Being An American

  

   
     The final project for my Ethnic Literature course at Kean University was to present a digital story about, "What it means to me to be an American," and it was very emotional. Besides the fact that my audio did not work during my presentation like it did an hour before class, I was saddened and discouraged by the one and only question that came from a classmate in the audience. The question was, "Are you saying we should still be blaming the white man for our problems?" I thought in my mind, I could not have done a good job of expressing my story if bitterness and blame is the only 'take-away' the class perceived about me being an American. My feelings about America stems from the Hope I have that we as a nation can work together and create a truly equal nation for all the people.
  

"The Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World" 1886

     Most of my classmates digital stories spoke about how they, their parents or grandparents immigrated to America for a better life of opportunities. Others described the identity crisis that comes from being a first generation American or a tragic event that bought their family together. That is all wonderful and I sincerely loved hearing the diverse multicultural experiences of American life. However I did not immigrate to this country. My ancestors were always here. See I am an American whose ancestors helped the pilgrims survive and I am also a descendant of people who were forced to build America with free labor.

 From (1910-1930) & (1940-1970)

     To me, my American story is not about how my father migrated north to escape the Jim Crow oppression of Georgia in 1964. Nor is my American story about my mother. She was born in New Jersey but wrongly imprisoned for six years of her youth in 1958 because her case was seen by a judge, who saw no need to be lenient to a group of people predisposed to antisocial, violent behavior. I could not present these stories leading to my birth because my parents' American story is not my story, it is their story. My story of being an American is about having Hope for Americans, who look like me and cannot assimilate into the ideal image of an American, despite the "everyone is equal" motto.

Book by: Dr. Beth E. Richie (2012)

     

     As I thought about a final topic for this blog entry and my digital story was just short of a debacle, I decided to write my story about being an American. Writing my story seems only fitting since I am a descendant of two ethnic groups distinctly known for great storytelling. Perhaps I can make my ancestors proud by telling my own story of Hope? My Hope is that other Americans will eventually be willing to openly discuss the remaining barriers my people still face on our journey of social mobility, without assimilated people feeling like my people are playing "the race card."

     My story begins as a child growing up in Newark, New Jersey. Almost all of the people in my neighborhood migrated from sharecropping fields somewhere in the segregated south. The only exceptions to my complexion were the few Spanish speaking families from U.S. territories in the Caribbean. Those Caribbean descendants would move out the area and assimilate into America the moment they earned enough money to move to neighborhoods that were more pale, like Belleville or Nutley, New Jersey. These particular towns and areas were notorious for harassing descendants like me back then.

     My neighborhood in the South Ward of Newark was filled with vacant lots us kids would play in. Those bare dirt lots were the remnants of burned down homes and businesses from the riots of 1967, which happened only five years before my birth.

     I knew everybody in the neighborhood and they knew me and my family. In the summer, makeshift teams played baseball in West Side Park, which was the Great American Past-time. Folks in the South, West and Central Wards would gather in the bleachers to watch the games. This helped us beat the heat as most folks did not have air conditioning. And when it got dark, the street lights came on and kids had to be home. It was not uncommon in my youth before cell phones, to see a mother, stick her head out the window and scream for her children to come home and eat supper like we were still in the fields. Back in those days, our parents called lunch, dinner and dinner was supper, which was another remnant of our parents southern culture. Children like me learned respect for others very young. In fact, it was improper for a child to call an adult by their first name. Adults in authority like teachers were always referred by their last names and if that adult was on a first name basis, you had to place a Miss or Mister before their name as a sign of respect. If you did not follow this proper name rule, that adult could smack you, then they would tell your parents a day later, and your parents would smack you again and make you go apologize to your elder for blatant disrespect!

     I was very fortunate growing up that my parents were firmly established in the American Dream with their own two family home that had a finished basement and a big backyard we used for cookouts. I went to a private school, where all the kids looked like me. We learned about the Civil War and Juneteenth in addition to Andrew Jackson and Independence Day. My mother stayed at home to care for me my dad worked long days. My folks were firm believers in the American Dream. So dad decided to buy a bigger house across town, in a better neighborhood, and make our old home a rental property. Dad said, "One day this house will be your income producer." I had no idea what he meant at that time.

     This new neighborhood was very different from the norm I was used to. All the houses had large front lawns with driveways, they had white picket fences and some of the houses even had pools. Our new house had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen with a nook, dining room, den and stairs in the front and back of the house. This new place looked like the house on the early 1980's television show "Momma's Family." I loved that I had a big bedroom and my dad converted another bedroom into a play room just for me. I was loving this American Dream, so far.

