Happy Birthday Big Girl

Today is my oldest daughter’s 11th birthday. Eleven once seemed so grown-up to me, when she was 4 and I could hardly imagine such a mature version of her. But funny as it is I still see my first baby when I look at her. Yes, she is growing in leaps and bounds. Her waist is getting a little smaller, her feet bigger than mine now. But when she has moments of frustration and tears, her lips quiver and tighten exactly the same as when she was 4 months old making it impossible to separate that sweet baby from the young lady who appears before others who know her.

To me she is just my baby. I know the landscape of her face and her heart better than anyone ever will. I thought to myself tonight when I was lying in bed with her talking how I will see her all her life as no one else will. When she one day finds her life companion and has a family of her own, to them she will fulfill a role as close and intimate as the one I have with her, but yet they will never see what I see when I look at her. They will even see her in ways I have not: as a lover or caretaker to others, but they won’t carry with them a sense of who she was before she became who she is now.

The time I have with her is now and I am so grateful that I have had the opportunity to make parenting her; loving her, my number one objective. I cherish the memories we have created and wonder how it would all be different if I worked outside the home. How the mornings would be different if I had to focus on getting myself ready instead of standing at the sink or stove in my pajamas fixing a hot breakfast. Or if I couldn’t drop into their school anytime I felt like it to participate in their activities, bring up dry shoes after a soggy field trip or just have a little lunch with her. Funny, she’s the oldest yet the least embarrassed to have me around her in her social realm. I think about how being focused on them at after school pick-up and having the house prepared for them gives them something comforting to come home to after a long day at shool. Something often cooking in the oven, beds made with an occasional special item on them like new socks or something from Target’s dollar section. I run errands most days covering things such as groceries or picking up kneepads for volleyball. I wonder how our lives would be different if I had to put energy into a job, or worse a career.

Yet great moms do it every day sometimes making me feel “less than” for not seeing myself capable of filling both the role as mother and employee. But as I reflect on my life with my children on their birthdays, so many tiny memories come flooding back to me I know have made all the difference. Perhaps if a childcare provider witnessed 8 hours a day of their little expressions and nuances and me 8 hours less, something would not be quite the same as it is for us. What that something is I cannot say, but I have an intuition it is something. There is a sense with children of 2 working parents that they belong to “everyone.” They assimilate easier into a variety of environments. They fit well into the crowd. They have a strong sense of independence I see less often in children who have a parent one step ahead of them at all times.

But I also see some difference in the mother-child connection. I can’t place my finger on it or even know that it is less desirable, it’s just different somehow. At social settings, working moms and dads seem to struggle more to even out the job-sharing when they are trying to socialize. Looks shoot at each other across the room that beg for relief from the task at hand – a diaper change or getting a plate of food ready. They seem equally tired and unaccustomed to being at the mercy of a demanding child. I know any two parents go through this at parties, but the ability for the stay-home mom to multi-task by sheer virtue of a built tolerance for it makes meeting her children’s needs second nature. It’s what she does. It is her full-time job. And typically a dad who appreciates the amount of time his stay-home wife spends tending to the children’s needs is willing to step up so she can relax for a minute. He is relieved of the pressure most nights after work to “job-share” household duties because it is just done. It’s been getting done all day.

I see great moms fulfilling every role imaginable from career woman to homemaker, this is not to say one mom is better than another. Only a reflection of what I feel has been gained for the amount of time I have had with my children; how that time has added up to something bigger and more important than I could have ever realized. At the time we made the decision that I would quit work to stay home, it was based purely on my desire to solely care for them and the blessing of being able to financially.

Now, as my oldest has just turned eleven, the products of all we have put into the kids are beginning to really show. And you know, part of their character comes from seeing the good, bad and ugly in me too. One of the hardest things to do as a stay-home mom is balancing work and play. The children get on your nerves after a long day. We don’t usually have extra money for expensive recreational fun. When I worked I remember every work day was an objective to pick my child up from the babysitter, get home, eat, bathe and get to bed because I was exhaused. We lived for the weekends. But when I quit work, suddenly life was now.

