Motion Masquerade

The other day I was having a conversation with a member of my family about my genre studies course — in all things horror (yay!) — coming up this fall; and, I mentioned that my highly qualified professor, who I’m extremely excited about taking the course with, is Diné.

“He’s what? Dinah? What the hell does that mean?” she asked.

“No, not dinah,” I said, “Diné. He’s a member of the Navajo Nation.”

She sighed in frustration and asked, “Are any of your professors in that damn department White? All I ever hear about are the minority or the gay instructors you’re learning from.”

I almost mentioned that “gay” is not a skin tone — and that there’s only one human race — but held my tongue.

“Most of the faculty members are White,” I replied. “You know this. My thesis advisor is White. The head of the department, who I’ve taken two other classes with, is White. My post-modernist professor was also Caucasian. And, my favorite professor — the one I’ve taken three courses with in as many semesters — is from Southern Louisiana and is as pale as they come.”

“Which one?” she asked. “The one with the Mexican wife and the gay child?”

“Yes,” I said, growing exasperated with her bigotry, “that one.”

“He doesn’t count,” she countered.

Shocked and dismayed I wanted to ask, Well, hell. Does that mean I’m not White? (My husband and my son are both Hispanic.) But I didn’t, knowing that would lead to nothing positive.

Growing up I never thought of my family as racist because I wasn’t racist. I didn’t think of them as intolerant because I had tolerance. I was taught the Golden Rule — Treat others as you would treat yourself — and I did my best to live by it. It wasn’t until I had an unfortunate conversation with my husband that I learned something was off.

What the hell did you just say?!

Years and years ago, Michael and I were on our way to a Sidewinders baseball game and we were driving through some older neighborhoods on the South Side of Tucson — the historic barrios. The houses were small, but well kept. They had beautiful yards and front porches; and, there were families outside barbequing and enjoying one another’s company. It was something I hadn’t seen since leaving the Midwest and I was overjoyed by the sight of it.

Happy to feel like I was in a familiar environment, I smiled and said to my then boyfriend (now husband), “Oh, my gosh! So this is where all the porch monkeys are!”

Michael slammed on the brakes and said, “What the hell did you just say?”

There was incredulity in his voice; and, I could tell by the horrified look on his face that I’d done something wrong. I just didn’t know what. “Um,” I said hesitantly, “I said, this is where all the porch monk…”

He cut me off and said, “Why would you say that?”

“Because it is,” I said, mystified. “Look. Everyone is out on their porches enjoying the day.”

“You know that’s a highly offensive, racist term, right?” my husband said, looking at me in shock.

“What?” I said, completely baffled. “No, it’s not! That’s just a term for folks who like to sit in their rocking chair and drink lemonade on a porch!”

Michael’s face calmed, and he said, “No, Babe. It isn’t. It’s a really racist term that people use as a slur — usually against African Americans.”

I was mortified. My family had often used the term in my neighborhoods growing up, and I’d always assumed it was because families had children that were running around their yards like little monkeys while the adults sat on the porch and drank. I had never known it had a sinister history.

The first time the two of us saw Clerks II, my husband rocked with laughter, tears running down his face. “See Babe?” he said, “You’re not the only idiot on the planet. Randall didn’t know it was a racist term either. The two of you can take it back.”

I haven’t repeated those words since Michael explained what they meant.

Dreadful Cultural Misunderstandings

The first time I took Michael to meet my parents, my mother answered the door in a long, simple denim dress with a pattern painted across the torso. They were popular amongst the women in Oro Valley and sold in expensive boutiques like Chicos; but, in my husband’s universe they were known as “house dresses.” So he mistakenly said, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to catch you in your house dress.”

My mom didn’t understand why he would say such a thing. She was angry, but also mortified. Later, I tried to explain what had happened — to no avail. Mom owned half a dozen of those dresses and never wore them again. As a result, she’s also never gotten along very well with Michael.

We went to a local steak house for the freshman meeting of our two families; but, at the last minute, my father was called away on business. Thus, the majority of folks in attendance were Michael’s family. Of the nine people at the dinner table, only three were from mine.

