THOUGHT I WAS GONE, DIDN'T YA?

Funny thing about leaving. You're gone before you're actually gone. People start thinking about you as yesterday, in the past, not current. There's something comforting in that--of being spoken of in the past tense, even when you're still alive. I'm noting, with interest, the responses to my impending departure: one is a deep sigh of relief, a gratitude for my silence. "She's finally shut up." Another response, the most puzzling of the bunch, is the anger: "How dare she?" There are those who think I've flipped. "Who, tell me, WHO gives up tenure and a great job in this economy?" I do. And despite my anxiety over the unknownness of it all, I feel better than I've felt in a long, long time--maybe for as long as I've been in the academy. I have no more obligations "to the race." I have no more obligations to "diversify the institution." I do not have to be spokesperson for faculty, staff and students of color. I get to be nobody, in the way, a has been. A teacher on the decline, nearing retirement, nuts. I find it incredibly satisfying to have forfeited my title as HNIC. Nobody cares what I say or if I say or.... A ton of burdens have fallen from my weary shoulders, and for once, I'm thinking about me, my life and the life of my partner. I've not had one moment of regret about this decision. I'm committed to giving my best to the students in my courses this semester, but I wonder if I have any best left in me. I apply for positions others can't imagine that I really want, but I want them. Executive assistant to a college president, entering the corporate world, working in a bookstore. All are possibilities that excite me. All represent a certain freedom from an all-consuming profession. I imagine the joy of reading bad novels. Having a day where I don't have to figure out what to do. What I want to do now is just have fun, enjoy my family and friends, enjoy my life to the fullest. I just want a job--just a job, even if it's one I don't like so well. Perhaps everything really does go full circle. Maybe I long for the childhood I never had--the time for play and frolic; the time for ME. I think, for the very first time in my life EVER, I'm making a choice for me, my life rather than for someone or something external to me. I'm going to continue chronicle this journey. Lots left for me to learn. At the moment, I'm flying high.

YOU GOT TO KNOW WHEN IT'S TIME TO GO

Toni Morrison is one of my favorite writers. I taught a course on Morrison years and years ago. A colleague audited the course, and as an extravagant end of semester gift, she gave me a complete set of all of the novels Morrison had written. The last Morrison novel that I read was JAZZ. Though I purchased the subsequent novels, I've not read one. There's a reason for that, and the reason is JAZZ. The literary crescendo from THE BLUEST EYE to BELOVED is stunning, and although BELOVED is not my favorite Morrison novel, it certainly deserves its place among American literary masterpieces. After I read BELOVED, I wondered what Morrison could possibly have left to say to her readers. How could she possibly write anything comparable to BELOVED and the splendid novels that she'd written prior to it? I read JAZZ, and I got a response to my question. Morrison couldn't outdo what she had already done. None of her subsequent novels have received the acclaim of the first four. Morrison likely needs to write; believes she has something more to say, and that's okay. However, I wish she had recognized the greatness that she'd achieved and simply understood that she had reached the top of the mountain, and her current work slowly creeps back down again. I've read enough chapters and passages to know that about the more recent novels.

And now to me. I've been a teacher for the past thirty years. I've spent all of my professional life in or near the classroom. I've been a terrible teacher, and I've been a superb teacher. Many of my best teaching years have been in college classrooms. I've remained an excited and enthusiastic teacher despite my battles and woundings in the academy. I've have always known that the academy and I were not, as we say, a "good fit," but my passion for teaching; my love for my students, my excitement about classroom interactions; the sheer joy that teaching gave me made the suffering (and I mean suffering) bearable. That is no more. For the first time in my life, I dread the beginning of a new school year. Though I have emotional tugs toward the classroom, and I can't imagine life without students in it, I know that it is time to go. I have started to creep back down the mountain, and that it not the place where I want to end my life as teacher. The passion is gone; the enthusiasm is gone. I love teaching, and I love it enough to leave it before I don't love it anymore. Although I'd like to merge my attitude toward teaching with my feelings about my workplace, I think that's not quite the case. As far as the workplace is concerned, I've weathered too many storms. Many would argue that the storms are of my own making, but they were storms nonetheless. I'm weary of institutional politics, institutional racism, and while I know I'll most certainly find them in any organization with which I'm affiliated, I need a new and different variety. The academic versions have burned me up, exhausted me to the point of no return. It's time to leave SLU. It's time to leave while I'm still able to conjure up a fond memory or two. It's time to leave the profession. It's time to leave teaching while I still believe in its power and importance. It's time to leave the profession while I still love it; while thinking about leaving it makes me cry and feel sad and lost. Why not stay? I've read the declining evaluations. I feel my waning desire to read the books, grade the papers, stand before them and teach what I teach. I'm impatient with them. I'm weary. I hope this will be my final semester. It's definitely my final year at SLU.