Happy Birthday Sweetheart. I love what we have built together.

Ugg!

My amost-11-year-old daughter was treated to a shopping trip with my mother-in-law for her birthday this weekend. I hinted to her that “Uggs” are something she has been wanting for three years now. Most of her friends have them and I once did, and she likes them. The fact that they are “Uggs” and very expensive are irrelevant to her beacause each time she has been with me in a store that sold anything resembling them, she asked me to buy them for her. She likes the look and feel of that style.

But I held out knowing her birthday was near, and since my both my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law collect things like Uggs and Coach purses I knew they would be the perfect candidates to buy them for her birthday. And so she did. And my daughter was delighted. She has been wanting them for so long. “Why not?” I ask myself.

Because it goes against my belief that young children should not be encouraged to enter the world of materalism.

But I liked those kinds of things when I was young too, and my parents we not exactly the Ugg-wearing types themselves. Or, more accurately the Liz Claiborne or Polo types. But I liked all that stuff. And occasionally for birthdays and Christmas I would recieve them as gifts. When I turned 14, I got a Friday night job from 5-10p.m. as a hostess in a restaurant a mile from home. Then I could buy my own little luxuries – perfume or a special purse.

But eventually I realized that there would never be enough money to keep up with it all. So I had the purse, but I needed the outfit to go with it. Just one was not enough, I needed one for every day of the week. And what good were nice clothes if your don’t have really nice shoes to go with them? Or a coat? When eventually I got a car there were expenses to go with that so my money needed to be stretched and balanced evern further. I still liked designer things but the reality was that I needed to prioritize my spending. PRIORITIES. What was important? What did I value? What experiences would I be willing to forgo in order to have those things, like concerts or spring break in Florida?

Now that I have a daughter who is entering this phase of childhood I am extremely careful about how we proceed through it. We live in a community where there are many kids who see things like a North Face or Uggs as a right, not a privelage. Their parents would have their children wear nothing other. And there are people I know who really can’t afford to buy expensive wardrobes for their kids and boast about the value sytems they are executing in their own homes, yet soon enough the kids show up with the North face and the Uggs. Peer pressure must have gotten to either the parents to look like capable providers, or the kids who want what their friends have. Or maybe like in the case of myself or a few good friends I know, we get some great hand-me-downs! Yesterday I was unpacking a bag given to me by a friend and feeling really good about the resourcefulness of recycling clothes and that as my daughter watched she was excited to get some fun clothes from her friend who can no longer wear them. Don’t get me wrong – I love to buy my kids new things that are just for them, but in between hand-me-downs are a great supplement. Anyway, as I went through the bag, eventually the Ambercrombie & Fitch came out.

Shit. She recognized it. “Mumma I want some Fitch and Ambercrombie clothes.” I asked her why and she didn’t really know except they looked familiar like some trend happening around that she was not part of. This really made me think for a second. Do I deny the child a right to fit in, to feel good about herself? But I want her to feel good about herself despite what brand-names she wears, not because of them. Then again, is her 11-year-old reasoning sophisticated enough to grasp this concept? To brave the crowd with Old Navy for the rest of her school years to prove that she does not have to “buy” coolness? Do these kids even make the connection between the name and the cost attatched to it? If not, then I suppose we are fostering ignorance for letting them wear it without regard for the monetary value. If they do make the connection then are we simply reinforcing the idea that we should be willing to pay a high dollar for the image we want to present? What is the image? That the little moose embroidered at the bottom is just sooo adorable? When I was young it was Ralph Lauren Polo. Half of us didn’t even know what the hell the guy on the horse was even doing. Is it that the clothes fit a little tighter in just the right spots? The clever sayings on t-shirts suggesting the girl wearing them is a little hottie? WHAT IS IT???? There is a generation gap here that I thought I would never be lost in with my own daughter. I cannot understand why parents do this to their kids and then to all the other kids like mine whose mother is fighting against the degredation of our youth’s sexual morals.

