Anyone Here Speak Caucasian?

I've only recently started thinking about the term Caucasian. Isn't it a polite way to say "white?" I've been meaning to do a little research, but never got around to it. But today my new book, Every-Day Anti Racism arrived, and there was the answer waiting for me on page 13:

The term Caucasian originated in the eighteenth century as part of the developing European science of racial classification. After visiting the region of the Caucasus Mountains, between the Caspian and Black seas, German anatomist Johann Blumenbach declared its inhabitants the most beautiful in the world, the ideal type of humans created in "God's image," and deemed this area the likely site where humans originated. (Humans actually originated in Africa.) He decided that all light-skinned peoples from this region, along with Europeans, belonged to the same race, which he labeled Caucasian.

Where are the Caucasus? Again from the book, "Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, parts of north Iran, and central southern Russia." My ancestors are not from these places, but from England, Ireland, Germany, and Spain.

This essay, titled, "Getting Rid of the Word 'Caucasian,'" makes several excellent points:

• The term Caucasian comes out of a major misunderstanding on the part of Johann Blumenbach, and it was immediately used to create racial hierarchies, placing Europeans and people of European ancestry on top and most God-like, and in the US, deeming light-skinned people most worthy of naturalization as "Americans."
• The term strips light-skinned people of any accurate sense of geographic origin or culture. (Ever go out for Caucasian food or sign up to learn a Caucasian language or go out to watch the local Caucasian dance troupe?)
• In Europe, they have French and Germans and Egyptians, and Somalians. In the US, we have "Caucasians," which essentially means "normal" Americans. And then, to distinguish from normal Americans we have hyphenated Americans like Native-Americans and African-Americans and Asian-Americans. It's as if even Native Americans are immigrants, and white people are the ones who are native to the continent.

So now I know! It's interesting to me that when I've thought about these things in the past, I've wanted to call myself a European-American, rather than "Caucasian," which meant nothing to me, or "white," which acknowledges my skin color and the privileges that go along with it, or "American," which refers to a piece of land that encompasses many countries and cultures and languages to which I lay no claim, but I've felt like my ancestors have been in the US for too long for me to use the term "European American." One set of my ancestors has been here since just after the Mayflower arrived. They were part of a group of pacifist Quakers, escaping persecution in England. But the ancestors of many African Americans have been here as long. And they are still African Americans. I am still a European American.

So be prepared for the slow and painful death of the word Caucasian. As with all other words with racist histories, some will run from it, some will cling to it, and many won't get the memo until they have embarrassed themselves a few too many times. Which makes me wonder, am I getting the memo a little late myself? Did you all know this already? Tell me. It's okay. I can take it.

We're All Good -- Getting Real About Racism and Transracial Adoption

Struggling, struggling. There's a perspective out there gaining momentum that adoption is bad. The more I read, the more the perspective seems to be that all adoption is bad. But adoption by white people of children belonging racial/ethnic minorities is really bad. And international adoption by white people is the worst yet.

People have been hurt. Very deeply hurt. White people have adopted children of color and raised them as white children, not realizing that their children would grow up feeling isolated from both white people and people from their birth culture. People of color can become comfortable with white culture, but white people will always notice that people of color are not white. And nearly all white people have been raised to value white culture above black culture and other minority cultures in the US. So a black person who acts white is often more acceptable to white people than a black person who acts black. Or a Korean person who acts Korean. Or a Latino who acts Latino. But a person of color who acts white stands out as different in both the white world and the world of their ethnic group. The adoptees raised this way are living with deep wounds.

Many white people grow up feeling guilty about the history of white colonialism. People my age -- I was born in 1963 -- were taught in school if not by our parents that racism is bad. If we are racist, we are bad. Under the skin we are all the same, right? We should strive to ignore race. But nobody actually ignores race. I have been learning that many white people tend to ignore black people -- perhaps because we when we see black people our minds go to uncomfortable places. We ignore race only by ignoring people of color. Bottom line, we can’t ignore race. We must continue our journey toward understanding and genuine caring.

