Keesha Beckford - BonBon Break

Just You Wait, New Mom!

Keesha Beckford — Wed, 03 Feb 2016 14:00:40 +0000

Maybe you have one child. Maybe you have six. Whatever the case, you’re a mom with more kids than you can handle. So although you love babies, you hung an “OUT OF BUSINESS” sign on your uterus and closed up shop. To get your fill, you ogle infants in strollers to the point where families pray there’s a police officer nearby. When someone you know has their baby in tow, you beg to hold the child, even for just a few seconds.

This baby lust, however, should never, ever be confused with actually wanting another child. No sirree, it should not! You DO NOT want any more of those tiny humans in your house; the ones you have already have landed you with one foot in the insane asylum and the other in the poorhouse.

But, then you learn that a dear friend (or relative) is having a baby! You’re thrilled for her! OOOOOOOH! All those delicious moments! She’ll get to meet her baby for the first time, all those snuggles and snuzzles and raspberries on soft, sweet-smelling new skin, those little legs, those tiny little outfits, the love-locks — gazing into each others’ eyes because you are the world to each other.

How amazing!

Then, after the joy bubbles away, with a little, or maybe a lot, of glee, you imagine how your cute little friend, with her tidy little home, her stylish little clothes and her fun little plans is about to have a wrecking ball in a onesie smash up her life.

“Guuuuuuuurl, you have no idea!”

You don’t want to be a total bitch and ruin the experience for her, but you don’t want to lie, either. A part of you wishes friends had told you how stressful – like falling madly in love with a ticking time bomb—motherhood was, but who wants someone poisoning her pregnancy?

On top of it, you honestly don’t know why you feel the need to be Reality Check Rita. Do you want your friend to be as miserable as you sometimes are? But something inside you needs to give sisterfriend the gory details, to throw the gates open and cry, “Those shiny, lovey commercials, movies, magazines, and Facebook status updates? THEY ARE ALL BULLSHIT LIES!”

You never say it to your first-time mom friend, but you still think it.

Just you wait.

Just you wait until the universe craps on all your plans.

Just you wait until you’ve woken up every two hours every night for six months, or more.

Just you wait until you haven’t observed any personal hygiene for days and you’re as filthy as an 18th-century pirate.

Just wait until the home you worked so hard to decorate looks and smells like a toddler frat house.

Just wait until your child won’t stop crying and you understand how people can go to a very dark place with a little one.

Just you wait until some chipper person asks “So, what’d you do this weekend?” and you want to choke her.

Just you wait until your clothes are all ruined and you don’t have the time, money or the will to buy new ones.

Just you wait until you realize that your spouse/partner is a good parent and means well, but in terms of all things practical with the baby, is an evil nitwit.

Just you wait until you are forced to step way outside your comfort zone because it means everything to your child.

Just you wait until you do something you swore you’d never do as a parent.

Just you wait until your child has her first public meltdown.

Just you wait until you feel beaten down by a mompetition you didn’t know you’d entered.

Just you wait until every choice you make — including something like actually sitting down to eat – is no longer about what you need or want to do.

Just you wait until you are constantly going 100 mph, and your mind even faster, trying to keep track of EVERYTHING.

Just you wait until you are so consumed with your children’s safety, happiness, education, activities, mood swings, habits, social life, not to mention your ability to provide them with transcendently magical experiences, that you can barely see straight.

Just you wait until nothing you can provide is ever good enough.

Just you wait until you . . .

Stop.

Breathe.

Just you wait until your heart is exploding with a love bigger than you ever imagined possible.

Just you wait until you’re so fully present in a moment with your child, you wish it would last forever.

Just you wait until you find your mom tribe.

Just you wait until your life is distilled down to what really matters.

Just you wait until you realize you can be great without being perfect.

Just you wait until your children genuinely respect, trust and love you for keeping your priorities straight.

Just you wait until you figure it out for yourself.

Just you wait until you realize parenting means learning as you go.

Just you wait until you realize, “I got this.”

Just you wait until you can tell a new mom the same thing.

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ABOUT KEESHA: Before her two children re-choreographed her life, Keesha was a professional dancer who performed in the U.S. and in Europe. Today she teaches modern and jazz dance in the Chicago area. She is also the human cyclone behind the blog Mom’s New Stage. A multitasker at heart, she shows fierce skills at simultaneously writing, choreographing, checking Facebook and Pinterest updates, playing the role of a mother named Joan “Kumbaya” Crawford, and overcooking food. Keesha is one of the select contributing authors of In The Powder Room’s first anthology, You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth. Her writing has been featured on Mamapedia, The Huffington Post, in the New York Times bestselling anthology I Just Want to Pee Alone, and in the third book in the Pee Alone series, I STILL Just Want to Pee Alone. She was recently awarded a Voice of the Year Award for her Bonbon Break original piece Dear White Mom.

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This post was written by Keesha Beckford exclusively for BonBon Break Media, LLC.

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Walk in My Shoes, White Mom

Keesha Beckford — Thu, 31 Dec 2015 01:03:31 +0000

Hi Friend,

We’ve talked about this before, but a lot has happened since we last spoke. Walk with me.

Imagine sending your son out to play and, because he has a toy gun, someone freaks out and calls the police. Imagine that, because the policeman sees a twelve-year-old black male body with a toy weapon, his mind will fly into Negro Vilification Mode. He’ll say he felt threatened by a twenty-year-old thug and shoot him dead.