My daughter tells me on the ride home from grandma’s that her 4-year old cousin has Uggs too. During the visit my daughter was told to “respect the Uggs.” My daughter wondered what she meant, for she couldn’t imagine how one would disrespect their nice new shoes they love. “Well, keep them looking nice. Don’t run around getting them dirty or jump in puddles.”

To this I thought, That’s sort of funny. I thought that’s exactly what 4-year-olds were supposed to be doing with a new pair of boots. Not these boots, I guess. These are Uggs. These boots are for looking at, apparently. Freedom lost by the age of 4 in the name of Uggs.

Little Loves

Today’s post is one of sheer gratitude. As I lie in bed reflecting on my day and thinking about all I have to accomplish tomorrow, a sudden feeling of joy came over me. It was like the feeling I get as I fall into bed utterly exhausted on Christmas Eve after a frenzy of gift wrapping, scrubbing up the family for church and delegating deviled eggs and Great Grandma at my mother-in-law’s all evening. A catatonic state of hypertension somehow overshadowed by abounding love for my three children as I imagine their happy faces and excited little bodies in the morning. I know tomorrow isn’t Christmas – in fact it’s just an ordinary old Wednesday, but somehow a feeling of anticipation to see them in the morn crept in amidst my tiredness, just because I miss them while they sleep.

They will wake up slowly, each in their own fashion: My big girl will pull her growing body out of bed herself with little prompting except from her own alarm she set the night before. She likes to be ready for everything, just like her daddy. She takes supreme care of her personal hygiene. She is responsible and self-motivated. She is the object of my admiration.

My little man will be asleep sawing logs when I reach him. He will not respond to wake-up messages or turned-on lights. I may stroke his hair and kiss his cheek, which will elicit little stirrings, but it isn’t until I humor him with corny jokes or paint imagery in his mind of his teacher at that very moment probably eating oatmeal in his underwear, with a booger on the end of his nose and his hair sticking straight up. Sometimes I sing a silly song like: Believe me, Mon, don’t bug a crustacean. Crabs are crabby when they get no sleep! Eventually he wraps himself with Favorite (his blanket) and heads to the bathroom where he will carelessly leave a wet comode for his poor unsuspecting little sister.

Who, will not be in high spirits at this early hour. She is most likely to take all of the morning plus some to completely assimilate into the bustle of her day. She’s my secret favorite to wake up because she is my baby. I can still see reminants of baby features in her face and little arms and hands as she lies tucked in with a stuffed animal secure in her grip held close to her cheek. As I look her over for a minute I swear I can smell the salty, sweaty, old-milky scent that was once so familiar when we shared a bed and slept skin-to-skin all night. We would wake up together in the earliest, quiet part of morning before her big brother and sister joined us for a lively breakfast routine. We snuggled and nursed and devoured every moment of pure and bonding love for each other. Because this memory of infancy is freshest with my last one, the sensory experience is awakened every time I see her sleep.

I kiss her on the cheek and wait for a response. I stole a term of endearment which my good friend has given her own son, and I use it in different variants depending on the response I get. The name is “Chi.” I’m not sure how it came to be for my friend or what the heck it means, but she often referred to him as “Baby Chi” (pronounced chee) For some reason – because it’s so cute I guess, it fits perfectly into my descriptors of my little one’s morning sounds. First I say, “Wake up, Baby-Chi!” “I’m NOT Baby-Chi!,” she protests. If she streches and makes a little squeal I say, “Awe..it’s Squealy-Chi!” When she has drool on her pillow I say, “Look! It’s Drooly-Chi!” This one makes her especially mad. All the Chi’s do because our little buddy is supposed to be the Chi. He’s the baby, not her, she tells me.