Growing up, we may have been taught to value other cultures, but that may have meant other cultures in other places. Not minority culture in our own community. Not cultures that were built on a foundation of oppression. White people tend to associate cultures built on a foundation of oppression with crime and danger and poor quality of life. When black people act black, many white people feel uncomfortable. We may think we are good with brown skin, but we can’t be sure people of color will behave according to the values instilled in us by our white culture. So brown skin may immediately bring up feelings of discomfort -- does this person share my values? And because we have noticed over the years that black people aren’t totally cool with the state of race relations in the US, we may wonder, does this black person harbor resentments toward me for being white? Hey! It’s not my fault! I was born white! And we’re not going to talk about it because that would be really, really awkward. And scary. For both of us!

So, back to transracial adoption, white parents might adopt children from minority groups with the belief that if they pass on their middle class white culture, the children will grow up as virtual whites and be fine. They don't realize that their children will grow up acting white but not looking white. They don’t think about the fact that they themselves may not feel completely comfortable around black adults -- especially those who act black -- and may not even be comfortable with black children who act black, and that other whites may not be completely comfortable with their black children even if they act white. They don't realize how alone their children will feel. And the parents’ feelings of guilt over white colonialism and racism prevent them from talking openly about their discomfort. They may harbor negative feelings about black culture but may never talk about that fact. It’s okay because their children will be culturally white.

But in spite of all this, I tell you, we are all good. We are all obeying the laws of human nature. Prejudice is not about skin color. Prejudice is about difference. Prejudice is about the perception of safety. Prejudice lives in every cell of every body of every human being on earth. Prejudice exists in every human population on earth. As a species, long, long ago, humans learned that the people closest to us are most like us and most likely to be our allies in a dangerous world. The people who are different from us are most likely to be our adversaries and steal our food or kill us. People who are similar to us are likely safe. People who are different from us are likely dangerous. This lesson was so useful to us that, through evolution, we incorporated it into our DNA. But the human species has out-survived the usefulness of this coding.

Prejudice is a powerful force in human relations, and people are getting hurt repeatedly. It’s hard for many white people to fully comprehend the severity of the problem. Does that mean we should not adopt transracially? Is there a role for adoption at all?

In a perfect world, every child would be born to parents who want to be parents and those parents would live long enough to raise their children. And we can strive toward this. But it is a long-term goal. Reality: There are children in this world right now without parents who are extremely vulnerable. These children need parents to protect them. Adoption brings children who need parents together with adults who want to parent. In the world right now, yes, probably because of white colonialism, there are many white adults who want to parent and many children of color who need parents. The fact that -- at least in large part -- white colonialism got us here should not prevent whites from providing loving, safe, and secure homes for children of color.

I don’t want to ignore the fact that there are serious problems with international adoption that are separate from the issues I am addressing here. Those issues require a dedicated discussion and they need to be addressed. I’ll write about those issues in the future. I also don’t want to minimize the problems that I have just written about -- not at all! We need to problem solve. We need to help white parents learn about the reality of racism and learn how to both protect and prepare our children. Adoption meets an important need. Solving the inequities of this world -- inequities that result in parents dying in the most poverty-stricken parts of the world, leaving orphaned children who are unacceptably vulnerable -- solving these problems is a monumental task that will take generations. We must simultaneously try to solve these problems and match extremely vulnerable orphans with parents -- even if the children have brown skin and the parents are white.

It is critical that white adoptive parents of children of color learn how to raise their children in a way that meets the needs of the children. I will write more about this in the future. I truly believe we can do it.

I was excited recently to hear President Obama refer to one of my favorite quotes from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.” This is because, while we are coded for prejudice, we are also coded for love. Love is a powerful protective force. Love brings us together, and together we are stronger. Overall, across the human species and across the decades and generations, our drive for love is always a little stronger than our fear of difference. And so, ever so gradually, we progress as a species away from prejudice and toward love. As we progress, we must multi-task. Transracial adoption is one important tool for us to use.

I am convinced that we are all good and that through recognizing our essential goodness and by working together, we can help bend the arc of the moral universe -- toward justice.