Imagine they tackle your daughter and put her in a squad car as she attempts to see what happened to her little brother.

Imagine that your son is given no first aid and is left bleeding to fucking death while law enforcement realizes they fucked up and figures out what to do.

Imagine that your child will be blamed for his own death unless they find that underneath his black skin was somehow a blue-eyed Jesus.

Now imagine you are this mother who knows that if she looked like Gwyneth Paltrow, and her little white son or daughter had been outside playing with a toy gun in (insert rich white neighborhood here), no policeman ever would have been called, no gun drawn, no shots fired, and her child would be alive.

Imagine the case is delayed and the prosecutor is essentially a defense attorney for the police officers.

Imagine the grand jury fails to indict the officer, who was deemed emotionally unfit for duty.

Imagine your son was killed for having a toy gun in his waistband in an OPEN CARRY state.

Imagine the despair and the rage.

Of an entire people.

Imagine knowing that the bodies of your children, parents, siblings are not seen as human. That you might be shot if you so much as question a police officer as to why you were being stopped, while Richard Dear and Dylan Roof who had just MASSACRED people were arrested like they were the fucking Queen of England. While John Crawford was shot holding a TOY GUN in a Wal-Mart. While a white woman pointed a very real looking toy gun at police in Connecticut, daring them to shoot her, and she is alive today.

Imagine knowing that as a parent you have taught your children to follow the rules. To obey even. To respect authority. To stay out of trouble. To use their best judgment. Not to bow to peer pressure, especially when they know something is wrong. Imagine having the power and desire to teach them all this. Imagine teaching them great big words and the nuances and intricacies of the English language, and how to think, and work hard, everything else that equates with doing the right thing. Imagine knowing that despite all that, you can’t teach away their black skin, which might be the only thing that could save them.

Imagine over-disciplining your son in public. Not because you’re abusive, but because you are deathly afraid of white people thinking your kid is out of control. Imagine your desperation for people to see he knows better and to see the good in him.

Imagine knowing your white friends have a luxury of laissez-faire parenting that you never will. Aggressive, non-compliant white boys are called assholes. Aggressive, non-compliant black children are called inmates.

Imagine knowing that boys love playing with toy guns and that telling them not to is like telling a fish not to swim. Imagine knowing your son’s going to fashion anything he can into a shooter and that the literature says to indulge the fantasy because he’ll grow out of it! Imagine your terror when he wants to go outside with his white neighbors in your diverse neighborhood because they have waterguns and he wants to play, too. Imagine being terrified and sick to your stomach because even though the gun is blue and orange you never know these days.

Imagine having to make your son understand that going out to play could get him arrested or killed.

Imagine putting on a smile as you look at your now seven-year-old boy with his loss of baby fat, growing more sinewy and chiseled, and wishing he could stay three forever. Not because that was such a sweet stage, not because where did the time go, but because you could vomit with fear. Imagine knowing that so much of his country doesn’t care about him.

Imagine knowing that the men in your life could be detained by police because someone said “a black guy did it” or because law enforcement didn’t like the way he wore his pants.

Imagine knowing that the 2^nd Amendment has separate and unequal consequences when it comes to African-Americans. A black man sans badge is a suspect — he’s getting arrested, if not shot within seconds.

Imagine having white friends who love telling you that if you just do the right thing, you’ll be fine! Imagine having to listen to them perform intellectual gymnastics to explain away why the police/stand your ground guy was justified in doing what he did. Imagine having to wonder if they say anything that shows they understand anything about American history and racism at all or what they say when no people of color are around. Imagine having them dismiss your pain over and over again. Imagine wondering why you keep these people in your life when they’re colorblind/obtuse/such assholes.

Imagine knowing that when you protest, people will get angry because their shopping for, or their return travel to, their live children has been inconvenienced.

Imagine that, when it comes to talking about the perils of being black in America, you could go on for days wondering whether you are underclass or upper class.

Now, after all that, wonder. Don’t assume that it’s just like being fat or short or not having a Louis Vuitton purse like your fashionable friends. Really wonder how on top of everything else, African-Americans do this sickening dance every goddamn day. How with pain and fear gnawing at their hearts, they live and love and celebrate with fierce determination and have even just a little bit faith that their government and their fellow citizens might come around and acknowledge privilege and inequity, that they might even see them as human beings, even when all too much of the evidence says otherwise.

Wonder, and then do something.

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Keep the Magic Alive with a Free Letter from Santa

Keesha Beckford — Tue, 08 Dec 2015 18:00:43 +0000

Last year, the delicate eggshell of my six-year-old son’s Santa belief began to crack, and I couldn’t stand it.

First, it was the questions.

“How does Santa get all around the world to all those children in one night?”

“What about people who don’t have fireplaces?”

“How does he know exactly what to get us?”

I thought I fielded the questions so deftly I could easily be in the running to be some politico’s Chief-of-Staff. In record time, off my lips rolled a scenario about an all-knowing, fitness-challenged man who by transforming into a particle of light could squeeze under the tightest door or window frame. Judging by my then six-year old’s furrowed brow, I could tell he wasn’t completely satisfied, but would rest his case for the 2014 Christmas season. My tales weren’t going to last long without some tangible proof.