And all this happens before 8 a.m. So can you see? I have so much joy in my heart in anticipation of all these little nuances that make my kids who they are, make them mine. They are my little loves and these private moments, moments even daddy does not share, are to me the most beautiful moments of my day.

For me, every morning feels like Christmas. Thank you God, for my family. They are my heart.

Chatting it up with Hobos

Today I had a little conversation with a hobo. Well, he wasn’t exactly a typical hobo; more like a jobless beggar sort. He had a really clever trick: He put both elbows on a parking meter that services about 10 cars. There’s no avoiding that. So knowing we’d have to interact anyway I decided to put a little umpf into it. I said, “Hello there. How are ya today?”

He said he was alright, wondering if I had any spare change. I said, “No, I’m using my card as we speak for that very reason. But I’d surly give you some if I did.”

He said, “I know you would. But thanks anyway. I’m trying to pull some money together for the game tonight.”

Now to that I thought what a novel reason to beg fo rmoney. Who’d admit they were asking random people to pay for them to go and have a good old time? Well this guy did, and I liked it. I liked his honesty. I liked the fact that he steppd a little back when I confidently approached him. This fellow knows something about personal space bubbles. I have been able to smell the breath and count the missing teeth of most beggars before him.

So I began on my way wishing him the best of luck getting that money for his ticket. And I really meant it. I hoped he could find a hapy little place in the middle of this dirty city. And as I walked away for good, I turned back, hit my key remote twice to be sure it locked, and hoped it would be there when I came back to it.

It was, and so was my hobo.

Peacing Out

When things get a little wonky in my energy field, I know the only solution is within myself. Try as I may to validate my feelings, search for sabatours of them, or look at others as the ones with the problem, the truth is my energy is my business and my job to manage.

So I have been balancing my emotional checkbook lately. Getting my zen on. Peacing out. And to be honest, loving myself and feeling secure that all is safe in the world despite what may appear to be happening around me is a comforting feeling, if not a bit dillusional. When I feel insecure about interactions I have with people, I try to remember that my feelings are largely based on my perceptions. I honestly can’t remember the last time somebody actually spoke unkind words to me, yet often I percieve the actions and motives of others to be cruel and unloving.

What goes on in the hearts and heads of the people in my life is not for me to know. It is none of my business. All I can base anything on is what is in my personal experience. What may or may not be intended remains open for debate. It is my choice to allow people into my life, and when I do, it is no longer an option to fall victim to their actions. People can only hurt you when you give them permission to do so.

You don’t like the way you feel around someone? You have two options: (1) Look inside yourself to see what role you are playing in the scheme of things or (2) Exit the relationship. Wracking your brain trying to figure out hidden agendas or having negative feelings toward someone you want in your life are not options. The minute I begin to realize I cannot change people, that I can only change myself is the minute I call in my spiritual troops to assist me in gaining the clarity I need to move beyond negative energy patterns.

It works, but it requires faith. And patience. And almost always a whole lot of personal accountability. But it works. I hope my occasional brushes with these lessons will someday turn into a regular practice. I hope my belief in others will always override my distrust in them. I hope my heart can be open to allow the light and love of others to flow freely rather than keeping it closed to avoid vulnerability. I was once wide open, and ended up getting way more than I bargained for. So I pray that I can balance healthy boundaries with welcoming warmth.

I pray that I can see all the world as working with my goals, never against them. And all those in my life as my advocates, not adversaries.

I have the power to make this my reality. Anyone who has issues with me will have to sort that out with themselves. It’s none of my business. I am not responsible for anyone’s perceptions, only my own!

Sometimes the Two Shall Meet

It’s nine-thirty. A.m. that is. I wake up to the smell of waffles wafting through the air. The kids are stirring downstairs with daddy as he makes them breakfast. He wakes up early on the weekends and goes to the store to buy them fresh strawberries and whipped cream for their special weekend breakfast. He does this almost every week, unless he takes them to the bagel shop.