You got to know when it's time to go. We all know people, celebrities, athletes, colleagues and friends, who have held on too long--those who reached their peak and refused to recognize or acknowledge their decline. You got to know when it's time to go despite the assurances that you're okay or you've got a lot to give. YOU got to know when it's time to go.

And so, I venture out on faith. I've interviewed for a job. Waiting to hear. Terrified. Afraid of failing, but also excited and thrilled about the possibility of learning new things and exploring new worlds. There's comfort in the familiar. The future is uncertain, but it looks bright and positive. And when I imagine what I'm leaving with great sorrow, I imagine what lies ahead and I smile. Hail and farewell to my students past. Hail and farewell to my colleagues and friends. Hail and farewell to "Writin' Black from the Academy." You got to know when it's time to go.

Thank you, kind readers, for your time and attention. Thanks for your comments and criticisms. Thanks for making my words matter. May peace be with you. Margaret

UGLY TRUTH: WHY BLACK FOLKS DON'T WANNA BE BLACK

Okay. Biracial has replaced the pejorative "mulatto." Both terms indicate, in this blog, that a person has one black parent and one white parent. Multiracial needs its own blog. Over the years, increasing numbers of students with various shades of brown skin have loudly proclaimed: "I'm not black; I'm biracial." I usually ask them to explain what they mean. The explanations are as varied as the humans. Most say something like: "I can't choose between my (usually) black father and my (usually) white mother," or I'm "honoring both my heritages." Okay, I get that. Kinda. Well, I actually don't. Let me just give you my initial reaction when I hear someone tell me this: Okay, you're obviously not white. We see that. So you need to tell us that you're not black? Isn't an "American Negr0" multiracial by definition? So why does your need to tell me that you're not black feel like a rejection of me? If we can see that you're not white, what drives you to tell us that you're not black?

I've heard all of the possible responses, but I need to hear them over and over again cause every, single time some brown person tells me that he's biracial, it causes me pain and I feel resentful. Okay, so this is old stuff, southern stuff, the stuff of black folks who rejected their families, escaped Jim Crow, and faded into whiteness cause they could. It's about my father, whose mother was whiter than white, and neither he nor any of his siblings wanted to claim that whiteness. They knew what whiteness and white folks had done to their mother when she married their father, and none of them wanted any part of that whiteness. It wasn't a reason to feel proud.

One of the explanations I usually hear is that the rigid racial categories were designed by white folks. Rejecting those categories, in the minds of many, represents some kind of resistance or progress. Okay, got it, but here's my problem: I don't see a whole lotta white folks rejecting whiteness. Most of my white students, friends, colleagues identify as white, so if whiteness ain't going nowhere, why must blackness? Why must black folks fade into some vague racial otherness that STILL represents "not white"? As long as white is white and privilege and power and dominance, I'm black. Period. Neither my grandma nor those white ancestors change that identity. None of those white ancestors saved me from the back of the bus. My "high yellow shit color," as my friends and family often observe, ain't saved me from one indignity associated with being black in this country. So no, I need not claim that whiteness that obviously resides in me. Old wounds and realities? Of course, but I, like you, am the sum total of my life experiences.

Each day, I continue to learn about generational divides, and perhaps this is one. I suspect geography comes to bear on this issue as well. Having said this, however, one of my friends, a young man who is also a southerner, is a biracial black man. In other words, he has one black parent and one white, but he identifies himself and seems to take pride in the fact of his blackness. So what makes him different? Why is it important for him to embrace blackness?