Then this year, the prosecution began anew. “You said that you wrapped all the presents but there were some that were from Santa,” he remarked.

I felt almost sick to my stomach.

“I think parents buy them.”

Think fast, think fast, think fast! I told myself. “Um, if you think that, you have to keep it to yourself.”

“Why?” His eyes widened. “Did I say something bad?”

“No, no, no.” Not that I wanted to, but the chance of me working in any field that required smooth-talking spin quickly evaporated. “It’s just that, um, you might confuse other kids. Parents might get very angry with you. And by the way, don’t tell your sister.”

Ugh! How could I keep my kids believing? How could I keep the experience of believing that someone they didn’t know, someone who loved all the world’s children, would give them their heart’s desires as long they as were good and kind and stayed on track? I HAD to keep the magic alive! We had elves on the shelves, and a microphone that delivered messages from the North Pole, but apparently they weren’t cutting it.

And then I hit the jackpot! My editor asked me to write a sponsored post about a Letter from Santa from Jewel-Osco.

Curious, I clicked onto the microsite, registered my information, and input several personal facts about my daughter, including what she wanted for Christmas. (Note: They warn you to list something your child wants and will actually GET. Your child thinking Santa is a Flabby Fraud is not the desired outcome of this service!) Seconds after I approved my daughter’s just-for-her message from Santa, I received via email, PDF copies of the free letter from Santa and an envelope addressed to my daughter, both on super cute North Pole Stationery.

I printed them up and BOOM! From less than two minutes of activity, and for absolutely free, Santa would live another holiday season in our home.

Later, when my little girl opened the mailbox and saw her letter, the joy on her face was priceless. Woo-hoo! I’d bought my children a few more months of belief. My daughter was overjoyed at the thought that Santa had written especially to her, and would now surely be armored against any seeds of doubt her big brother might try to plant in her mind, and just wait until he got his own personalized letter!

Brilliant!

And bonus, not only did I give my children a sweet surprise, but I’d get one too! For helping them to spread some holiday cheer, Jewel-Osco would send me some coupons from their partners providing some of the usual holiday favorites.

These coupons couldn’t come at a better time. I’ll definitely need some ways to save some cash. My daughter’s list is on the long side because she thinks that if Santa’s bringing the gifts, Mommy and Daddy don’t have to pay for them!

I have no intention of trying to keep my kids believing in Santa until they are old enough to vote, but I didn’t want this run to be over. As a dear friend of mine wrote, ” I wanted my kids to live in a magical world where old, chubby men slid down the chimney and gave them whatever they wanted for as long as I could make them believe. The older we get, the harder this world is on us. A little bit of hope, faith and magic never hurt anyone.”

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This is a sponsored conversation written by me on behalf of Albertsons Stores. The opinions and text are all mine.

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The Un-shaming of the Public Meltdown

Val Curtis — Thu, 10 Sep 2015 03:33:50 +0000

In the big book of Motherhood Hazing Rituals, one of the most horrific is your kid’s public meltdown. There you are, running the errands that will keep your family alive, or maybe even taking your children on an outing that most youngsters in the world could experience only in their wildest dreams, and then BOOM! Your kid is wailing as though someone had crushed her very soul. As though she had been maimed and tortured.Now of course — the dropped ice-cream cone, your refusal to buy her that coveted thing, the skinned knee, the hunger, the exhaustion — whatever injustice or injury your child is suffering, it is genuinely TOO MUCH in his or her little world.

Now of course — the dropped ice-cream cone, your refusal to buy her that coveted thing, the skinned knee, the hunger, the exhaustion — whatever injustice or injury your child is suffering, it is genuinely TOO MUCH in his or her little world.

But let’s not talk about them.Let’s talk about parent pain, because even though this wounded, deafening, perhaps flailing creature is your legal responsibility and the greatest love you have ever known, right now you’d sell her to an insulting opening bid on Ebay. You’re pissed at yourself for not somehow preventing this explosion, and it is taking all your self-control to avoid having your own meltdown.

Let’s talk about parent pain, because even though this wounded, deafening, perhaps flailing creature is your legal responsibility and the greatest love you have ever known, right now you’d sell her to an insulting opening bid on Ebay. You’re pissed at yourself for not somehow preventing this explosion, and it is taking all your self-control to avoid having your own meltdown.

What makes matters worse is everyone is staring at you. Everyone. You’re the target of eye rolling and sneers and frowns of pious judgment. As if you planned this. As if you woke up and said, “I WILL ruin everyone’s life by walking around with a toddler who looks like she’s possessed by Satan!” As much as you want to be that adult who doesn’t give a crap what people think, you wish the earth would swallow you whole.

Recently, actually recently times three, I walked the equivalent of several city blocks with my screaming five-year-old. The first time she’d lost her sunglasses, the second she’d mislaid a pretty rock at the beach, and the third time she’d fallen off a low ledge and scraped up her knees. Different situations, same ghastly shrieking. I hunkered down and marched like I was walking with Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. past a gauntlet of bigots. The disapproval in people’s stares was practically audible. I wanted to yell, “Shut it, @#$%&!” even though no one had said a thing.

Some of these people weren’t parents, so to them, you only saw howling kids if a mom was incompetent or downright criminal. I’ll forgive them because if they ever have children, oh boy, will they learn! But as for the people who were parents, what was their excuse? Did they really have to gawk? I mean, they’d been there! Was a small gesture of sympathy, of parental solidarity, really so much to ask?