I am not an early bird, I am a night owl. So is my son. He hopped from his bed to mine at nine this morning for a little bit of snuggle time with mom. This is our family’s routine: The girls and dad get up and hang while my son and I hide from them under the covers. He from his sisters, me from the daylight. We stay up late reading and putzing around. He strums his guitar, draws, reads and does a lot of thinking. I can tell he enjoys when things are quiet around him. He is a very focused child but can find himself aggitated when his concentration is broken by the clamor of a busy household. I am a lot that way too. I like to think in quiet. I do this in the morning before I see my brood, and in the evening when they are sleeping.

I am just not a morning person, that’s the facts. I can get up early, but when I don’t have to I usually don’t. I guess it’s the way some people are wired. But I’m thankful my hubs isn’t wired the same. My kids would either have to fend for themselves on the weekends or have crabby parents to greet them! As small of a thing it is, this little truth is a testimony to why kids need TWO parents in a home. Kids get the benefit of two working together to balance each other’s strengths and weaknesses. When I’m crabby or maxed-out, I can get a reprieve. When my husband needs to get to bed early after a 14 hour day of work, I can afford him some solitude as I read with the children and tuck them in.

We have a pretty good thing going. I’s not always peachy over here. We get on each other’s nerves and disagree. We have moments of impatience. But we are a team. Daddy goes to work and I stay home and when we come together we job-share. I am grateful my husband has been able to earn enough so that I don’t have to work to supplement our household income, and I don’t need him to play house-husband because the task of managing our home and children is overwhelming. We have found the strength within ourselves to succeed in our daily realms as difficult as it can be at times. If I worked a little outside the home and he a little less, I’m not sure the outcome would be the same. I’d have excuses not to manage the deatails of the house and kids and he’d have excuses not to go the extra mile at work that has thus far rewarded him with career growth and an impeccable reputation at the company for which he works.

I don’t think raising children through teamwork has to mean co-dependency (you wash, I dry…). For us, teamwork is about mustering up the strength to be independent enough to carry the load while your partner is taking care of other business.

Like snuggling under the covers at 9:3o a.m.

Role Models, Heros and Idols

When I was writing yesterday’s post I was trying to convey with words an aspect of my ten-year-old daughter’s character. After doing some thinking I realized that her complete inattention to popular culture (Miley Cyrus/Jonas Brothers/Hannah Montana, etc.) in particular is more telling to me about what she values than simply what she prefers. There are other young musical artists she is fond of, such as country, but I have noticed not for their image – for the young-minded lyrics in their songs. Songs about girls who “don’t need a boyfriend ‘cuz they’ve got their girlfriends” or prefer flip-flops over high heels. I think to myself, “Wow.”

My 7-year-old on the other hand is a whole different story. She knows all the lyrics to songs about break-ups, teenage dating mind-games, love forlorn, and anything that tells a story about how to party like a rockstar.

So understand I realize this has nothing to do with my thinking I have the corner market on how to curb this Disney Channel tween mania. My youngest has hearts in her eyes for Nick Jonas’s curls, my oldest is concerned about youth diabetes. These differences between my girls are comforting and disturbing all at once. I wonder what this will mean in the long run when they search themselves for what they stand for and believe in when no one is watching. When there is no posse of friends there to assimilate with, or validate them. Because this is what pop culture is really all about, isn’t it? The popular choice of the majority.

My grandparents talked about their youth with the emphasis being on role models. For my grandma it was her daddy. She revered that man with awe for the work he did for the love of his family. The things he took the time to teach her. The impact he had on the person she would become in the likeness of someone she admired and respected for his values and morals.