Once We Were Five

Once upon a time, there were five of us. Are there still five of us? It's confusing. Yes, there are five of us, but only four of us are living. Because Austen died. On April 20, 2008. One day before the date listed on his death certificate. Four days after my 44th birthday. Three days after the last day I saw him. One day after the last time I tried to call him. Only four of us are living.

Five Squirrels in a Fig Tree is a reference to the five of us. The fig tree is still out in back. The squirrels still race around in it. Our dog, Tulie, is still fascinated by the squirrels. But there are only four of us living. And I want to write again.

I want to reclaim this blog because I like it. My favorite posts were on my Yahoo! 360 blog, where I wrote a diary about adopting Etagu. Those posts are all rain fallen from the cloud -- gone. So sad for me. I still have this barely used blog, though -- this blog that refers to the five of us -- and I like this blog. I think I will reclaim it. But with this re-introductory post acknowledging that, while there are still five of us, only four of us are living. And my heart will always ache for number 5.

Let's Help Dekebo Help Others

This is Dekebo -- and his mom:

Etagu and I met Dekebo in late 2005 at Bishangari Lodge on Lake Langano in Ethiopia. It was a difficult time in Ethiopia. There was political unrest, and tourists were encouraged to go home. I was feeling uncertain about our safety in Addis Ababa, and so we left the city. For about a month, we were the only guests at Bishangari Lodge due to the travel warnings. That gave us lots of time to get to know the staff!

Etagu instantly found a friend in Dekebo. And I quickly came to view him as an exceptional individual. Because we were the only guests, Dekebo had time to show us the forest and introduce us to the people in the nearby village.

One day when we were out exploring, we stopped to talk to a man who was huddled in his yard with a daughter huddled near him. He had malaria, and his wife had left with their other child to sell corn to earn money for him and their sick daughter to see a doctor. That evening I asked Dekebo how much it cost to buy the malaria medication. If my memory serves me, it was about $1.25. People die regularly in this village and all over Ethiopia because they don't have money for malaria medication. So I asked Dekebo if it would be possible to purchase a quantity of malaria medication and distribute it to the people in the village. He said yes, he knew a pharmacist who could arrange it for us. I asked him if he would get in touch with the pharmacist, and he said it would be no problem. The next day, Dekebo was gone. The day after that, he was still gone until late in the afternoon when he arrived by van with the pharmacist. Dekebo had spent half a day walking to the main road, caught a bus to the nearest town, visited the pharmacist, stayed the night in a cheap hotel, and then returned with the pharmacist.

The next day we all piled in the van and drove to Awassa to buy the malaria medication. We personally delivered the medication to the man we had seen in the yard and the family who lived next door to him, with whom we had become friends. When we checked in with the sick man a couple of weeks later, he was up on his feet, smiling, and looking great! I would not have recognized him if I didn't know it was him.

Dekebo had been an outstanding student as a child, and qualified to attend a special private school for advanced students. But Dekebo's father died before Dekebo was able to graduate from high school, and there was no longer money for him to attend school. So Dekebo went to work for Bishangari Lodge. But his dream was to be a doctor.

Education in Ethiopia is dirt cheap by our standards in the US, and I was working at the time, so we decided to pay for Dekebo to finish high school and then go to college. He finished high school and then decided to go into a nursing program. He finished his nursing program, but he had no way to get around Ethiopia to find a nursing job. So he returned to his job at Bishangari Lodge and has been trying to save $800 for a motorbike, but so far has only $100.

I am asking for all of my friends who are able to please pitch in for his motorbike. I thought we needed $800, but just reread his email message and see that we only need $700! And people have already generously donated $120 so now we only need $580!!

If you would be so kind as to donate, even $3 or $5 or more if you can, you can easily make a difference, not just in Dekebo's life, but in the lives of the people he is going to care for. There is much more I could tell you; Dekebo is truly an exceptional human being. He can make a real difference if we just help him on his way.