And it didn’t take a professional shrink to see that some folks were thinking, “Maybe this seemingly calm lady did something HORRIBLE to the poor child!” That really stung. Couldn’t they tell I was clearly the victim here? I gave this kid pure magic and this is how I was repaid?

I don’t need to be scolded for my parenting.

Like any mom worth her lunch of the leftovers on her kid’s plate, I do enough self-hazing. I’m constantly busting my ass so that my kids are physically, intellectually, culturally, emotionally and socially engaged at the perfect calibration. I lose sleep over how I’m going to get it all done with the time, money and personalities I’ve been dealt. And then in a country that seems to be getting more absurdly dangerous by the second, I wonder how on earth to keep my kids safe.

So when I calmly fix my focus straight ahead, hold my head high, and stride past holding the hand of my hysterical child, no one’s got any business tut-tutting me. No way. I don’t deserve to feel an ounce of shame – not from myself, not from anyone.

As raw and loud and disturbing as that long walk may be, it’s not public humiliation. It’s not a hazing ritual. It’s masterful, clear-headed, rolling-with-the-punches parenting.

It’s a victory lap.

Mama’s Back To School Supply List

Keesha Beckford — Fri, 21 Aug 2015 18:00:02 +0000

These days, as a parent, “Back to School” means buying your kids stylish new outfits and a truckload worth of school supplies for the classroom collective. In terms of the latter, I’m waiting for the day when we’re asked to buy our kids their own desk and a new dress for the teacher. We spend the days before our children return to school running all over town like deranged chickens and ordering online into the wee hours of the morning, just to prove that we are mothers extraordinaire, able to fulfill every obligation perfectly and meeting needs our children didn’t even know they had.I think I just heard a primal scream.

It’s okay, honey. Let your feelings out!

Now, like most things parenting, who’s lost in this equation?

You guessed it.

Mom.

I mean, Hel-lo? What about our needs? Sure, we may be sitting home eating bonbons and watching HGTV all day, but we are just as involved in this school thing as those little people who will no longer be in our homes. Little people who spent the last months of their lives thinking we were their personal Julie the Social Director/Alice the Maid.

But seriously, all things school-related can turn motherhood – already an all-consuming job –into something that could have made Mother Theresa herself kick the lepers and shake her fists at the heavens. Don’t we moms deserve supplies that will keep us from hiding under the dining room table speaking gibberish and being hauled from our homes in a straitjacket? Don’t we moms need deserve new gear that could mean our very survival?

Don’t we deserve a back-to-school supply list of our very own?

Hell to the yes we do! And if the items below were available for public use, or existed at all for that matter, we’d be knocking each other down to get them.

Beds with an “EJECT” button.

2. “Accepting That Your Child is (Maybe) Slightly Above Average” on Audiobook

3. Organic bully repellent spray

4. An anti-lice halo (also organic, of course!)

5. An invisibility cloak.

6. A Hazmat Suit

7. Common-core-homework-sensitive Wine Drip

8. Self-preparing lunchboxes

9. Mitten clips for EVERYTHING

10. A badass mom-uniform. Make that 5.

11. Wigs for impossible hair days

12. An STFU app for asshat parents, kids, teachers, and coaches.

13. A supervisor who keeps us on schedule while the kids are gone

14. Kids’ breakfasts that vaporize if not eaten within 20 minutes

15. A vaccine against projects remembered at the last minute and lost permission slips

16. More relaxing and enjoying before they’re on their own.

Happy Back to School!

What do you need to get you through the school year?

Moms Behaving Badly

Keesha Beckford — Fri, 31 Jul 2015 22:33:15 +0000

Everyone knows their children are angels for everyone else, but nightmares at home, where they feel safe to let their inner asshole run free.

Don’t we parents do the same thing?

Recently, after a particularly shameful parenting episode, I realized that my inner asshole was not only running free, it had gone on a Viking raid. I had been by far the worst behaved person in the house, as hellacious my children ever were, if not more so because Mommy should be above that nonsense.

I remember when my babies were just born, when I was drunk on love, my heart exploding with adoration and the feeling that all I wanted and needed to do was nurture and protect these tiny people.

How did I get to the point where I could ball my fists and shake with rage as I scolded my children?

How did I come to the place where one part of me was appalled at my behavior and the other relished the release of a full-blown adult tantrum?

My son once told me that after a day following so many rules at school, he needed to come home and relax and be free. He was exactly right. Always following the rules, swallowing my feelings, and trying to live up to a myth of perfect motherhood had worn me down.

I was conscientious and polite — one of those women who was apologizing always, and confronting never. Seeing public displays of anger as unbecoming and ineffective on a woman – you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar — I limited my outbursts to the car. When I was in the car alone, or with other potty-mouthed adults, I let loose torrents of curses worthy of a prison gang. But otherwise, in public, I was Ms. Nicelady. Recently when a department head informed me that I was an esteemed finalist but wouldn’t be getting hired, I longed to tell her to save the consolation cliché fest, to inform her that I had been teaching for over 20 years, and how wrong this was, or even to ask her why, but I didn’t. Better to be polite than say what you mean.