I grew up in a culture and a world where being black for so many people was reason for shame and despair. I think this is still true. For example, many black folks loathe dark skin and very kinky hair. Straight versus "nappy" hair remains an issue among black women; many of whom believe that straight hair, permed hair is "good" hair. The 70s cured many of us of that need to straighten, to claim white ancestry, to be white like. Once Debbie Begab (a Jewish classmate from Silver Spring, bless her heart) washed and cut my hair (it looked a mess), my days with the straightening comb and perms were over. And even now, I fight with younger black women about "doing something about my hair."

I have encountered first, second and even third generation black students who refuse to call themselves African Americans or black Americans. Some even refuse to acknowledge that they are black. Those with African parents refer to themselves as African. What the hell is that all about? Those black Americans of Caribbean ancestry often still refer to themselves as Caribbean or West Indian. Often, they refer to nationality rather than ethnicity. Black Puerto Ricans and Dominicans are notorious for identifying solely by nationality. On several occasions, I've pointed out this reality. If you are born in the United States, you're likely an American. If you're born black in the U.S., you're likely black or African American--not African or Caribbean. So here's the point, and this explains the title of this blog. To be an African American or Black American or American Negro is, among folks of African descent, the worst kinda black you can be, and this isn't conjecture. I've done enough informal interviewing on the topic to be absolutely certain of this. The reasons are both simple and complex. The simple reason is the pervasive perceptions of black Americans with which we are all familiar: shiftless, lazy, welfare,dumb, unemployed, babymakers, criminals, drug addicts. Black folks round the world absorb these images and perceptions and often believe them. Many live in or near urban communities and "witness" the "truth" of these descriptions. Who the hell would want to be associated with all that negative stuff? The more complex reasons pertain to the ways of white folks. They reinforce that desire to distance by their own categories. There are good black folks (who usually aren't American) and then there are "the blacks." For example, here's how it plays out on campus--mine and others. We have, for example, African students, Caribbean students and "the blacks." Though all of us are indeed, black, "the blacks" are the least "academically oriented." Meaning black folks from the U.S. are either not as smart as the other black folks or don't take academic work as seriously. The most recent descriptors of black Americans are: victims, whiners, stuck in time, underachievers, overly concerned about fashion, rappers, ignorant, crude, low class and GHETTO.

So, I suppose my fierce allegiance to my American blackness, is also a defense against the persistent ways in which my folks, black Americans, are dissed and dumped on by other black folks and white folks and even ourselves. I'm comfortable in my skin. Proud of its heritage, and though I, too, understand the reasons and sometimes feel the desire to distance, I feel strongly that black people, my folks, need to survive in this ever growing murky pool of bi, multi, not whiteness. I'm acutely aware of my history, and I simply can't and won't reject that by honoring whiteness, no matter what part of me is that, particularly if any part of that whiteness is a result of the rape of my great grandmothers.

I have so much more to say on this issue, and it inevitably leads to President Obama, of course, and one long blog on how he came to be where he is today. An admission of my ambivalence about him and why is a blog or two away. Suffice it to say that only two black men EVER had any chance of being POTUS: Obama is one; Colin Powell is the other, and this ain't no coincidence. No way. No how. Later.

TELEPHOBIA

The telephone is not my friend. There are few things that I dislike more than talking on the telephone. This fact represents a radical shift in behavior. I spent my early adulthood attached to a telephone receiver. I enjoyed conversations and could talk for hours. Now, more often than not, I want to ignore a ringing phone, and that includes a cell phone. Yes, I own a cell phone, but I rarely use it for talking, and, for the most part, I don't know where it is. A cell phone is for travel-- a way to always be in touch. A cell phone allows me to travel freely without having to call family to give city, hotel, etc. I can always be reached. A cell phone is for email, Facebook and texting.

My telephobia has caused no small amount of concern among some of my friends who love to "reach out and touch." I hear "you never call me" from those who are fond of phoning. I'm great with email, but some friends determine that email is "impersonal." That makes no sense to me. I enjoy writing (note, the blog) and expressing myself in the way that email or writing letters encourages. Email, and the newer texting, make communication almost as immediate as speaking by phone.