To donate:

1. Go to www.paypal.com

2. Click on Send Money.

3. Type dekebomotorbike@gmail.com in the To email address field.

4. Complete the rest of the fields as appropriate, and click Continue.

Thank you so much!!

To Stockton in the Rain

For the love of Clinton, why would I drive to Stockton (a two hour drive to cattle country) in the rain, after dinner, on a Wednesday night? Well, I did it for the love of Clinton. Bill Clinton, that is.

Just before I left, Greg said, "Maybe you'll get to shake his hand!" I felt a touch of that teenie-bopper-pop-idol weakness in the knees, that catching of the breath, that tightening of the vocal chords, and I let out a high-pitched, loopy, "maybe"! Just so you know, Bill Clinton is the only celebrity for whom I would drive to Stockton after dinner in the rain -- on a Wednesday night or any other night of the week. I wouldn't do it for Mick Jagger or the Queen of England.

Last night was one of those rare nights with that running-through-honey feeling that you get in dreams -- dreams in which you are trying to catch a flight or make it to a college final and every little thing is taking forever and you can't find your way and the clock keeps ticking and you know you can't possibly make it but you keep trying because what else can you do?

Yesterday I learned of Clinton's plan to rally the troops for Jerry McNerney, who is in a vicious sword fight with the evil Richard Pombo (CA-11). This event was planned in twenty-four hours, so I figured it would not be a huge event. I figured I might be able to actually see Clinton fairly close up. So I decided to go even though I cringed at the 9:00 pm start time -- I'm an early-to-bed type and this was in Stockton.

From 4-5 we had Amharic class, where we reviewed the colors of the Ethiopian bandera (flag): ahrenguaday (green), k'ay (red) and beechar (yellow). We skipped rope, counting to ten in Amharic (ahnt, houlet, zost, arat, amist, sedist, sabat, semint, zetang, aser), and sang our two songs, Selam, Selam (Peace, Peace) and Aser Ahrenguaday Termoosoch (Ten Green Bottles).

It always takes time to get out of there, and then, of course, I have to stop to pick up a latte if I was not able to get one on the way to class. Carrie, of course, needs to use the bathroom and they don't have a bathroom at this particular Peete's Coffee, so we have to go next door to Whole Foods and make our way through the after-work-before-dinner shopping crowd to the back of the store. On our way out of Whole Foods we see Carrie's long lost preschool friend, Charlie, and her mother. A bit of catching up about kindergarten is required.

We manage to get into the car and drive home, and as I start to pull into the driveway, I see the dark figure of a young man standing on the sidewalk. I am glad that I saw him and that he saw me and that I did not run him over, especially when I realize that that dark young figure is Austen! What a great surprise!

At this point it is nearing six o'clock, and Chloe is starving -- nearly to death, I'm quite sure, because she is protesting so loudly. Austen, the hard worker that he is, is out trying to sell a promotional package for wine country to our neighbors until Greg gets home, at which time we will all go to Hobees for dinner.

Greg. Is. Late. And. Chloe. Is. Starving. To. Death. I am rummaging through all of my keepsakes boxes looking for my "My President" pin, which shows a photo of Bill in his Yale days. I love that pin! I find it. I put it on. Ding, ding! Idea! I hurry to the book shelf and reach for my "My Life" book -- Bill Clinton's autobiography. Maybe I can get him to sign it! (Ha, ha.)

I had forgotten that it is kids-eat-free night at Hobees, which Greg can never resist calling "eat your kids free night." When he comes up with a good funny, well, better get the most out of it, right? The fact that it is kids-eat-free night would be a good thing except that Hobees fills up on kids-eat-free night and you have to wait for a table. Tick, tick, tick. Austen wants to talk with me outside one-on-one, and as we are wrapping up, Carrie comes out to let us know our table is ready. We order. Chloe wants to talk with me outside one-on-one, and as we are wrapping up, Carrie comes out to let us know that our food is not ready.

