Pride. And Shame.

Back when I was in second grade, I remember thinking I could be President of the United States. Our teacher, Mrs. Solomon, traced our profiles in silhouette for us on black construction paper. We then wrote out short essays on what we wanted to be when we grew up. At the time, my heroes were Martin Luther King and Abraham Lincoln; I wrote in wobbly pencil that I wanted to be “a poet and a vet and President of the United States” and glued it to my profile.

I remember showing this work to my father, who assured me that yes, I most certainly could be POTUS one day.  Why did he leave India and come to this country with his battered suitcase of ragged underwear, if not for that very reason? My mother kept the silhouette essay, along with every other artifact from my past, in an overstuffed file folder in the study, and as time passed, I forgot about it – and my overreaching, unrealistic ambition – entirely.

Until yesterday, when America elected Barack Obama as our 44th President.

I couldn’t be prouder to be an American citizen than I am today. For eight years, I have cringed at the incessant flag-waving and accusations of anti-patriotism and crazy people in souped-up pick-up trucks with decals of Calvin pissing on everything in sight and licenses to hunt terrorists. Now, for the first time in ages, I can wave a flag along with the rest of my fellow citizens in honor of life as an American and a citizen of the world. I can imagine children of all colors looking at this man – this dignified, proud, hopeful, intelligent, articulate, uplifting new leader of ours – and seeing the possibility that they too, can rise above and beyond.

And then there’s the pure unadulterated shame of being Alaskan. Oh, we’re independent, all right. We won’t vote for a black man, but we sure as hell don’t mind voting for a old white crook. Because right now, Senator Ted Stevens, our erstwhile I’m-Not-A-Convicted-Felon-Until-I’m-Sentenced Senator, is actually leading the race against our current Democratic mayor, Mark Begich. Right now, Congressman-in-Perpetuity Don Young has apparently defeated Ethan Berkowitz and will serve his NINETEENTH term in the U.S. House of Representatives. And right now, the prodigal daughter “Just Shut Up” Sarah Palin, cleared of ethics violations, is on her way home, where she will no doubt be welcomed with cheers and sympathy.

Yes, Alaskans have spoken loudly – as loudly as it’s possible to speak with your head wedged up your backside, anyway. Never mind that some of us are hoping “Convicted Felon International Airport” will convey a certain edgy cachet to our summer visitors.  Never mind how we are going to have to try, once again, to convince friends and families Outside that Alaska is not actually a national holding colony for the lunatic fringe. Never mind that the entire world thinks we are a bunch of ignorant louts, hicks and morons, and rightly so. We had a chance to do what the rest of the country did – clean house – and instead, we chose to continue rolling in the dirt.  Behind the guns, Carharrts and duct tape, we’re not independent at all; we’re as dependent as it gets, clinging desperately to the corrupt old geezers that keep us in pork.

I used to tell people Alaska was different.  Sure, people are a little odd and rough around the edges, but there’s a good clean romantic wholesomeness about it that the rest of America could use. Well, not any more. The Last Frontier? More like the Last Front. Turns out we’re not so different at all when it comes to greed, handouts, and big-level corruption. If anything, we’ve set a new standard for denial and self-deceit. And with a little funding, we can even dress ourselves up at fancy department stores so you can’t even tell us from the rest of you.

To vote in some real change here in Alaska – now THAT would be some independent thinking.  Looks like once again the rest of the country is way ahead of us.

A place in Hell.

There is a place in Hell for women who do not help other women. – Madeline Albright

I thought I’d read just about every angle on the Presidential campaign, but apparently I missed this one:

Hillary Clinton Forum

Yes, here at last is that Mysterious Island of Pissed-Off Women that I didn’t think really existed: the liberal female voters so completely consumed with rage at the Democratic failure to nominate Hillary for President that THEY ARE VOTING REPUBLICAN TO SUPPORT SARAH PALIN.

For the first time in my life, I’m truly ashamed of my sister Vaginal-Americans.

Consider some of the hateful anger against Obama and the Democrats spewed on the Hillary Clinton forum when Sarah Palin was chosen (and this is a representative, if not underrepresentative, sampling of the posts there):

Buuuuurn Obama Buuuurn! What a slap in the face. If it’s Palin, I will put blood and sweat into campaigning for that team.

