The Barber Shop

It’s about time I threw in the towel. I have been the (mostly) sole provider of Austin’s haircuts since he was born – I even carried out the traditional year 1 cut usually reserved for the hands of grandmothers. Well, I have never really been the traditional type. I started off his last haircut in Kenya and then it was finished off by our neighbor, Martin. And I felt that Austin’s head suddenly looked like a very bad, u-shaped bald version of Mr T. Then I tried again on my own here in the US and at the end of it, despite his cooperation, he had two dipped-to-the-scalp patterns on one part of his head. Thankfully, nobody really noticed them. Best of all, the subject himself remained blissfully ignorant of the hot mess atop his head. Continue reading

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‘Don’t Get Shooted’

My son turned two yesterday. He loves police cars. I bought him a little cheap UN Police car from a mall play area when he refused to sit on the little train and instead just wanted the police car. He almost always insists on seeing my phone so I can show him ‘polisi’ – a 3:45 minute long video on youtube from the Middleton police that showcases sirens and lights, police cars and dogs, police women and tough terrain, with a very catchy song about all the great work done by the police.

Austin loves police cars. When I have my beloved Law and Order on in the background as I am feeding him his breakfast porridge, as soon as he sees Lenny or hears the ‘dun-dun’ sound that all L&O afficionados know and love, he yells out, ‘Polisi!’ and it is amazing.

Austin is also American. And Black.

He looks to me for an explanation of how to treat other people outside our little cocoon. When he hears me say thank you to the bagger at the supermarket, he echoes me. When he hears me respond yes sir on the phone to someone I respect, he repeats it verbatim. When he hears me call his nanny Miss Betty, he runs around the house chanting it as often as he can remember. Now I am faced with, how shall I model for him how to react to the police when it seems the odds may already be stacked against him?

Philando Castile. Diamond Reynolds.

Even after they shot Philando, Diamond continued to address the officer as ‘Sir’ and he still had his gun drawn as her boyfriend’s life slipped away. Her 4 year old daughter understood, more than I could comprehend, and if you have seen the video, she pleads for her mama to stop cursing and screaming because she did not want her ‘to get shooted’ – Trevor Noah did a great commentary on this for the Trevor Noah show last week.

Austin is American. Austin is Black.

My experience as an African immigrant, a woman at that, has been a bit different than Amadou Diallo’s. Once, in Long Beach where I lived, I was coming home from a long shift at the Emergency Room in Inglewood, and I got off the train and was walking the 5 blocks home. A black-and-white rolled up next to me, and the window rolled down. One, I was not scared. This was in 2006, before the madness enveloped everything around us. Two, the officer was a white male. Three, it was 0100 and I was walking alone.

He asked me how I was doing. My accent kicked in right away – I said I was fine, heading home after work. He asked where I was from, I smiled as I had anticipated this question the moment I spoke. Everyone ALWAYS asks me where I am from when I speak. I told him, Kenya. He asked where I was coming from. I said, I work at the hospital. Then he asked if I needed a ride and I said, oh no thanks. Home is right over there…but thank you!

And that was that.

When I got home, my brothers were visiting. Tall, dark, African brothers of mine. I told them to never sit outside on the stoop after dark again. Nobody is going to wait to hear if you have an accent before they shoot.

So what will I model for Austin? Will I always fall back on my accent? What happens the one day when they begin to fear accents?

As a mother to a male child of color, I never thought I would have to train him up on how to survive any encounter with the police, especially if he was innocent or had done no wrong. In Kenya, we are all almost the same color, different versions and tones of black. We look like all of our cops here. In fact, here, if you were NOT black, you probably got treated a lot better by the authorities. In the US, it is a bit different.

I am afraid of how I shall tell my son that he faces an uphill battle, against all sorts of systems in the US. I know that I want him to be a strong man, of positive character, God-fearing, respectful and law abiding. I also want him to know that sometimes things happen and we may never know the reason why things happen that way. And, at times, justice does not respect your skin color. Code-switching is a difficult maneuver – when and how to do it are key. Especially when it means the difference between life and death.