With my children, I bent over backward to ensure a childhood full of playdates, enriching activities, toys and books, wholesome meals, and fun, fun, fun. This meant spending most of my days preparing all the delicious and healthy meals, wrangling often resistant kids to all the places, expecting/asking/begging them to do something for themselves Goddammit, always thinking about my never ending to-do list and spending precious little time on myself.

I was exhausted.

My kids became the target of my rage. Who else could I call out on their frustrating behavior, poor judgment, ridiculous choices, and utter lack of sensitivity? I couldn’t often say “What you just did/said sucked out loud and here’s why!” to many of the adults in my life – not at least if I wanted to avoid being some combination of divorced, friendless, or punched in the neck. My kids – my vulnerable little people who were learning how to get along in the world and for the most part, acting age-appropriately – were the victims of my enraged Supermom.

Perhaps too little, too late, I always told my kids I was sorry for my outbursts. I don’t know if it made me seem more human, or was fodder for many heart-to-heart chats with friends, significant others, and therapists in my children’s future. Maybe both.

When I was tearing my hair out about my kids crappy in-house behavior, a friend consoled me by saying it was “better to have a child who acts out at home than in public.” This person went on to tell me that my children had internalized how to behave in out in the world, and knew to let it all hang out only at home, where they were safe. Despite the fact that at home, my kids fought like wild animals, rolled their eyes, talked back, and ignored instructions like one would a rolling fart at a hoity party, I had done my job well.

But when I was having the outbursts, it didn’t mean I was doing my job well. It meant I needed to make some serious changes.

Taking better care of myself, breathing, and removing myself from situations where I felt supremely pissed off at my children would be a start, but wouldn’t put an end to my Mommy meltdowns.

As a family, we’d need to talk more about feelings, needs and triggers. Hubs and I would have to do more to show our children that as adults, we weren’t exempt from following our family rules. We’d have to have the courage and humility to demonstrate that we held ourselves accountable for our actions.

How great would it be for kids to understand that adults have room to mature emotionally and are still a work in progress?

It’s a lovely idea. But I draw the line at an adult behavior chart.

A Sister’s Warning to Princess Charlotte

Keesha Beckford — Sun, 07 Jun 2015 18:03:24 +0000

Dear Princess Charlotte,

I saw the photos your mom, I mean mum, took of you with your big brother. The world is smitten, thinking Prince George is the loving older brother already revealing himself as your adoring protector and best friend. From one little sister with a brother less than two years older to another, I cry bullspit, I mean bollocks.

Princess Charlotte, DO NOT BE FOOLED! DO NOT be lulled into a sense of complacency by those chubby cheeks and innocent grins. You are so close in age that your brother will always see you as the competition, having maliciously and prematurely stolen his place as the sole recipient of the rays of light that are your parents’ devotion. I guarantee you your brother’s regal blood is roiling with rage. Although you are only two weeks old, it is never too early to be vigilant. Or to consider clawing a fellow’s face like a deranged kitten.

Your brother simply cannot be trusted. Even your lovely parents cannot be fully aware of the evil lurking within your sibling’s immature, yet devious and diabolical mind. I am sure your parents have nannies and servants buzzing around, so they aren’t as exhausted as my parents, who raised my brother and me in a flat with only their addled minds and the walls to look after us, but still.

Princess Charlotte, let me share my story. When I was but one day old, my parents brought my brother, who, for the rest of this missive shall be referred to as Poopyface, into the hospital room where I was being fed at the breast of my dear mother. I cannot be sure what he was expecting to see, for surely my parents had prepared him for my arrival, but upon seeing me his face shattered into shards of horror, as though my mother had been nursing a shrunken Winston Churchill. Proving himself to be a self-centered maniac right from the get-go, Poopyface had the nerve to squeeze his arse onto my mother’s lap, even though it was clear that I so desperately needed affection and sustenance, the very things to which he’d had plentiful access for 18 months prior.

I immediately knew I had to be on high alert. My suspicions were correct, as but a few weeks later the words, “Don’t feed her,” actually passed that a-hole’s lips!

The child never let me have a moment’s peace. I’d be bobbing away in my bouncy seat, minding my own business, and Poopyface would be scheming nearby, or else taking my paci out of my mouth, or shoving it in my mouth as though trying to choke me. Later, no matter what I picked up to play with or eat, he savagely ripped from my hands. I had no choice but to howl, which caused my sleep-deprived parents to shout at him, only making him resent me more. Now, of course, the screaming is probably not an issue for you, as your mother is Cinderella post the glass slipper reunion while mine is perpetually Cruella de Vil on an acid flashback, but I just wanted to give you some perspective.

Honestly, the boy has made my young life a living hell. I cannot tell you how many times I have, racked with sobs, pleaded with him, “Why must you treat me with such heartless cruelty? What have I ever done to you?” I cannot overstate the number of times I’ve prayed he’d be sucked down under the pavement to become a sewer rat buffet; I cannot overstate the number of times I have informed this tyrant of my right to exist, passionately proclaiming, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere!” I realize that the peasant/colonial/revolutionary references are completely useless for you, but I’m a mixed-race American — they totally work for me.

And the betrayal! When there’s no one else around, Poopyface befriends me readily. But as soon some other little chappie comes around I’m chopped liver. It sears my soul.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m living with a spy thriller villain. I can never let my guard down, you know? I’m this close to developing anxiety and trust issues. But on the plus side, Poopyface has kept me on my toes and made me a girl who doesn’t take any crap from blokes. Every now and then he and I totally bond, like when mommy yells like a nutjob. Someday Poopyface and I will surely be the best of friends, but in the meantime, I’m sleeping with one eye open, and I advise you to do the same.