     All our neighbors appeared to have stepped right out of an American sitcom, where folks jogged early in the morning and a boy on a bike delivered the newspaper everyday. I was excited to meet and play with these new TV kids, (a nickname I gave them back then). In my old community, a kid with a new bike, skates, and a big fig tree in the backyard just waiting to be picked for snacks, would be welcomed to play any time. Sadly, these new strange looking TV kids didn't play outside and when they did, no one would invite me to join, even with all my cool toys. That was the hardest summer ever. 

     By the time I started my new Catholic school on this side of town, I was one of five or six novelties in the whole school. In my class, the girls would giggle at me, feel my hair or touch my skin, and make crude remarks. Before moving here, everyone always complimented my hair for being so long, wavy and curly past my shoulders. Here the girls would ask me, "If we cut your hair... and roll it into a ball, will it work like Brillo?" Perhaps one of the most confusing experiences I had with the TV kids was being the only kid not asked to come into a classmate's house for a snack after-school. His mother says, "I just can't okay." All the other kids went inside and had cookies with their juice but his mom was still nice enough to give me a disposable cup with juice in it, to take with me on my way home.

     I was about ten years old when it became clear to me that I was somehow different. No matter how many toys I had, I could never assimilate into being like my neighbors. Then my dad had a minor car accident at a stop sign around the corner from our home. It was late that night in the summer, when it happened and my dad got out of his Lincoln Town Car to see if the woman driving the other car was okay. I guess she was expecting to see one of the TV

Lincoln Town Car 1979

people get out the Lincoln or perhaps she was really tipsy when she ran the stop sign. Whatever was her issue, upon seeing my dad pop out the car, she screamed out "RAPE!" My dad said she was hysterical and would not calm down. She kept screaming rape, until she woke up the sleeping neighbors. A group of TV men answered this woman's call for help. The men came running over, some even had baseball bats. They beat my father until he was bloody and unconscious in the middle of the road. Then they went on to destroy dad's car that he loved so much because he was able to pay it off before we moved to the new house.

     When dad woke up it was daybreak and he was bloody, battered and bruised. He stumbled and walked himself home, then called my uncle over to help him get his vandalized car that was left in the middle of the street. I came down the kitchen stairs early that morning to find my father beaten so badly that his left eye was swollen and closed. His other eye was bloodied, his lips were swollen and bruised and his clothes were torn in shreds with various nasty cuts and scrapes covering his body. My mother was angry. I asked what happened she said, "Mr. Charlie still screwing up our lives." I felt the tears coming down my cheeks. My mother saw me starting to cry and told me, "Go upstairs." She felt I didn't need to see this, as she was doing her best to clean dad's wounds and get the gravel out of his curly, matted hair. I sat at the bottom of the stairs, out of sight eavesdropping on my parents and heard my uncle enter the kitchen. My mom said to him, "See what they did to him? And whats going to happen if we call the police? Nothing cause they all live in the neighborhood." I heard the pieces of gravel falling from his hair onto the linoleum. It was like yesterday I heard mother say, "I guess this is the great American Dream everybody is always talking about. What's so great about it anyway?" 

      The events of that night and subsequent depression my dad endured came flashing back to me years later, when I was in high school. It was nearing the end of the school year and my best friend volunteered to be an assistant coach for a summer little league baseball team that played in parks around Newark.

St. Benedict's Prep School, Newark, NJ

My friend was a good young man, who attended St. Benedict's Prep School for boys. He wanted to be a doctor even though he was like me and couldn't assimilate. He never cut class or did anything illegal because he was college bound and his mother and grandmother did all they could to pay his tuition. As the new assistant baseball coach, he was put in charge of the equipment, meaning he had to bring the bats and balls home after each practice.

     Then one Saturday evening, while walking down the avenue with a couple of baseball bats slung over his shoulder and a duffel bag of balls and gloves, two cops stopped him. They said, "He fit the profile of someone they were searching for that had beaten a man with a bat." My friend said he was a little league coach and just came from a practice but the cops would not listen. They wanted him to get in the back seat and go to the station for a line up. He was only three blocks from home and asked the cops to take him there instead and ask his mother.  The cops laughed and said they had a better idea. They handcuffed him and threw his equipment in the trunk. My friend begged not to be arrested because he had no record and this would hinder his chance at getting into college. The cops mocked him about going to college. When he told them he had a 3.9 GPA they said let's do something extra special for him.

