Uncivilized? How about unacceptable? Inappropriate? Unbelievable?

I saw this ad last night, posted by a friend (Kya!), and my first reaction was a very calm and sad “ohmygod”. The truth is, I was in disbelief. I wasn’t shocked by the actual picture so much as I was by how many times something went wrong in the process that it took for this picture to get to me. Someone thought of the ad, someone posed for the ad, someone created the image, someone came up with the message, someone worded the message, someone approved the ad, someone sent the ad to print, someone agreed to publish the ad, and all the while, a lot of people stood by and saw nothing wrong with any of it at all.

Admittedly, I have no idea exactly what the process I described above is actually like. What I do know is that for any publication, it takes more than one, and this ad was not the product of one person’s work, it took many participants and bystanders. How is it possible that among however many people involved with this project, no one rang the alarm?

I’ve read a few other blog posts about this and discussed it with a few friends. A frequent reaction seems to be “What if this was a white man? A white man with a bandana and long hair? A redneck? No one would be making a big deal”. I have to LOL at such comments because they are so closely linked to the ridiculous perceptions of post-racialists who think that race is no longer a worrisome factor in our society.

If it was a white man, this image would not be reinforcing the same derogatory perceptions of black natural beauty and of this beauty being everything except “civilized”.  This image would not be telling me, a white woman, that a black man walking down the street who embraces his natural hair and has an afro is uncivilized. This image would not be rooted in such a depressing history of oppression. If it was a white man, someone might find it insensitive. But it is a black man, and race makes a world of difference in the messages we relay in media. Because it is a black man, it is not just insensitive, it is unacceptable, inappropriate, unbelievable.

It is unbelievable that no one caught the implications of such an image, unbelievable that no one thought of the little afro-cladded boys who will look at this image and see themselves being tossed away for their “incivility”. It is unbelievable that no one thought. What’s next Nivea, an ad sporting a black woman with relaxed hair as she tosses away her uncivilized pre-perm head? Would there be nothing wrong with that either? Would anyone ring the alarm then?

I wonder when everyone will start paying attention to the world around them and the work that they are involved with. You should be just as aware of the conditions of our society no matter what field you’re in…from a classroom in the South Bronx to downtown skyscrapers where the big money makers do their work. Let’s pay attention and understand the implications of our work. Our time is so valuable, let’s do something we can be proud of.

I’m sincerely sorry for the people involved in producing this ad. I would hate to be on that side of this mess. I would hate to realize that I didn’t think and there was no one around me who was thinking either.

& I will miss spending simple days with him.

A few Saturdays ago, I took my brother to Central Park for the day. We went to the Boathouse, rented a rowboat, and off we went, facing each other, me giggling and rowing and Fatlind holding on to the sides of the boat, stiff and completely convinced we would tip over.

Fatlind on the rowboat!

It took about 10 minutes for Fatlind to realize that we wouldn’t tip over unless we were absolutely determined to. I watched his face transform from an expression of fear and nervousness to one of comfort and delight. I rowed patiently and slowly and he sat there, looking around, thinking of things to say, and then blurting them out in his usual over-excited/too-loud manner of saying things.

We spent an hour and a half rowing, appreciating the peaking city skyline beyond the Central Park trees as only New Yorkers can appreciate such a mix of environments. Eventually, Fatlind took over the paddles for a while and demonstrated that he too could row and “take care of me” as I took care of him. We munched on trail mix and bananas and I said “Stay hydrated” about 100 times and Fatlind, knowing me all too well, placed my Blackberry safely back into my backpack about 10 times after I had carelessly flung it without a care. It was all perfect.

The favorite family fruit and Bananagrams.

After rowboating and an unexpected explanation of what “vaginosis” is—(a condition deriving from “being the P word”, according to Fatlind -__-), we walked a while to find a place where we could play. My brother had brought along his soccer ball and his football and I had brought along Bananagrams with hopes of weaving in some educational activity into the day.