The next couple of generations took it up a notch with the visual excitement “heros” brought right into living rooms with television. Cowboys and Indians, Cops and robbers. Good guy/bad guy stuff. But even then at least there was present the concept of serving and protecting in the name of the law. I’m not sure how I feel about the Indians being the bad guys when all the while Cowboys were actually the Robbers, but that is for another post. The point is, the hero signified a call for justice. This concept reached it’s zentith with the ultimate hero of all: the Super Hero. These men and women (usually men, of course) were pulling out the big guns with webs shooting from wrists, flying capes and super sonic everything. This sent kids reeling with the dilusion that maybe, just maybe, they too have some immortal aspect that could save their asses in times of need. A comforting thought for anyone, really.

Now our kids have idols. But what is it they are idolizing? American Idol? Eminem? The fantastic musical stylings of Miley Cyrus? This is what they give their time and money to? You’ve got to be kidding. And we are the idiots going along with it as we buy the crap at Target to feed this insanity. The dolls, the clothes, the folders and notebooks.

My only thoughts here are that I’m sad for this shift in American culture. I am sad that we are in the economic and moral shape we are in today. Something has got to change, and it has to begin with our kids. But all they know is the world they live in.

I guess it’s up to us to make it a place where role models are cooler than idols.

My Girl

As I watch my beautiful daughter begin to mature I am amazed at who she is becoming far more than what she is. I used to look her over in fascination of her long, slender body and fair complexion. She has an unusually long neck which gives her a very feminine quality. Her eyebrows are light and barely noticable in pictures. Her skin is porcelain white in hidden places, freckled cheeks and nose. She has rosebud lips that look as though they were drawn into the shape of a heart. Sweet, button nose and the tiniest ears.

I used to marvel at this creature I’ve created for how completely opposite she looked from me. I have very dark hair and prominant features. I am petite in the way she is tall. From the day I met her, this little girl was like a doll handed to me rather than pulled from my body as part of me. People do say they see a resemblance, in our eyes. Most people actually think it’s our mannerisms. People who know me well see it more, people who don’t say she looks just like her daddy.

But all this hype over what she looks like is becoming overshadowed by who she is. Her personality makes a bigger statement than the contrast of her hair color to her mama’s. She has her own thing going on. She’s the kid with an obvious passion. And she’s a salt of the earth kind of girl. No frills, just the real thing. She doesn’t idolize anyone because she is too busy loving her animals. Maybe she’s idolizing nature in a way. I guess that’s a way to look at it. Yesterday, a friend of our family said to me about her that when you connect with animals, you “see all the world as beautiful.” She is an elderly woman from Cuba who seems to convey the most poignant messages from her seldom spoken broken English.

And she’s right. Perhaps my daughter’s gift for connecting with animals will heal her heart when the humans break it. Maybe she will watch the world’s eco-system more closely. Maybe she will have a knack for hearing the unspoken words of those close to her the way she relies on this instinct with her pets. I think all this and more will be her fate in life.

She has a whole lot of integrity for a girl of 10. A true blue friend, an honest person and prideful of herself and her work. Anything that bears her name will be put forth in earnest.

And I love her. I am so very proud of her. I admire the character she has even more than the beautiful child I see on the outside. She was my most difficult baby and toddler. She challenged me on everything. She was so hard to please. But now I get it. I understand her little soul in a way I couldn’t when she was 2. I’m not a perfect mom and I know my firstborn has had to pave the way for the ones who came after, but I am so glad I was able to not work and stay close to her everyday. This was the only way I could reinforce our family code of conduct while simultaneously giving her room to explore her world around her. I was able to give her structure without breaking her spirit. Without me, she would have been unruly. Or maybe stifled in some way. I don’t quite know what the outcome would have been, but I know this:

She is 100% herself. She is entirely guided by her internal voice. I watched her bathe her dog today and carry her bird around everywhere she went with so much joy. And I thought back on when she was 2 and playing “doggie” with all her friends. And at 3. And by 4 my mom asked me when she was going to grow out of “playing doggie.” She never really did. We played with her, we drank out of bowls, we had silly names, we walked each other on leashes. I know it sounds weird, but it was her favorite thing in the whole wide world. And when she was 5, Santa brought her a puppy. That was the day her heart cracked wide open.

