Something happened to my daughter that I hoped she would have been able to avoid. Like so many young people, she has friends all of the country. The group I’m writing about were high school friends who ventured out into the world for degrees and careers and they’ve made me and their parents proud. Of my daughter’s three distinct groups of friends, this one is the most diverse; there’s not two of them with the exact same racial or nationality combination.
A few of them ended up relocating to the same general area, about 300 miles away. They brought in newcomers.
“You’re going to love Rex (not his real name),” they told her.
“Nicest guy you ever want to meet.”
We always want our old friends to like our new friends.
The time came to visit, three hundred miles down the road. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.
Did somebody forget to tell good ole Rex that my daughter is black, okay, African American? It really might not have come up with this group of young people.
“It was really strange,” she told me. “He wouldn’t even look at me. I tried 3 different times over four days and he just didn’t want to talk.”
Been there, my child, felt that, and I’ve got the extra layer of skin to prove it.
“Maybe he was just having a really bad weekend, but he seemed okay with everybody else,” she speculated–which is exactly what we do over and over again when we’re young, before we grow the extra layer of skin.
“Maybe,” I told her. I wasn’t ready to tell her my many “Rex” stories. There were the Rex friends, job interviews, stores, and even “great” restaurants that didn’t want my business.
I wanted her to enjoy the memories of her trip a little longer. Let’s not tell her about this entry.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
Here's some old blogs from another location that I thought would work well here:
THE INK IS BLACK
About My Blog
Okay, here I go. . . I started writing my blog long before the word, or even the Internet existed. When I first moved to California, I wrote a proposal for a newspaper column that I was planning. I was tentatively calling it the Prodigal Daughter and offering it to my hometown newspaper, The Flint (Michigan) Journal. It would have been a tale of two cities, a comparison of the home I so throughly missed and my new location, Los Angeles. The exercise would force me, a person not known for my keen observations, to pay attention to my new digs in a constructive way. I was really hyped about it and ran the idea pass my brothers, and others still at home, during my many long distance calls. We all, friends and family alike, grew up in the church. The name Prodigal Daughter was not lost of any of them. What I heard in their deafening, underwhelmed, silence was a lack of interest.
I finally decided if my own peeps weren't interested in my witty repartee what chance did I have of interesting anybody else? I scrapped the project. But that didn't stop me from continuing to mentally write' an almost daily column which would today be called a Blog.
This blog will not be about comparing an old home with a new one--that ship has sailed. This blog will be about a woman who got her first subscription to a writers magazine when she was eleven, soon after she decided to become a writer. (A story I'll tell you later). This blog will be about what she's learned, about the business and the process, in the thirty years after that decision. Okay, forty years after that decision! Sometimes you'll have to dig deep to find out how it all relates to writing, but it will relate because it will be about me or of concern to me and I am a writer, not because somebody has paid me for my written words, but because I define myself that way.
I choose the title THE INK IS BLACK simply because we, African American people, are an important part of this country's history, arts and letters, literature and brain trust no matter how much some would venture to keep us out.
written 5-23-05
Recently, I read an article that described an editor as being a "savvy commercial fiction editor." I never know how to interpret that kind of information because I've often found that the person decribed as "liberal, open, progressive and even innovative" stops short of any of these adjectives when it comes to writings by and about Black or African Americans. I'm narrowing it down to people of color in this country because I've noticed a willingness, albeit slight, to publish blacks from other places.
I decided to test this editor's commercial savvy. I sent him a partial of a novel I represent. It's one of the new "hip hop" or urban novels. I've turned down every other novel in this genre sent to me because I'm limiting my involvement with agenting and I'm not overly fond of the genre, but this one is good. It's very well written and this author would be a good writer in any genre. I've decided to view urban fiction as a genre.
This year we're celebrating our tenth year as a literary agency. I haven't received a boiler plate rejection letter in at least five years. I'm talking about a rejection letter that is an obvious copy, short, signed by "the editors." I usually get personal notes and often suggestions about who to try. This savvy editor was so insulted by my submission he sent me a folded up, badly copied, nondescript, standard rejection.