With the deepest respect and regard for your emotional well-being and physical SAFETY,

Signed,

A Little Sister in Chicago

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To My Colorblind Friend

Keesha Beckford — Tue, 14 Apr 2015 06:21:44 +0000

In the thick of the 1992 presidential election, I was a senior in college. I lived in a three-room suite with Lisa Chung and Tess Miller.* We were African-American, Taiwanese, and WASP, and did almost everything together. We were a walking Benetton ad.

Lisa and I were staunch Democrats, who would cast our first votes for Clinton/Gore. Tess was an ardent Republican, as was her boyfriend, Isaac. They were fond of bellowing, “Hello, this is the Clinton/Gore Rapid Response Team!” and bursting into hysterics. Tess’s boyfriend Isaac, a star debater, loved to give us shit for supporting Bill and Al.

One day we had had enough. Lisa spat, “We are voting for them because they at least try to understand what it is like to be a minority in this world. You have no idea what it’s like for us! You go on and vote Republican and think about why we wouldn’t in a million years.”

Tess sobbed in her room while we, feeling simultaneously emotionally cleansed and monstrous, stomped off to the Wawa, the campus version of 7-11. We’d eat away our stress and anger about race, class, and senior year in the form of empty calories.

Lisa and I knew that Tess, a wealthy girl from the Chicago suburbs couldn’t be expected to know what it was like to be a middle-class person of color. Tess loved us for being us, and thought little about our minority status, so much so that she forgot about it. She meant well, or at least she meant no harm.

But still.

Sometimes white friends like Tess have been sweetly innocent. In the summer of 1993, I was a 20-year-old college graduate. Which meant that when ID was required for the bars we were trolling in NYC, I was screwed. My fake ID wouldn’t have fooled a preschooler. One night a friend, a beautiful olive-skinned woman, tipsily piped up with an idea.

“Hey, Keesha! You can borrow my ID!”

I looked at her like she had three heads. Another friend blurted out, “Um, Kate? Keesha’s black.”

We had a good laugh over that. How adorable!

In 2005, during an ultra-feminine bonding session, replete with wine, snacks, wicked memories, and belly laughs, another dear friend tearfully declared, “I don’t think of you as black. You’re just my friend.”

Again, deer in the headlights. This time there was no one else there to come to my rescue. Seriously? And yet, I knew what she meant.

She couldn’t believe that anyone would refuse to be my friend because of ignorant, racist ideas. Lamenting the horrible world that put so much baggage on our being friends, she sincerely meant no harm.

But still.

Twenty-three years later, in the wake of the virulent racism Barack Obama’s everything has unleashed; the murders of Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, John Crawford, Eric Garner, Walter Scott, and countless others; and a media where racial issues seem to have replaced sex as a way to inflame people, I’m less likely to tolerate the colorblind friend.

Recently, in speaking about my piece Dear White Mom, I discussed the fear I have for my young son growing up in America. A close friend informed me that all I had to do is make sure he stayed out of trouble and remained respectful to the police.

Dear God.

I launched into a diatribe about how that was not the case for so many men of color all over the country. My friend honestly didn’t understand. To him, it was simple, because, colorblindness right? The rules were applied equitably. If only (Insert Black Man Shot here) had done the right thing, he’d still be alive. I was enraged.

A few months later, we found ourselves discussing racism in the ballet world. Our conversation got heated and ugly. I mentioned Michaela dePrince, an outstanding dark-skinned ballet dancer who performed at the prestigious Youth America Grand Prix — a dancer offered not a single contract with any major company in the United States, save Dance Theater of Harlem. I mentioned the fact that there are frighteningly few African-American ballet dancers in the major companies in the United States. “If the ballet world, if any organization or institution truly values diversity, it must reach out to people of color.” My friend did not agree at all.

Our argument roiled on. “You really don’t think that Michaela dePrince’s lack of being offered a contract had nothing to do with race?” I asked. He couldn’t say that it did, wouldn’t even entertain the idea that at least in some cases it must have, which was all I wanted.

I was furious. “You really don’t get what it’s like to be black in America!” I snapped.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be white!”

That said it all. Our evening was over.

We saw each other a week later. We revisited the matter in guarded tones. My friend admitted that racism existed but was leery of calling it out until he was absolutely sure. I, on the other hand, could only be leery of a person who thought racism deserved the benefit of the doubt. It scares me when colorblindness makes people equate a loss of an opportunity based on race to being short or having acne. I can’t wholeheartedly trust someone who cannot fully support policies that would prevent little boys and little girls like me from achieving.

The panoramic lenses of race and class and color that filter American life have shaded our experiences in vastly different ways. Sometimes it’s like we’re looking at separate worlds. Some people see America as a generally level playing field.

I can’t.

Admittedly, I’m lucky to have friends with whom I can speak about race openly and honestly. But the conversations are still painful.

Sometimes colorblindness is exactly the way it should be. I’m friends with certain people because we share a love of Seinfeld, SNL, slightly offbeat fashion, early 90s hip-hop, non-stop sarcasm, Jon Stewart, and have each others’ backs always. But colorblindness can never mean walking through America’s jagged racial landscape with a thick blindfold and earplugs and meaning well. Although I’ve been called an Oreo more times than I care to admit — a problem in itself– nothing could be further from the truth.