After we ruled out playing catch because I realized that my post-surgery eye can’t follow the ball in its trajectory, we moved on to soccer. We kicked the ball back and forth a while then Fatlind waved me over, as if to say “Come show me what you got”. The 12 year old broke out into his ball handling moves and as I approached him, the ball went every which way except for my way and I reduced the game to a game of tag—me running away with the ball because running is all I am athletically capable of.

Fatlind became instantly excited and engaged. For two hours, we went from laying down under a tree to kicking the ball and chasing each other, and when I looked at him, he was happy doing just these simple things with me. And that’s when it happened—that’s when I realized for the first time in my life that one day, a day at the park with me won’t be as appealing as a day at the movies with someone else, or a day anywhere with anyone other than me, for that matter. I’ve celebrated my brother’s birthdays in the form of a countdown all of his life: __ number of years till he’s 18. I’ve celebrated his growth, his trek towards independence and away from the same vulnerabilities of childhood that kept me inside of my head all of my life and now manage to keep me too tightly attached to his hip even when I’m hundreds of miles away. 

I’ve realized that, as much as I cannot wait for him to be a man, I will miss spending simple days with him, listening to his stories and embarrassing him with my public display of affection. I will miss sitting in front of him in the face of challenges and seeing the transformation of his face from fear and nervousness to one of comfort and delight. For the first time in the last 12 years, his inevitable growth feels bittersweet. I will love Fatlind, the man, but I will miss Fatlind, the boy.          

Williamsburg Bridge: An existence in time and space, and the circumstances of our city as a whole.

Brooklyn --> Manhattan.

There's a game I like to play in my thoughts whenever I encounter something I appreciate, and well also, something I don't appreciate. It consists of questions like the following: Who decides that this is _______? Possible fill-ins for the blank are: acceptable, beautiful, ugly, intellectually stimulating, common sense, not common sense...you get the idea.

The last time I played this game, I was walking over the Williamsburg Bridge, heading into Brooklyn. A group of three just ahead of me was discussing how much of a shame it is that people "vandalize" the bridge with their sad excuses for art and "gang graffiti". I looked at them and thought how much of a shame it was that in all their existent physical glory, they seemed so one dimensional..

The touristy thing to do. .

Sad excuses for art. Well, who decides what art is? Dead white people who we've never met and are just familiar over-referenced names people break out for the effect of seeming cultured? People who walk around and fill my ears with metaphorical bullshit of the simplest things because the way I already perceive things just isn't poetic enough, artsy enough, risky enough? Who decided that the bridge had ever been vandalized? I smiled at this question in my head because I knew that just an hour ago, I had walked across the bridge into Manhattan and had made numerous stops to take pictures and admire the "sad excuses for art" along the way.

I thought of these gang relations they spoke of that not all graffiti artists are a part of, and vandalism of private property that is hateful, disrespectful, and just rude, and I thought of how much the art on the bridge seemed nothing of that sort. Without these pieces of art, no one would stop, no one would look. The bridge would be a simple means to an end--a method of crossing the East River without having to swim through it or get yourself a boat. I envisioned the bridge without art--the bridge would be boring--naked--a tasteless lifeless structure of monotony most busy during rush hours as people droop along the way, head bent forward, shoulders slouched, another segment of a daily monotonous routine.

Art on the ground.

Is that what this group of people preferred? Did they even think about what the bridge would be if it wasn't so "vandalized"? Did they even look at the sad excuses for art beyond the judgmental conclusions they had immediately drawn? I can stand people not agreeing with me about what art is--I obviously don't agree with many others on the topic either. What I can't stand is the judgments, the references to gang violence, low-class culture, low-life hoodlums, or "those kinds of people"--as this trio put it. From what I could tell, the art on the bridge said nothing about any one individual's culture capital or economic status. Rather, it said a lot about their existence in time and space and the circumstances of our city as a whole.

So, did these people see what was there? Voices? Expressions? Messages? Inspirations? Cries? Tributes? Memories? Why weren't they looking? Would they have made the same judgments had they really payed attention? Why did they decide this was not _____art_____? Or maybe more importantly, who did they let decide for them that this was not _____art_____?   

