn’t going to be as controversial as her blogumns on inter-racial marriage, (honestly, I was surprised that inter racial marriage/relationships are still controversial, but I am living in my naïve world where love trumps race or gender.). My tender spot hits close to home.  How do you fit in the family?  Me, I’m the black(ish) sheep. My family is populated with incredibly nice people.  We get along well.  Experiencing our recent family traumas has brought us closer together, but still… I’m different. I am the weirdo, oddball in my family.  How did I get this distinction?  As the fifth child, my role in our house was to be the spoiled baby girl.  It’s a part I embraced in an embarrassing way as a snotty teenage girl.  After I moved thousands of miles away, they were left with that residual image of me. That was the start.  Now, everything I think or believe is pretty much contrary to the rest of the brood, and it is all the biggies: politics, religion and breeding. I avoid talking about those subjects when I am home.  My family has a very High conflict avoidance gene.  If it isn’t necessary to disagree, then why do it, is the Henry motto.  The religion and family creation are the smaller pieces of our disconnection.  While every one in the family has their own religious belief, I respect their viewpoint and their faith, even if it isn’t mine.  I know that they love me as I am, even if they think I’ll be Left Behind. I’ve come more into the fold after I married my main man...

So by far one of my most popular posts has been “Raising Biracial Children,” which I wrote before I had any actual Biracial children living outside my womb or the gleam in my eye. I suspected as I was writing it that my perspective would change once I actually had said child, and I have to say that I was pretty much right about that. I think what has been most surprising is how little I think about Betty being biracial. Beforehand, I thought this would be a subject that would stay on my mind 24/7, but in reality being a new mother eclipses all issues of race. For example: Day 1: Oh my God, she turns red when she cries! Is that normal? (I am assured by my white husband and Betty’s doctor that it is). At 1 week: I’m not thinking about the color of her skin, I’m thinking about the color of her poo. What’s up with the green tint? (Doctor says it’s the formula we’ve been supplementing her with for the jaundice. At 2 weeks: Oh no, not diaper rash! At 6 weeks: Yes, let’s talk about Betty’s skin. Seriously, what’s up with this baby acne all over her face, back, stomach, and neck? That can’t be normal. (Doctor once again assures us it is and it goes away in 2 weeks.) 3 months: Look at Betty’s gums. Do you think she’s teething early? Also, Betty seems to get a little confused when my sister comes to visit. (Though she doesn’t really like strangers at this point, Betty decides that she digs this Sorta-Looks-Like-Mommy. This will kick off a trend of her being extra smiley with dark-skinned black women. Funny.) 4 months: I love this baby fat! In fact, I...

So though I’m definitely positive when it comes to Interracial Relationships, they do have their interesting moments. I’m lucky to live in California where IR relationships are quite common. However, the influx of BW-WM relationships is fairly recent, so often CH and I will go some place and be the only IR couple of this sort. I won’t say that we get stared at, but we do get remembered. For example in our old neighborhood of Silverlake, many of the waiters at restaurants that we frequented could guess what we wanted before we made our order. If you live in LA, you know how uncommon it is for a waiter to remember what his or her regulars eat. And it never happened in the places that I frequented before meeting CH, but it happens all the time to us. We also get remembered at grocery stores, by work acquaintances no matter how brief the meeting, and by the front desk staff of our dentist, OB, fertility doctor, and Betty’s pediatrician. To put this in perspective, I’ve been going to the same doctor as Betty for about five years now, and they never remembered my name but now they do. And I’ve gotten used to hearing, “Oh hi, Ernessa, Dr. Whoever will be with you in just a moment” by the time I walk into a medical office the second time with CH. I don’t mind being known as half of that one BW-WM IR couple, but it does put me at a guilty disadvantage, when people remember us, but I don’t remember them. Also, travelling is very interesting. While CH finds small towns with one privately-owned gas station charming, I find them horror-movie scary, as they could potentially house all manner of racist rednecks...