This skin means something.

Beware the Colorblind Friend. This skin means something.
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20 Things an Only Child Will Learn About Siblings

Keesha Beckford — Tue, 03 Mar 2015 03:59:06 +0000

As the only child of a single mother, I longed for a brother or sister. A playmate. A confidant. A partner in crime. I thought having a sibling was like having your best friend living in your house. I’m not sure why. One of my best friends at the time had a younger sister, and those two girls fought like tomcats in a sack. Somehow I thought they were the exception, not the rule.

Now that I have two kids, a son and a daughter respectively, born 18 months apart, I see that my former bestie and her little sis were normal, and I was clueless. Being a daily witness to shenanigans ranging from silly to bloodthirsty has taught me a thing or 20 about sibling dynamics. Here goes:

1. Siblings = a 14 hour/day Fight Club.

2. You thought you were giving your firstborn the precious gift of a sister. Your firstborn thinks you set out to ruin his life.

3. Even with a sibling and a crap ton of toys in the house, your kids still think you’re supposed play with them!

Listen to Keesha read this on STITCHER – LIBSYN – iTunes

4. Somehow you’re always favoring one kid.

5. Actually, you do favor one kid, but which kid it is changes. It just depends which kid isn’t driving-you-batshit-crazy at the moment.

6. Never making a child feel slighted means siblings are more spoiled than only children could ever hope to be.

7. Siblings treat each other like trash and other kids like gold. Except when they don’t know anyone else.

8. The best sibling bonding seems to come when they’re treating you like a substitute teacher with a bad wig.

9. That if k equals total kids, then a temporary spell of k-1 is 687% less stressful than k.

10. Never underestimate the skills of a kid who wants to throw her brother under the bus. She’ll play you like a saloon piano.

11. An only child has no friggin’ clue what a noisy house is.

12. Having siblings not only fails to make a kid good at sharing, but actively trains him to be more of a badass at making sure no one plays with his stuff. EVER.

13. Sibling M.O.: If you can’t be as good as your sib, be the better a–hole.

14. When they want to keep something from you they make the “blue wall of silence” look like a gossip circle.

15. Fair is, in every sense, a four letter word and and the other f-bomb.

16. The child screaming “Go away!” and “Leave me alone!” will be all up in his sib’s grill two minutes later.

17. The brother or sister your children want the most belongs to another family.

18. They understand the rules perfectly — when their sibling isn’t following them.

19. They’re perfectly independent and have nothing to say, until your other child has your attention.

20.That in those rare moments when your kids are getting along, you’ll swear you see a rainbow arcing over them.

How has your family changed your perspective on family size, composition, or birth order?

Have Some White Privilege With Your Coffee

Val Curtis — Wed, 07 Jan 2015 01:42:47 +0000

By 7:50 a.m. on the first day after winter break, I had gotten my son awake, fed, dressed in his uniform, all bundled up, and delivered to school. This was huge, considering that for the last two weeks we’d been lounging in bed until 9.00.

I deserved a treat.

I took myself to Starbucks and ordered a cappuccino. Because I paid in cash, my transaction took a camel’s gestation period. As the barista helping me readied my bills and change, the other called out, “Sir, your order is ready.” The fortyish man ahead of me had ordered four coffees, and required one of those nifty coffee-carrier trays Starbucks so conveniently provided.

“Excuse me,” he said. I stepped aside a little. I thought I could still get my change while leaving him enough space to lift his tray off the counter.

But in terms of his intentions and how much space he needed – I had it all wrong. He wanted to slide his tray off the counter, and squeezed in front of me to do so. Was it too close for comfort for a moment? Definitely. But I’d ridden under broad swaths of Manhattan next to someone who smelled like a box of rotten onions. This was no big deal. The man stepped away; I got my change and took my coffee to the “fixins bar.”

“Now didn’t that man just violate your space right back there, didn’t he?” I looked up to see a middle-aged African-American man dressing his own beverage and grinning conspiratorially.

I had almost forgotten what just happened. “Oh, he just needed more space to get his coffee,” I shrugged.

The African-American man snorted. “That’s white privilege, that’s what it is!”

What the . . .? “Okay, right…” I mumbled feebly, then grabbed my coffee and scurried toward the door.

White Privilege? Really? That? It’s come to this? I mean, of course, there was a lot to be furious about. It seemed like race-based conflict was everywhere — in the streets, stores, and all over the Internet, with outright racists and those who denied race as a factor in ANYTHING running amok like Wal-Mart shoppers on black Friday.

But this wasn’t part of that struggle. I couldn’t even see it as one of those subtle acts of white privilege, where someone’s belief in his own superiority, or ignoring someone else’s existence, was so ingrained they didn’t even know how entitled they were.If anything, as a small woman, barely 5’3” and a size 2, I saw it more as Male Privilege – the kind expertly demonstrated by dudes who took up half the sidewalk, used public seating to say, “Yes, I CAN fit a Mini Cooper between my knees!”, and never, ever, apologized for bumping into you.

