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.