I do not want to raise him afraid. I do not want him to walk with his head held down, buoyed down by society telling him that his life does not matter as much as the next white person’s. I do not want him to feel like a second class citizen. I do not want him to have to engage his accent when dealing with certain sets of people.

I do want to raise him to do the right thing. I do want him to still love police cars even when he is 35. I do want him to grow up to be the best him he can be. I do want to raise him dripped in so much love that he shares that light with the world, despite the darkness that threatens to envelop us daily.

He loves police cars.

I hope he grows up knowing that he does not have to fear them. In any part of the world. I hope he grows up knowing to stand up for himself when he needs to, and he will need to. Simply because, my little one is Black. All I wish and pray and beg for him is for him never to get ‘shooted’, least of all by the police, the same who are to protect and serve.

Please stay safe, son.

 

Hospital

So, we had our first stay admitted at a hospital. The little one had had a racking cough for a few days, and two nights with a fever. Saturday lunchtime, he told me,’ya-ya’ (lala – sleep in Swahili) and climbed into my arms and fell asleep, mouth ajar, lips cracked. He hardly ever asks for ‘ya-ya’ so I knew something was not right. He was hot, not warm, to the touch and he just did not seem right. When he woke up, an hour later, he was lethargic and could barely keep his eyes open and mouth closed. I checked his temperature with my tympanic thermometer and with my oral thermometer (we have 3 thermometers in the house). 102 by the American tympanic. 39.8 by the oral thermometer. Continue reading

New Year’s Kiss.

He led me away from the party, my right hand loosely clasped in his left. I felt like I was sixteen again and memories of my first kiss flickered in my mind. I followed behind him as we made our way past the cottages that dotted the reserve, the music from the wedding DJ thudded in the background. I was a little apprehensive. I mean, I had watched enough Law & Order, Arrest & Trial to stop and pull back a little then ask if he had plans to kill me in the bushes. His answer? “…to kiss you” Continue reading

Happy New Year

It’s a new year. I walked into it on the heels of dancing and quickly downed glasses of Viceroy Brandy with Stoney Tangawizi mixed in. I watched a new friend serenade her brand new husband, and my tears threatened to drop, despite my very best efforts. A wedding on New Year’s Eve was not how I expected to spend the new year. But it was great. It was in the middle of the great Rift Valley, and we had to stop halfway through our vehicular drive over some rough terrain (thank goodness for 4-wheel-drive capabilities) to let a family of giraffes night-chomping down on some greenery and brush move out of the way. I saw a hippo as we worked the car down the rough road in the inky velvet of the night as we left the party spot, headed back to our thatched cabin that had a view of Lake Naivasha.

It’s a new year.

Writing, creativity, self-expression, fashion, love, prosperity, faith, coupledom…all are ahead of me and I am excited. Thrilled.

 

Happy new year!!!

Birthday(s)

Two weekends ago, my little boy hit the one-year mark. I released a sigh of relief, wiped the sweat from my forehead, the sweat that accumulated each time I woke up at night to check if he was breathing, each time I placed my hand on my back in the inky blackness of our bedroom to see if I could feel his life pulse through him, each time I left him in the room to sleep and I constantly jumped up every 5 seconds whenever I thought I heard him stir…

This weekend, I turned a year older. I released a sigh of happiness, sipped on my favorite cocktail all day long while surrounding myself with the friends who decided to do a BBQ for me, for my friends with birthdays near or around my own – we roasted goat meat, marinated in a mix of lemon, rosemary, water and berbere. 

Birthdays have always meant so much to me. Forget any other holiday or commercialized celebration, but NEVER forget my birthday. I do not hanker for gifts. I hanker for time, for conversation, for meaningful hugs. I got all these and more today. I got a perfectly timed email from my love, Austin’s Dad. I got a sweet hug from Continue reading