I am THRILLED if this is true. It will make it easier for me to vote McCain (which I would have done anyway). Now I’m excited! It’s not Hillary (she’ll be President in ’12)…. but it’s exciting none the less!

McCain has picked PALIN!!! I am THRILLED! AS for the Dums whining that she doens’t have experience running things–SHE HAS FIVE KIDS!! TRUST ME! SHE KNOWS HOW TO RUN THINGS! GOD BLESS MCCAIN/PALIN!!!

now you know I will be backing my girl. I admire Sarah and I think it is toooo cool that we were born the same year.

Well this lifelong Democrat is most certainly advocating a Republican vote!!!!

A woman VP is VERY exciting and it makes me advocate a Republican vote even more since Obama refused to allow the Democratic party, especially the women, the opportunity to make this history!!! Obama’s actions should be taken as absolute proof that he is a woman hater. Never did come to terms with all those unresolved abandonment issues.

Talk about cutting the baby in half and then throwing it out with the bathwater. Here’s a group of women so furious that they are willing to sell out all of their own – and their preferred candidate’s – hard-fought visions and ideals in order to vote for someone with the right working parts between her legs. How is supporting a woman who does not support women “supporting women”? If the cognitive dissonance doesn’t cause your brain to implode, the irony is enough to knock you senseless. As my father would say, “Grow up.” These comments – “my girl Sarah”? – sound like jilted vengeful prom dates, not adult women with their faculties intact.

Before anyone claws my eyes out, let me say that I have some solid feminist credentials. Went to a women’s college, marched a whole lot, read (and can still quote) Mary Daly. I still have my 20-something year old T-shirt from my college’s 100th anniversary celebration that proudly proclaimed us “100 years of castrating bitches.” I understand disenfranchised and disaffected and just plain dissed.

Believe me, I would love nothing more than to see Senator Clinton or another intelligent, educated, competent woman elected into office. But not just any woman, and certainly not an ultra-conservative right-wing Republican woman who will set women’s rights back at least 50 years if, say, she has the chance to appoint a Supreme Court justice.

Send me straight to Hell now, but how is changing your vote from Hillary to Sarah any different than saying that I am randomly interchangeable with Jhumpa Lahiri, Pulitzer-prize winning Indian woman writer? That would be offensive (at least to Ms. Lahiri) and, I think most would agree, racist.

Similarly, it’s not ONLY offensive, it’s just plain sexist to claim that any white woman politician, let alone a right-wing Republican, can be substituted for Hillary Clinton with equal effect. That’s right, you crossover Hillary voters. YOU. ARE. SEXIST.

I’m going to hazard a guess that most of these women are white, because otherwise, they would understand that identity stems from many sources. I’m a working woman, but I’m also a minority. Throw in Alaskan, environmentalist, pro-choice, liberal, and you have an amalgam of issues, all of which are important and complex and intertwined. I’m not going to vote to support a crazy old ultra-conservative and his nutty sidekick just because she’s female, any more than I’m going to vote for a jerk like Dinesh D’Souza just because he’s Indian.

There’s still a lot of people out there who subscribe to the notion that women are too emotional to think rationally in a time of crisis. Sadly, some women really are.

White privilege.

I did not write this, but I sure wish I had.

This is Your Nation on White Privilege
Sep 13, 2008 By Tim Wise

For those who still can’t grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

* White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because “every family has challenges,” even as black and Latino families with similar “challenges” are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

* White privilege is when you can call yourself a “fuckin’ redneck,” like Bristol Palin’s boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you’ll “kick their fuckin’ ass,” and talk about how you like to “shoot shit” for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

* White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

* White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don’t all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you’re “untested.”

* White privilege is being able to say that you support the words “under God” in the pledge of allegiance because “if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it’s good enough for me,” and not be immediately disqualified from holding office–since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the “under God” part wasn’t added until the 1950s–while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

* White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you. White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was “Alaska first,” and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you’re black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she’s being disrespectful.

* White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do–like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor–and people think you’re being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college–you’re somehow being mean, or even sexist.