So I talked yesterday about how the media and some bloggers love this story of how BW-WM relationships come to be: Black woman starts off dating within her race. Discovers that there are no “good” black men. Decides to marry a white man b/c of this dearth. That wasn’t the case with me, but I did used to be one of those sisters that didn’t date outside of her race. In fact, I didn’t go on a date with a white guy until I was 24, and I didn’t seriously date one until I was 25. When I look back on it, I can barely remember why I thought it would be so wrong to date a white guy, even though for the majority of my dating years I held this to be true. I remember feeling angry whenever I read about what white slave owners did to black female slaves and vowing that I’d never get mixed up with a white guy. Also, I was raised in a mostly black community, and I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of my fellow black girls that dated white boys growing up. It just wasn’t done. But mostly I had an image of what my life would be like and it had Cosby Show — not that sidekick couple from The Jeffersons — written all over it. I’ve mostly California to thank for changing my mind on this subject. Let me tell you, for whatever reason, I have always attracted mostly nice guys. There is something about me that assholes just do not like. I never understood why, but I seriously could not get a bad boy if my life depended on it. This was fortunate, b/c I have little tolerance...

One of the reasons I’ve been avoiding talking about being in an interracial relationship is because to me it’s no big deal, which is maybe the most surprising thing about being in an interracial relationship. Though neither CH nor I are average, our courtship wasn’t outside of the ordinary. We met at a bar, then talked for a few moments at few different events, he asked me on a date, we fell in love, I moved in with him, and then he asked me to marry him in the privacy of our home after about a year of dating. Millions of people throughout history and across the world have this exact same courtship story. Only thing is I’m black and he’s white. However, I’ve noticed that the media and many black bloggers who both support and don’t support interracial relationships want to give my relationship a script that it simply does not have, so I wanted to spend the first day or our series dispelling three of those myths. 1. I don’t hate black men. I think a lot of people assume that if a black woman marries a white man that she must have been terribly hurt by a black man. For the record all of the black men I have dated have been lovely. A couple of them have also been on the marriage track. But none of them have been CH. I like CH better than any man of any color that I have ever dated. Period. 2. I didn’t settle because I was desperate for a husband. Now this is the myth that irritates me the most. Black men aren’t considered desperate for marriage when they marry white women. Asian women aren’t considered desperate for marriage when they marry white...

As I mentioned on Tuesday, though I’ve returned to organized religion, I don’t necessarily have the same belief system that I did when I was younger. To give you a bit of background, not only was I raised in the Lutheran church, I also went to Lutheran school, was confirmed, and spent a year as perhaps the worst acolyte of all time. Falling asleep easily when bored and having little to no attention span does not a good acolyte make. But still I loved using the little stick with the bell on the end of it to put out candles, so I’ll always have that to keep my memories fond. There are two reasons I left the church. When I was seven or eight, my mother told me honestly that sometimes she wasn’t sure if there really was a God, but that she hoped that there was. My immediate thought was, “Oh my God, she’s going to Hell.” And I saw her falling into the hellfires of damnation, b/c she wasn’t a true-true believer. This gave me nightmares for years, so yes, when I was given the choice of public or private school at the age of 12, I was all too happy to go public. The other thing that led me down the path of completely rejecting organized religion was my mother’s death. I didn’t blame God for it, but at the same time it didn’t do much to make me want to sing his praises. And we ended up having a decade-long cooling off period in which I took the time to really study who I believed God to be and carve out this ever-changing belief system. So without further ado, this is what I believe… 1. God loves all of us...

I think my main problem with the What Would Jesus Do movement is that it feels silly to me. What would Jesus do if he, like you, found out a co-worker was badmouthing him to the boss behind his back? Well, Jesus wouldn’t be working in an office because he’d be walking across the land, preaching the word of God and flossing miracles. Well, how about if someone stole his car? Jesus don’t have a car. Jesus walks. On water sometimes. What if Jesus girlfriend cheated on him? He’d take her back, b/c everybody’s Jesus’s girlfriend. He loves everybody. There’s nothing you can do that won’t have him taking the girlfriend back and then preaching the word of God to her all night long. I mean that literally. What if Bernie Madoff ripped Jesus off? Who cares? Jesus don’t believe in money. He believes in God. That’s why he flossed with miracles as opposed to camels and gold. See what I mean? Every time I even think to ask, “Well, what would Jesus do?” I can’t help but think that Jesus wouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place, because he’s Jesus, and I’m me. And really when you think about it, his background was nothing like mine, so why would I stop to wonder what he’d do every time I found myself in an ethical jam? When it comes to moral code-crafting, how should one go about this? Should we try to emulate our deities? Turn the other cheek like Jesus? Stay cool like Buddha? Play favorites like Athena? As someone who suffers from an over-abundance of guilt, I do wish that there were a clear set of rules to being a good person. Right now, I’m kind of going with...