I don't usually take rejections personally, but this one got me thinking. So often in my life I've heard some good news about a person, place, or thing only to learn later that that person, place or thing wasn't for me and people that look like me. What black person in this country can't remember the first time they realized that all the good will that can overflow from strangers is not often for them or people like them. I've had it appear across such seemly unrelated subjects: the new great hair product, the job counselor who's getting "everybody" jobs, the great new apartment complex, etc. Sometimes I think a simple "everybody except you," would be so much kinder.
written 5-29-05
There's a part of me that understands the Michael Jackson he claims to be. I know that sounds like double talk so let me explain. If he really is an adult who values the company of little people, children I certainly can understand it I am that person too. I come from a family that loves young people. My mother likes babies and I believe my daughter does too. I prefer to have them around when they're walking and trying to talk. I'm very good at interpreting baby talk, if I must say so myself. I'm equally skilled in talking to them, I call myself a baby whisperer. I love to take them somewhere and watch them discover something fun.
I'm thinking about all this now because I talked to my "best friend," Ahmyah today. She's four going on ten. When I ask to speak to her, her mother always laughs while she's handing her the telephone, but we take our conversations seriously. I asked her what she was doing and she replied, "I'm making music." She said it with such confidence, one would think she was directing a string quartet or writing a concerto, but I suspect she might have been banging on a pan when I called. I told her I went to Geoffrey's college graduation last week. Geoffrey is my son and her Godfather. She got very excited and told me that there's a new Geoffrey in her class at school. That's what I like about talking to kids, there's no hidden thoughts and it's usually fairly simple to follow the string of logic.
"Now you know two Geoffrey(s)" I said.
She thought about and said, "no, I know three. Remember Geoffrey the giraffe at my birthday party?"
Of course, Geoffrey the mascot for Toys R Us.
"Was that Geoffrey my uncle Geoff?" She asked.
That Geoffrey's presence has been a source of confusion for her since her birthday in January, this was not the first time she asked this question. I assured her again that Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there. He wouldn't have stayed hidden from her on her birthday if he'd been in town.
"Was it my daddy?" she asked.
This was her way of letting me know that she'd figured out that the giraffe was a person in a suit.
"No, that wasn't your daddy, but he was tall like your daddy, huh?" She agreed and laughed, probably remembering that her daddy was standing right next to her when Geoffrey the giraffe came in. She was pleased that I understood why she asked.
Kids are always happy when you understand them. I asked her when was she planning a visit. She promised me she would come over on Tuesday, which is a good thing because in the past she used to answer Friday. Apparently, she knows another day of the week. I probably won't see her; at four she's not setting her own calendar yet.
I love my weekly telephone chats with Ahmyah. I never have to prod, I know immediately if she's having a good day or something has made her sad. She lets me know what's new since we last spoke. I can understand any sane person wanting to be around little kids. I'll never understand any adult wanting to hurt them. I can understand an adult seeing pure love in a child. I'll never understand an adult seeing sexuality in a youngster.
THE INK IS BLACK
About My Blog
Okay, here I go. . . I started writing my blog long before the word, or even the Internet existed. When I first moved to California, I wrote a proposal for a newspaper column that I was planning. I was tentatively calling it the Prodigal Daughter and offering it to my hometown newspaper, The Flint (Michigan) Journal. It would have been a tale of two cities, a comparison of the home I so throughly missed and my new location, Los Angeles. The exercise would force me, a person not known for my keen observations, to pay attention to my new digs in a constructive way. I was really hyped about it and ran the idea pass my brothers, and others still at home, during my many long distance calls. We all, friends and family alike, grew up in the church. The name Prodigal Daughter was not lost of any of them. What I heard in their deafening, underwhelmed, silence was a lack of interest.
I finally decided if my own peeps weren't interested in my witty repartee what chance did I have of interesting anybody else? I scrapped the project. But that didn't stop me from continuing to mentally write' an almost daily column which would today be called a Blog.
This blog will not be about comparing an old home with a new one--that ship has sailed. This blog will be about a woman who got her first subscription to a writers magazine when she was eleven, soon after she decided to become a writer. (A story I'll tell you later). This blog will be about what she's learned, about the business and the process, in the thirty years after that decision. Okay, forty years after that decision! Sometimes you'll have to dig deep to find out how it all relates to writing, but it will relate because it will be about me or of concern to me and I am a writer, not because somebody has paid me for my written words, but because I define myself that way.