* White privilege is being able to convince white women who don’t even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a “second look.”

* White privilege is being able to fire people who didn’t support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

* White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God’s punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you’re just a good church-going Christian, but if you’re black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you’re an extremist who probably hates America.

* White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a “trick question,” while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O’Reilly means you’re dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

* White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it, a “light” burden.

* And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren’t sure about that whole “change” thing. Ya know, it’s just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

Tim Wise is the author of White Like Me (Soft Skull, 2005, revised 2008), and of Speaking Treason Fluently, publishing this month, also by Soft Skull.

And the dish ran away with the spoon.

The Bug and I went to the state fair again on Monday, lured by thoughts of sampling more fair food (me) and riding the little roller coaster (him). This time we went with some friends and their children, which made my life a lot easier, since the Bug is at that in-between height where he is tall enough to go on the rides but not always willing to go by himself.

So after hundreds of trips through the Indiana Jones maze and other delights, the Bug wanted ice cream and everyone else wanted cream puffs. We split up on our separate quests, agreeing to meet back at a designated spot in a few minutes. The Bug and then I walked to all the way to the other end of the fair before he informed me that he now wanted the “curly” ice cream, meaning the soft-serve swirly cone, back where we had started out. After a suitable meltdown on my part, we wound our way back to the swirly cone booth and got a towering cone of chocolate ice cream. Oh yeah, and I got a funnel cake with chocolate sauce. And no napkins, because being at the fair makes you stupid.

As we wove through the masses of fair-goers to get to our meeting place, I worried that I would lose the Bug in the crowd. I shouldn’t have bothered; the throngs opened before him like he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Never underestimate the power of a 4 year old carrying a massive quantity of chocolate ice cream at adult crotch level.

Finally we got to the bench, and at that point I turned around to look at the Bug. He was carrying his cone aloft like the Olympic torch, and the whole thing was melting down his arm in a “see, global warming is real” kind of way. And did I mention, I had no napkins?

“Here, give it to me,” I snapped. “I’ll put some of the ice cream on my plate.” The problem was, I had no way to do that, short of poking it off the cone with my fingers, or turning it upsidedown, and then how would the Bug eat it before it turned to soup? I was cursing under my breath when I noticed the elderly lady sitting at the other end of the bench. She was small with wrinkled brown skin, and she smiled at me gently.

“I think I have just what you need,” she said, and from her pocket she produced a white plastic spoon. My jaw must have dropped, because she added, “It’s clean, I just picked it up at a booth. I don’t know why I did that – I didn’t even need it.”

I thanked her profusely, gushing like an idiot, “You must have been sent from heaven!”

“It IS funny,” she told me. “I was just sitting here asking God what he wanted of me today.”

Oh, great, I thought. Here it comes, the witnessing or the Bible-thumping or whatever nutty message I was going to be forced to endure. Hellfire and brimstone: it happens to me all the time. Even a plastic spoon can’t come without strings attached when you look like are a heathen.

“He told me it was all in the little things,” she continued. “And then along you came with your little one. Now I’ll have something to testify about in church. Thank you!”

And that was all she said.

I thought about her words, and especially her thank you, as I transferred the ice cream onto my plate and handed the Bug the Heavenly Plastic Spoon. Why should I be so quick to be crabby about something that obviously made a sweet elderly woman feel happy and fulfilled? And if there is a God, why shouldn’t He or She take the time to save me from a melting ice cream disaster? Or maybe the whole thing wasn’t really about me and my anti-religion issues at all; after all, we, with our gooey mess and desperate need, had made her day as much as she had made ours.

Like the Grinch, I felt my curmudgeonly little heart grow three sizes that day. I don’t know if God sent that spoon or that woman or what the heck it was all about, but sometimes a moment of genuine human contact has a touch of the divine.

Too bad God didn’t remind her about the napkins.

Oh, come on.

My cousin Adu got married a few years back, and I went to his wedding. You know those nice Indian families who speak in moderated tones, partake sparingly of alcoholic beverages, and always look presentable in public? Well, our family is NOT one of those families. Yes, we’re all lawyers, doctors, and business school graduates, but those are just facades. When it comes to weddings, we’re the Indian family that gets drunk and orders pepperoni pizza in the hotel lobby, then pukes violently in the potted plants.