It's close to eight o'clock when Austen and I hit the road. Livermore is on the way to Stockton, so it works out perfectly for him that I can give him a ride home and perfectly for me that I get to have his company and get to see the apartment he just moved into last weekend. All goes well until I try to get back onto the freeway after dropping him off. I miss the freeway entrance without realizing it and it becomes one of those things where you think you might have screwed up, but you're not sure so you keep going, then you start feeling pretty sure that you screwed up but you don't want that to be the case so you keep going, then eventually there can be no doubt that you screwed up and you just have to turn around. This would not have been so bad if I could have found the freeway entrance on my return trip past it and if I had not eventually, accidentally, entered the freeway going west instead of east. It was now nine o'clock -- the time the rally was supposed to start -- I wasn't really sure where Stockton was, but I was suspicious that I still had some distance to go, and I was headed toward home. It's dark. It's raining. It's late. What would you do?

I turned around and headed for Stockton. Not only do I not know where Stockton is, I also don't know where the Stockton airport is -- the venue for the rally. But some inner confidence leads me on.

It's 10:30 pm. I park my car at the Stockton airport. I hear a cheering crowd. I ask the security guys if Clinton has spoken already. No -- he just arrived. I join the crowd to hear McNerney's final comments. Two minutes later, Clinton is on! Wow! He's right there! I can see him! I'm not too far away!

Clinton gives a great speech. He is so spot on. He talks about McNerney's expertise in alternative energy and Clinton's own belief that alternative energy is the next source of new jobs for an economic resurgence. He talks about the problems that come of running a country from a place of ideology rather than philosophy. He talks about my favorite rule -- the Golden Rule -- and how Democrats will need to put that rule into place in our dealings with conservatives. We cannot treat them the way they have treated us. Clinton is a big man. A good man. But he did get a few digs in. He said that the Republican strategy for winning this election is as follows: Admit that they have made some mistakes in Iraq and with Katrina and here and there -- but that if Democrats take power we will tax everyone into the poor house, and on the way to the poor house people will meet a terrorist on every corner and then trip over illegal aliens!

It's a great speech and the rain is light -- I'm completely comfortable except that I'm feeling a little foolish for having "My Life," which is quite a large book, tucked under my arm. I've been trying to protect it from the rain with my "ticket" for the event, which is a sheet of 8 1/2 x 11 printer paper. The speech ends and Clinton starts shaking hands. I know he likes to please as many people with a hand shake as possible and I'm standing along an edge, but Clinton is heading the other direction. I think he will leave the area to the left, which is in my direction, but I realize that he will be leaving the area to the right, he's just steps from the door through which he will leave, and there is a crowd of people hoping for hand shakes. Well, I might as well try, I figure. I hurry over and into the crowd, pushing plastic chairs out of my way as I go. I see someone lift a "My Life" into the air, and Clinton reaches for it! I lift mine into the air as I work my way in as politely as possible. This is actually possible because others are trying to leave. He points to my book! Someone takes it from me and passes it up to his aide. I reach out my hand and Clinton takes it. I did it. I did it! Well what do you know. The autograph reads, "Thanks. Bill Clinton 11.1.06."

Debut Post: What else but a welcome?

So will I ever stop switching blogs on you? Is this a shell game I'm playing? Hide and seek? Okay, I'll admit it. I've got a problem with the addictive nature of Internet technology. But I think I have found a stable home in the blogosphere for a good, long time.

I have two blogs: This is my family blog. By the Gait is my political blog. I decided I had better stop mixing the two before I end up sorry for being so cavalier about our family's privacy. I will make this family blog more secure. Do you like the photo at the top? I photo-shopped that myself and am kind of proud of it. :-)

Life is quite wonderful these days with family. Austen is still selling stuff like a mad man and loving it. Carrie is just getting sweeter and more settled within herself day-by-day. Chloe is experiencing some of the hormonal pumps that lead to mood bumps and sometimes put her in the dumps, but aside from that, she's -- well -- up and down a lot. ;-) A little dancing and singing here; a little sobbing and ranting there. Three cheers for puberty! By golly, it makes life interesting!

And now I officially welcome you to my new Internet Home for Family Affairs (IHFA): Five Squirrels in a Fig Tree. I hope you will stop by and read from time to time.