I choose the title THE INK IS BLACK simply because we, African American people, are an important part of this country's history, arts and letters, literature and brain trust no matter how much some would venture to keep us out.
written 5-23-05
Recently, I read an article that described an editor as being a "savvy commercial fiction editor." I never know how to interpret that kind of information because I've often found that the person decribed as "liberal, open, progressive and even innovative" stops short of any of these adjectives when it comes to writings by and about Black or African Americans. I'm narrowing it down to people of color in this country because I've noticed a willingness, albeit slight, to publish blacks from other places.
I decided to test this editor's commercial savvy. I sent him a partial of a novel I represent. It's one of the new "hip hop" or urban novels. I've turned down every other novel in this genre sent to me because I'm limiting my involvement with agenting and I'm not overly fond of the genre, but this one is good. It's very well written and this author would be a good writer in any genre. I've decided to view urban fiction as a genre.
This year we're celebrating our tenth year as a literary agency. I haven't received a boiler plate rejection letter in at least five years. I'm talking about a rejection letter that is an obvious copy, short, signed by "the editors." I usually get personal notes and often suggestions about who to try. This savvy editor was so insulted by my submission he sent me a folded up, badly copied, nondescript, standard rejection.
I don't usually take rejections personally, but this one got me thinking. So often in my life I've heard some good news about a person, place, or thing only to learn later that that person, place or thing wasn't for me and people that look like me. What black person in this country can't remember the first time they realized that all the good will that can overflow from strangers is not often for them or people like them. I've had it appear across such seemly unrelated subjects: the new great hair product, the job counselor who's getting "everybody" jobs, the great new apartment complex, etc. Sometimes I think a simple "everybody except you," would be so much kinder.
written 5-29-05
There's a part of me that understands the Michael Jackson he claims to be. I know that sounds like double talk so let me explain. If he really is an adult who values the company of little people, children I certainly can understand it I am that person too. I come from a family that loves young people. My mother likes babies and I believe my daughter does too. I prefer to have them around when they're walking and trying to talk. I'm very good at interpreting baby talk, if I must say so myself. I'm equally skilled in talking to them, I call myself a baby whisperer. I love to take them somewhere and watch them discover something fun.
I'm thinking about all this now because I talked to my "best friend," Ahmyah today. She's four going on ten. When I ask to speak to her, her mother always laughs while she's handing her the telephone, but we take our conversations seriously. I asked her what she was doing and she replied, "I'm making music." She said it with such confidence, one would think she was directing a string quartet or writing a concerto, but I suspect she might have been banging on a pan when I called. I told her I went to Geoffrey's college graduation last week. Geoffrey is my son and her Godfather. She got very excited and told me that there's a new Geoffrey in her class at school. That's what I like about talking to kids, there's no hidden thoughts and it's usually fairly simple to follow the string of logic.
"Now you know two Geoffrey(s)" I said.
She thought about and said, "no, I know three. Remember Geoffrey the giraffe at my birthday party?"
Of course, Geoffrey the mascot for Toys R Us.
"Was that Geoffrey my uncle Geoff?" She asked.
That Geoffrey's presence has been a source of confusion for her since her birthday in January, this was not the first time she asked this question. I assured her again that Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there. He wouldn't have stayed hidden from her on her birthday if he'd been in town.
"Was it my daddy?" she asked.
This was her way of letting me know that she'd figured out that the giraffe was a person in a suit.
"No, that wasn't your daddy, but he was tall like your daddy, huh?" She agreed and laughed, probably remembering that her daddy was standing right next to her when Geoffrey the giraffe came in. She was pleased that I understood why she asked.
Kids are always happy when you understand them. I asked her when was she planning a visit. She promised me she would come over on Tuesday, which is a good thing because in the past she used to answer Friday. Apparently, she knows another day of the week. I probably won't see her; at four she's not setting her own calendar yet.
I love my weekly telephone chats with Ahmyah. I never have to prod, I know immediately if she's having a good day or something has made her sad. She lets me know what's new since we last spoke. I can understand any sane person wanting to be around little kids. I'll never understand any adult wanting to hurt them. I can understand an adult seeing pure love in a child. I'll never understand an adult seeing sexuality in a youngster.
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