Manhattan --> Brooklyn.

What people like us are capable of.

I went to a Teach For America panel last week to speak to its newest corps members about my experience in the public schools of New York. I found one panel question very interesting, simply for the fact that I rarely think about it.

Fatlind and I, June 2011.

One soon-to-be teacher asked the panel of three students--"What inspires you?" I answered first and realized that my response was automatic--"Well, my brother inspires me. He's 12 years old and he's amazing." I thought about this question long after the panel had ended and I was back in Brooklyn, taking in the Manhattan skyline from the balcony as I ate leftovers for dinner.
I realized that my statement was absolutely true--my brother does inspire me. His existence makes me want to be better, makes me expect the best and nothing less of myself, makes me want to show him exactly what people like us are capable of. But there's more that inspires me.

Gray skies with a tad bit of friendship.

I’m inspired by city lights and the calmness of night. I’m inspired by darkness and its inevitable leading into light. I’m inspired by broken down structures along the streets of Williamsburg and I know one day, they’ll dance in the sky with the other side of the East River. I’m inspired by yard sales and second hand stores and the potential for even objects to own history.





I'm inspired by the people in my life who have chosen to be a part of me. I'm inspired by educators, and much more so, educators who have changed my life and continue writing emails, who know what I'm doing, who tell me what they're doing, who plan to attend my graduation in place of those who have chosen not to be a part of me.

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I'm especially inspired by educators in New York City--those who are constantly bombarded with statistics about our schools that took a history of inequality to create and will take years and millions (of the right people) to undo, and still--they stand in front of a classroom every day and do what students need them to do most--believe and pay attention.
I'm inspired by the many that I know who work in the service of education. The people who do the behind the scenes work and spend hours trying to avoid a blow out, only to have one happen in the final hour of the day. I’m inspired by the bravery of a few people I am working with this summer—in the face of inappropriate attitudes, 9-midnight days, a system too large to function without some dysfunctionality.

Equally so, I’m inspired by my own generation. Millennials stand up—we are less stuppid and destracted then our alders think. I’m inspired by the people in my generation who I look at and think—hm, that’s a great quality to have. The people who will be the brave ones in the face of 9-midnight days that still yield upsetting phone calls from the same people that know not about the 9-midnight days. I’m inspired by my friends. I’m inspired by my bestfriends. I’m inspired by my Posse. And if you’ve just read to the bottom of my thoughts, chances are—I’m inspired by you.

The Phobia of the Other Boroughs.

6/18/2011: In Williamsburg, looking across the East River.

 New Yorkers, we have very odd perceptions of the "other" boroughs. Every borough that is not our own is somehow lesser, somewhat unworthy. 

As a Bronx native, I can share mine:
Queens--who even lives in Queens?
Manhattan--for the people who enjoy living in their offices. 
Staten Island--we shouldn't even claim that place, let's be serious.
Brooklyn--if you live in the Bronx, what reason do you have to go to Brooklyn?

Stroll along the city lights and let their warmth linger.

 
Brooklyn, specifically, has caught my attention lately.
Last month, I was so upset when I realized my internship required me to go down to Brooklyn to do my fingerprints...were they serious? The last time I had been to Brooklyn was to go to a good friend's birthday party--just about the only kind of thing to make me make the hour plus long trip across the city. Were there not any fingerprinting locations in somewhere land rather than nowhere land? Geez.





Well, I would take back such thoughts if I could. What has changed?--you might ask. Well, you see...I'm kind of living in Brooklyn right now. Big transition! For four weeks, I'll be down here exploring beyond the familiar and homey streets of the Bronx. Paying attention to my surroundings rather than rushing home past the streets I've walked so many times that their creases are etched on my heart. I'm learning to love my city for all of what it is--and that includes the "other" boroughs. Afterall, there's still room for more etching of perfect imperfections on this heart. 

I'm here and I'm NY[SEE]ing. Come see with me.

And when those lights are out of sight, their warmth will bring me back this night.