We had a fairly pleasant meal; but, when the bill came due my mom insisted on paying it. When Pete, Michael’s father, said that he was more than happy to pay it Mom argued with him. She said she didn’t mind picking up the tab as “it was an expense that wouldn’t hurt their checkbook.” (In her defense, my mom thought she was being kind because she knew that her and my father were far more wealthy than Michael’s family.)

Clearly insulted, Pete countered with, “What? Are you offended with the thought of a Mexican paying for your meal?”, paid the bill, and my mom left the restaurant in a huffy hurry.

Our families haven’t gotten along since.

How are you related to these people?!

When Michael and I announced our engagement my father joked — aloud and to my fiancé’s face — that he was going to buy him a leaf-blower as an engagement gift. He explained that if Michael had the leaf-blower he could then use it in the yard and people in our neighborhood wouldn’t question why he was there. The whole time he was saying this he was laughing out loud as he served my husband a Dos Equis. (Not my husband’s preference in beer, just a dumb assumption on my dad’s part.)

I was absolutely mortified but — try as I might — I couldn’t get my dad to shut the hell up.

I cried all the way home and kept apologizing to Michael. To his credit he held my hand and said, “Babe, I knew what I was getting into. You are not your family. They’re just who you’re related to.”

“I know,” I said through snot-choked sobs, “they just frustrate the holy living shit out of me. After all these years they still call Anton [my son] their ‘Mexican’ grandbaby. He’s never just their grandson. It’s infuriating!”

“They are who they are,” Michael said, “and I’ll love them regardless because I love you. It’s a wonder you turned out the way you did though. How are you related to those people?”

My husband has always been able to find the silver linings and the laughter in the worst of situations.

Those are definitely terrorists. Call the police.

When you love people, you can turn a blind eye to a lot of their faults. For the longest time I was able to tell myself that my parents’ not-so-subtle racism was contained to the confines of what happened within their immediate family; and then, I had morning coffee on the porch with my mom.

I was visiting my folks in Flagstaff and having a leisurely early morning cup of joe with Mom on her front porch. We were discussing nonsense and watching the easy activity of the neighborhood pass us by.

Across the street, one of the houses was decorated in streamers and balloons of pastel pinks and blues with a cutout of a stork on the garage door — clearly signs of a baby shower. As the morning wore on, guests started to arrive dressed in gorgeous saris and beautifully tailored kurtas. And then, a man pulled up in front on my parents’ home wearing a turban.

He got out of his car and stood beside the driver’s side door as he smoked a cigarette. My mom tensed up, sat forward in her chair, and whispered, “Now what do you think this guy is up to?”

“What guy?” I asked.

“This one, in the turban,” she said, ducking behind a baluster.

“Uh,” I said, “I assume he’s smoking a cigarette before entering the party.”

“Shhh,” my mom hissed, “keep it down.” She moved her chair toward the front of the porch and peered over the railing. “He’s all alone. Why would a man be going to a baby shower alone? Wait! He’s opening his trunk.” She gasped and said in a frightened voice, “Oh my God! It’s full of fertilizer. Isn’t that what terrorists use to build bombs? Get your father. We need to call the police.”

“What?” I practically shouted. “Mom, you are losing your shit. Hang on.” I got up and walked towards the driveway as my father emerged from the house.

I could hear my mom whisper behind me, “Tom, get ready to call the police.”

“What the hell is going on now?” my dad asked in a tired voice.

I strolled to the end of my parents’ driveway and said, “Good morning!” I waved and smiled at the gentleman.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling back.

“It looks like a big baby shower,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “my sister-in-law is expecting twins.”

“Ah,” I said, “that explains the dual colors. She must be very excited.”

“She is,” he said, smiling again while retrieving brightly wrapped gifts from the boot of his car.

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I hope you enjoy the party!”

“Thank you, young lady,” he said, and walked across the street to join the festivities.

I bounced back up to my seat on the porch and said, “Wow, Ma. That was a bit racist.”

My mom seethed with hostility and turned burgundy with anger. She furrowed her brow and practically spat at me, “I. Am not. A racist!” And with that she stood, her robe twirling out behind her like a vampire’s cape, and stormed into the house.

“Cassie,” my dad said in an exhausted tone, “do you really have to bait your mother like that?”

“She does it to herself, Dad,” I said, and returned to enjoying my coffee and nicotine in tolerant silence.