Added to our lack of breeding is the fact that along with my brother, six of my cousins are male and all around the same age, at that time in their 20s, and have the collective good sense of teenaged rhinos in heat. Thus, it seemed inevitable that some shit would go down at Ad’s wedding, especially since he had the good taste to marry a girl from one of those OTHER families. At their garba – a traditional pre-wedding dance involving hand-held sticks – our family, exhuberant and poorly coordinated, was knocking her poor gentle relatives down like dominoes. “LEAVE SPACE!” my cousin Shala roared as she cleaved a path through our shocked, sticklike soon-to-be in-laws.

Though we were all Indian, we were clearly from two different cultures. I knew we were in trouble when another cousin, Swa, and I went to Macy’s to get wedding gifts. Both the bride and groom work on Wall Street, and their choices run accordingly. Looking at the registry, I had a hard time finding anything that cost less than what I make in a week. We finally found a Calvin Klein sheet set (grey silk spun by worms hand-fed by mute lovely virgins) that we thought we could just afford, if we both pitched in. “We’ll take this sheet set for $250,” I told the saleslady.

She gave us a withering look. “That’s $250 for the pillowcases,” she said coldly.

Swa and I looked at each other, silently weighing the tackiness factor of giving someone a single pillowcase for a wedding gift.

“I’ll think I’ll get a gift certificate,” I finally stuttered.

The wedding itself was beautiful. It was held at a hotel outside of New York, and by evening it looked like we might escape this wedding shameful-incident-free. My sister and I, exhausted, finally headed up to bed around midnight, and the boys took off for the bar.

This is where the facts get blurry. Apparently the guys went up to the bar to order drinks, leaving Swa’s wife alone at the table. According to her, a drunken guy with an accent – Latino, maybe – approached her and asked if she was alone. No, she told him, I’m here with my husband.

“Too bad,” he responded, leering, “because I’d really like to come on your face.” And off he stumbled.

My sister-in-law sat there open-mouthed, and when the boys returned to the table, she told them what had transpired. Naturally, they were outraged, most of all my cousin – we’ll call him P. Diddy – who has been full of piping-hot testosterone since the age of 6 months. They were all for hunting down the perp, but eventually calmed down.

Then P. Diddy went off to the restroom, and who should he stumble into but Mr. Indecent Proposal himself. Fuming, P. Diddy grabbed the badmash by the throat and slammed him into the wall. “HOW ABOUT IF I COME ON YOUR FACE?” he hollered. The rest of the gang came running, and soon there was a regular Hindi-movie-style tamasha, lacking only the cheesy soundtrack to make it complete.

Our heroes returned victorious to the bar to celebrate, but in true Hindi movie style, the villain was not yet defeated. He returned to the bar with a friend and pulled out a knife. The insults flew, my cousin Teja threw a barstool, and the bartender called the police. The cops quickly assessed the situation – three hundred Indian wedding guests vs. two poor saps from the Bronx – and chucked out the bad guys once and for all.

We more timid types heard this story the next morning, circulated in whispers at first and then more boldly. The aunties clucked in horrified shame, while the uncles secretly rejoiced at their sons’ sister-protecting instincts. I, however, had my doubts.

“Why would he say something like that?” I asked my brother. “I mean, who uses an expression like “come on your face?” Maybe, I suggested, just maybe, he had said something else? I mean, everyone was drunk, we’ve got an Indian immigrant talking to a Latino immigrant… Is it possible he said something like “I was going to come on to you”, an expression that someone recently arrived in America just might not understand?

The blood drained out of my brother’s face. “Oh my GOD,” he said. “We just beat the crap out of an innocent man.”

Not only that, I said, but think of it from his perspective. One minute he’s zipping up, and the next minute, a group of Indian men in suits and ties is all over him. With P. Diddy wanting to COME ON HIS FACE, what could he have thought but that he was under attack by a group of homicidal gay desis?

And further, I said, if that is in fact what happened, then how, in the name of all that is sweet and innocent, did our sister-in-law even know the expression “come on your face”?

And that, my friends, is a blog for tomorrow.