And it has never been closed since.

Poop

Poop. He has been daring me to write “poop” in my blog. Although this is not the direction I want this blog to go in, I feel obligated to grant my son’s wishes whenever I can. And with a request as simple as poop, who could deny?

So my love, this one’s for you. The Poop Post. But this is as far as I’m going. Any details about last night’s bathroom festivities are off-limits at the Sass Box. You want to get into that, you’ll have to get your own blog.

When you’re 18.

Stereotypes and Bigotry

This is gonna hurt a little, in a politically incorrect kind of way. But I can’t help it because I don’t understand it completely. I just can’t sort it all out. I feel as though I am making that critical shift from thinking my parents are ignorant to experiencing firsthand a condition that caused a whole bunch of really bad stuff to happen in their generation; stuff I had always blamed their ignorance on.

I think I’m beginning to feel the first itches of white flight. Now I say it isn’t so, that I embrace diversity, but I gotta tell ya: the diversity around here is dragging me down along with the moral standards of my community.

There. I said it. I don’t like what I generally see in groups of African Americans in public here. At the library they act a fool. At the fireworks they act a fool. In the grocery store, they’re all up acting a fool. The fact that their junk is hanging out all over bugs me too, but I think that’s only because they have more junk than most white people. I actually see plenty of white chicks with a lot of junk hanging out too, it’s just that their junk doesn’t seem as “in-yo-face.”

So I’m trying to figure out if it is in my head or actually what is happening. Am I just afraid of what I do not know? I took a multicultural education class at the university that taught us all about the social tendencies of different cultures; like how hispanics talk a lot, African Americans speak loudly and move their bodies a lot and Asian people are quiet and don’t look you in the eye. This class didn’t get heavy into ebonics or gang signs, but we did learn what a Redbone was.

But still, it was enlightening. And being at a Detroit university for the past five years has schooled me more on cultural diversity than my neighborhood has. For that I am grateful. I have been in school with classier, more beautiful and brighter African Americans than any whites I know. So this tells me my latest findings here are more about socio-econimic issues than skin color.

But how do you separate this in your head? How do you not stereotype when it is obvious and all up in your grill everytime you turn your head? They move in groups and it feels scarey to a vulnerable white woman with three small kids.

But in my mind I know better and in my heart I care about them. I care about their lives as much as I care about mine. I am not, however, willing to give up mine to improve theirs.

I am not willing to be the sacrificial lamb that pays for all my ancestors’ bad karma. I have my own struggles in life to work through. But back to the white flight issue.

I feel threatened here in my own home. We live close to the border of Detroit and unfortunately we feel the negative impact of that through our local crime rates. There was a recent violent crime involving white teenagers being robbed by black ones.

This pisses me off. I am done feeling sorry. If embracing diversity means living in danger and raising my kids around over-sexed, foul-mouthed pigs, then fuck diversity.

That is the most crude thing I have ever said and I am not a racist. I am not an elitist. Shit, I’m not even a Republican. But I have standards and if embracing diversity means lowering them than I’m out.

How about this: Instead of “advantaged” white people being expected to embrace diversity by tolerating bullshit behavior to spare themselves the title of racist, why don’t the minorities quit punishing the decent white people who would welcome them as a neighbor and a friend as long as they don’t sell drugs in the alley, wage gang warfare and rape our daughters? I they want to be integrated, than play by the rules. Because that’s what this is supposed to be about, right? Their “exclusion” in society? Their dream to be equal.

Then rise up folks. Don’t bully your way in. Put a little intellectual muscle behind your goals. I understand that being born in a ghetto is a shitty start in life. But your ending is up to you, and you know it.

I love where I live. And I would love to have you for a neighbor. But please don’t do immoral things because you feel justified.

Mama taught you better than that.