One friend declares that it's impossible to maintain a long distance relationship without phoning. She's furious with me--unaccepting of my reluctance or refusal to call. Mind you, she's long winded, and that means I'll be on the phone for at least an hour. Many of my friends have similar inclinations for talking long and often.

There are too many opportunities for instant conversation to be tied to a telephone, and that's not necessarily a good thing. I miss the old long distance call. These are the calls to which I looked forward. They would be few and far between. Why? Cause they cost money. The cost prohibited the frequency and the conversation time, but I remember the joy of hearing from that loved one who lived in a different city or state. "It's a long distance call!" The household would come running to speak a minute or two with Grandma or Cousin Joe. That was fun. This constant, instant is not. It makes "reaching out and touching" routine and sometimes boring. I can talk to anyone almost anywhere in the world at any time. I've seen computer centers in tiny towns and rural villages all over the world.

I see the phone, more often than not, as a device for emergencies. While I can bear a pleasant chat for 5-10 minutes, anything longer drives me nuts. I'll find some good reason to stop talking. If I saw you yesterday, what could I possibly have to discuss by phone 24 hours later?

For those who use telephone time as a measure of love, well, I'm sorry about that. I would hope that other aspects of our relationship would assure you of my love for you. If not, just tell me what I can do--just don't let it be calling you on the telephone please.

My mother, of course, was an exception to this telephobia. I would talk as long as she wanted to talk. My mom, however, loved the computer, and she became a great and avid emailer. When she came to Canton to die, she was the only resident in United Helpers who insisted upon having a computer in her room. The computers in the community rooms just wouldn't do. She needed her email and her internet in her own space. Hers is a number I'd love to dial--a voice I'd give all worldly goods to hear just once more.

My "chosen mother," who gratefully still survives, is another exception. I'll talk to my Vera as long as she wants to talk. Though even she complains that I don't call her enough, I continue to try. She's actually one of my best friends, and she's 82. I can make all kinds of concessions for her. She also makes me laugh a lot.

Mary and I share similar dispositions on this issue. She's worse than I. Yes, it's possible. In the early stages of our relationship, I would call her. Not a good idea. I don't think we've talked 3 hours by phone in 14 years, and that includes all the times we've been separated. Our phone conversations are usually limited to basics: "You okay? Good day today? Do anything special? How are the animals? I miss you. I love you. Come home soon."

So, phone loving friends, please don't equate love with phoning. There are those most dear to me with whom I rarely have a telephone conversation. We are, however, always in touch--just a letter, email or text away. And Facebook has opened yet another world of communication to us.
Enough already. Gotta go. My phone is ringing! Later.

WEDDINGS AND FUNERALS

I used to wonder why I'd often heard the idea that weddings and funerals evoke similar emotions and family drama. Now I understand what they meant. I've just spent five days engaged in the wedding festivities of one of two of my "adopted" daughters. She was beautiful, all smiles, clearly riding the crest of a wave. The ceremony was also beautiful, tasteful and ever so sweet. So why do I feel such a sense of melancholy? What's the problem? Nothing much has changed. The couple has lived together for years. I love them both. I feel a sense of loss, but I can't figure what I've lost. Anyway, there remains a deep sense of unrest in me. Something's gnawing at my gut, and I'm not sure what it is. Perhaps I'm jealous, or maybe I feel that she's moving away from me and toward a new family. I just don't know, but what I do know is that I don't like what I feel. No way. No how. And if anyone out there gets it, give me a shout. I'd like to lose this feeling as soon as possible. Perhaps it's just that change is hard, even tiny change. I just don't know.

FADIN' ...........

Despite all claims to the contrary, some degree of assimilation is unavoidable. Here are 10 sure ways in which I am fading:

1. I wear Birkenstocks, a "sandal" that is nearly unrecognizable to my relatives and friends, and particularly those who live below the Mason-Dixon Line.

2. I wear Birkenstocks and socks--worse than just wearing Birkenstocks.

3. My dogs sleep on my bed.

4. I no longer shop for "dress clothes." No point.

5. I do not attend church.

6. I no longer pray before meals.

7. I order from "Eddie Bauer," "Land's End," and "L.L. Bean."

8. I no longer use a "washrag." (This one has special meaning for Susan and me).

9. I am completely unaware of the latest styles in fashion.

10. The only shopping that I do is via the U.S. Mail

The End

THOSE WHO WALK IN DARKNESS..........