If anything, as a small woman, barely 5’3” and a size 2, I saw it more as Male Privilege – the kind expertly demonstrated by dudes who took up half the sidewalk, used public seating to say, “Yes, I CAN fit a Mini Cooper between my knees!”, and never, ever, apologized for bumping into you.

But even that felt weak, and besides, I suppose I could have given him more room. Even if the guy was a legacy acceptance at Yale and was gliding through life on trust funds, family reputation, and being “the Man” to legions of oppressed workers, this wasn’t an act that could compete in the White Privilege Playoffs. Not by a long shot.

As for “white privilege,” it is a monumentally serious issue, one that cuts deeply into our world, our nation and our individual humanity. It is a source of great suffering and pain. But it’s in danger of becoming a buzzword now, overused, responsible for everything from slavery to someone sidling in front of you to get coffee. The term could go the cliché way of words like shaming and bullying. Someone was on a diet, and friend “bullied” them into sharing a slice of cheesecake? A curvy person felt shamed because a salesgirl suggested she find more flattering pants than leggings?

What do people who have really been bullied and shamed have to say about that?

On the other hand, maybe the African-American man felt relief to have another context for the knockdowns – emotional and perhaps even physical – he, or people he knew, had experienced. But a white person’s misstep toward a person of color doesn’t necessarily reflect a belief in his own superiority. And nor is a black person’s every action a reflection of poverty, low self-worth, a lifetime of degradation, or a desire to stick it to the Man.

Sometimes people are just stupid. Clumsy. Clueless. Spatially challenged. Or they might be having a bad day.

And sometimes, it’s simply that, we’re improvising in public spaces with strangers, and our movement is completely off.

Mixed Blessings: Living in a Biracial Family

Keesha Beckford — Tue, 07 Oct 2014 06:07:13 +0000

It isn’t easy being part of a mixed race couple.

At all.

Just look at the lesbian couple suing because they wanted the sperm of a white man, and they got some black dude’s swimmers. Sure they might have a beautiful biracial girl, but I’m sure they remember how people got all pitchforky over that Cheerios commercial a while ago. I mean, come on, they’re already lesbians, do really they need a little black girl to give them more points on the Sean-Hannity-Hates-You scale?

Like hell they do, and they’re willing to risk the fact that someday, their little girl will find out that her mommies sought money because a little brown girl like her was not on their agenda.

I’m disgusted with their suit, but they are right about needing emotional fortification, because when you’re a member of a mixed race family you attract more attention than a gal with three boobs. People either stare unabashedly or actually break a sweat trying to take their eyes off the “swirl” before them. Luckily, unless you’re in a particularly rednecky area or have run into a truly despicable person, most people’s stares don’t read, “If I only had my robe and hood!”

These days the usual reaction is more like “My, isn’t that a pretty pony?!” It’s like your family is a walking study in racial features. “Get a load of that skin/ hair/ eyes? Are those blue? Well, I’ll be!” It’s like folks have found the best Mr. Potato Head creation ever made and are wrapping their heads around how all the parts came together. These people are curious to see if mixed-race kids have three legs or maybe a face on one side of their ass. How comforted they are to know the truth! Legend has it that their sighs of relief have stirred up several tornadoes.

Staring aside, the real issue is people’s expectations — expectations that give mixed race parents a challenge that begins at conception, if not on the first date! Before my children were even tiny buns in the oven, people were saying how gorgeous they’d be. Can you imagine the pressure!?! Hubs and I are very nice looking people, but we’re not exactly Lupita and Brad.

I mean, what if we failed? What then? Would we be doomed to a life of apologizing about our homely biracial child? I could just see it — our poor kid shunned from the Hot Mixed-Kids Club because instead of being born a delectable caramel-hued Halle Berry, she or he was more like a cream of-mushroom-soup-colored Carrot Top.

It was beyond stressful.

Thank God my children hit the jackpot. They look like all those awesome looking mixed-race people kicking ass and taking names in the magazines and catalogs these days. Not to brag or anything, but my children stop traffic. We’ve almost caused accidents because a motorist couldn’t get on with his day without stealing a look. Hubs and I sometimes get embarrassed (he turns beet red, but Lord knows, I can’t!) with people throwing themselves at us just to tell us how beautiful our children are. Sometimes I fantasize about putting my kids on Ebay when they misbehave; I know I’d make a killing in a bidding war!

But, truth be told, despite the fact that we poop Oreos, we’re just like any other family. Sadly, the spotlight we live under doesn’t wash our dishes, get rid of our clutter, or stop our kids from wanting to beat the crap out of each other seventeen seconds after they’ve woken up.

If only the spotlight had the mind-altering abilities to make people realize that it’s normal for a blue-eyed parent to cuddle his or her brown-skinned kids. That it could make them realize that a dark-skinned woman can have a fair child who actually grew in her body. And most of all, that it could make people realize that not all families look the same.

But it doesn’t. The spotlight is just a glare we live under.

Sometimes it’s fine; most of the time we can handle it. Most people mean no harm. We’ve gotten used to it in the way that, eventually, people can get used to anything. Still, the spotlight is easily misdirected, and when it is, it sucks out loud. It can be anywhere from annoying, to rude, to hurtful, and we want it to go away.

So about that spotlight. . . if you’re aiming it in our direction, for the love of God, please turn it off.

Or at least point it towards us briefly, and with a friendly smile, before going on with your day.

Keesha Beckford - BonBon Break

Just You Wait, New Mom!

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