Shadows......the death of someone dear; a close friend who faces serious surgery and hadn't a clue that she was ill; silences; a life and spirit in transition. I've been thinking about my relationship to money, and at least twice last week, a friend asked directly: "What do you get from giving?" I chuckled, but I decided to consider the question seriously. Family and others have often questioned why I give so much--literally. Particularly when I have often come up short when I need or desire. I sat and attempted to calculate a rough estimate of the dollars that I had donated or given away just in a 5 year period--thousands, literally thousands of dollars--mostly dollars that I didn't have and still don't. So I've decided to ponder the why of it, particularly as I'm moving to a stage where I'm taking account of what life (if I indeed live) during retirement will be. In other words, I'm taking money seriously for the first time ever. Well, sorta. Once you hire a financial planner, then you've pretty much got to deal with finances--like it or not.

This is what I know: I don't give because I expect something in return. I don't give to make people like me. I don't give so that others will think I'm a "good person." Most of my giving happens discretely. These reasons explain why I don't, but they don't answer why I do. Or, more important, why giving is often expected of me. I suspect most folks who are unfamiliar with academe think professors make "a lot of money." NOT! Perhaps others just assume that certain types of people just have it. Those who are childless, for example. Ain't necessarily so. There are all kinds of obligations and responsibilities that require as much or more than children.

Although I'm in the initial stages of really sorting this out, it seems to me that at least part of the giving relates directly to my Christian upbringing, though I'm not sure I would define myself as such now. I do believe that whatever we have must be shared with those who have less than we. I'm a sucker for a hard luck story because I've had so many of my own. I've been the recipient of so much generosity. I feel compelled to do for others what has been done for me. Few things give me great joy or pleasure than to help another person in some small way. But what about those who don't need? What about the stuff that I do for those who are far more financially solvent than I? This is the giving that I don't get.

Perhaps I don't believe in the value of money, or maybe I think about it in the wrong way. For example, the only time money has mattered is when I didn't have any. In the old days when I couldn't pay all my bills or lived from paycheck to paycheck, I was obsessed with money--and even then, I gave money away. As I write it becomes clear to me that the basic question is why I'm willing to deprive myself in order to give to someone else. Now that's complicated. Haven't pondered long enough to come to any conclusion, but it seems to lie at the heart of my lifelong battle with giving too much and having too little or depriving myself to make someone else happy.

What I'm beginning to realize is that people don't mind taking from one who is willing to give. So let me put this in another way: I'm beginning to feel that I've allowed myself to be used and taken advantage of. For example, there are those who have reaped the consistent benefits of my generosity (or foolishness) and never once attempted to do anything for me. And I don't mean giving me money. Anything-- a meal, a phone call, a trinket of some sort. Or a word: "You've done something nice for me." Perhaps a thank you note?

In retrospect, I am learning that for every shameless giver, there is a shameless taker, and takers will continue to take for as long as givers give. As I've thought about a giving life, I'm annoyed, maybe angry at those who have taken because they could rather than because they were in need. The guy who borrows $500. and goes on a lavish vacation two weeks later.

I've declared that I'm going to cultivate some healthy selfishness, and while I'm learning, I'm gonna keep on thinking about my motivations. While I don't imagine that I'll change completely, I think I'll be much more discriminating in the years to come. People who love you will not let you give until you hurt. That's the first lesson that I've learned in two short days. I'm sure there's more to come.....

All in all, I marvel at my life. I have every, single thing that I need. Everything. I stand in awe of that reality. There is no material thing that I want. Not one thing. Sometimes I wish I wanted something just because... I guess that's why I don't understand the rich. What does Bill Gates DO with that money? Or Oprah? And please don't tell me about their philanthropic ventures; they still have enough left to buy the universe. Why do they need all that money? Why do they keep making money? What is left to buy? Why not just give it all away after you've bought all there is to buy and spent all there is to spend and left huge sums to children and family? I just don't get it 'cause my friend still died and the other is having surgery tomorrow, and all the money in the world won't change the aspects of life that really matter.