    So instead of the cops taking him to the precinct or to his house, they took him to a desolate industrial area of town. They made him get out the car and get on his knees with the handcuffs still on. For two hours the cops drank and used his own baseball equipment on him until he was bloody and missing teeth. Later that night, they dropped him off at home with his blood still on the baseball bats, (yes I saw the blood on it). That Sunday after church I went to see my friend, which was pretty typical since he lived across the street from my church. When he answered the door and I saw his face I was horrified. I asked what happened? He said very softly, "Ralph Ellison's Battle Royal is real." Back then I dismissed his comment but as an adult I realize the profoundness of that one statement. I asked was he going to the police department to report it and he said, "I can't do that and put my mother and grandmother's house at risk!" He told his mother that he got into a fight coming home so she wouldn't try to report the incident, yet I am the only one he confided this story to and I vowed I wouldn't tell. This is the first time I have told a soul about it.Unfortunately, this event caused him to go into a deep depression and anger and he never became a doctor.

     In America we're all equal and divided only by how hard we work, right? So in 1997 the economy in America was improving and I landed a full time job with benefits at Home Depot. I started as a cashier and became head cashier supervisor in less than a year.  I took my shot at the dream. Back then managers earned over fifty thousand a year compared to my meager thirty-five thousand. In order to become manager, one had to work and learn each department's basics then pass a written exam at the state's home office. I studied and was passing each exam except I could not get a chance to train in the Garden Department. After numerous failed attempts to schedule training with the Garden Manager, I went to the General Manager for help. The General Manager said to me, "I applaud that some of you people aren't afraid of hard work but Garden is not the place for you. Look at it like this, Building Materials and the Lumber Department is the inner city and Garden Department is the suburbs. You aren't ready for the suburbs. Stick to what you know best, the inner city." I replied to my manager, "I don't understand because I grew up in the suburbs, in a house with a backyard." He laughed and walked off. I repeated his statement to other employees and discovered that he made comments like this to other folks like me, who can't assimilate into society. Less than a month later I came to work and found out that I had been transferred to another store.

     After my transfer I got another job. I began working as a receptionist then worked my way up from receptionist, to administrative assistant and then executive assistant at a major insurance company. I learned the business and passed the state licensing exams to become a life and health insurance producer for New Jersey. In four years I quit my job and started a career as a broker.

     Being an insurance broker is just like the movie, "The Pursuit of Happyness," where you make hundreds of calls to get one appointment to sell your product line to the boss. I was so excited to land my first appointment that I studied everything about the company. I learned the names of the executive leaders, how many employees they had and the history of the company's origins. I did this all in an effort to make a great impression and close the sale. I put on a brand new suit and even had my hair done in a wonderfully straight, assimilated style for my first appointment.

     After I parked my Audi in the lot filled with luxury cars like Mercedes, BMW and Lexus, I pushed the button for the elevator to take me up to the tenth floor. Next to me was another gentleman I did not know. We exchanged pleasantries riding up the elevator. We got off the elevator headed to the same office that was the only company on the top floor. He allowed me to walk through the office's glass doors first. At the reception desk, sat a young woman with long red hair and a man in a pin striped suit, who looked just like John Boehner.  I put on my game face ready to give my pitch.

John Boehner, Speaker of the House U.S.

     I smiled deeply and said, "Good Morning how are you?" Both the receptionist and the man in pin stripe stared momentarily then the young woman stood up, shook my hand and said, "Good Morning. You must be here from the agency. I'm glad you're here early so I can show you around and get you set up before I go on vacation." Meanwhile, I see the pin striped guy welcome and shake hands with the assimilated man that rode up on the elevator with me. Now just as I began to correct the receptionist that I have an appointment with the human resource manager, I hear the assimilated guy from the elevator say to the pin stripes, "No, no I'm not with any insurance agency, my name is Carlos... I'm from the temp agency." There was nervous laughter from the pin stripe and the red head and they threw out apologies to me and Carlos. When the receptionist went to find the the human resource manager, he had mysteriously called out that morning due to a family emergency. I never could reschedule another appointment and I did not get that account. This confusing scene of mistaking me for a receptionist became a regular occurrence as I was submerged in a field dominated by traditional looking American men.

     I could be bitter about the treatment endured by people like me, who cannot assimilate into society, but I have had glimmers of Hope along the way with the bad. For instance, a TV kid with short platinum hair apologized for making fun of my hair in grade school. She said, "I only did it because the other girls were doing it." She understood my feelings once she was jumped one day by some girls (who looked like me), and realized what it was like for me being picked on in school everyday. This little girl later became one of my best friends and stuck up for me when kids tried to taunt me.


     My dad's heart experienced Hope too. When I was a teenager, dad became good friends with this trucker guy, who connected him with a second job. I never knew this guy's real name but we all just called him Bunker, which was his CB handle over the road. They called him "Bunker" because he looked just like the sitcom character except he was the total opposite. Bunker would come over for dinner if he got a delivery in New Jersey. My dad and Bunker would swap old stories until late at night. They stayed in contact for years until Bunker moved to Canada.

     All of this is my story about being an American. To me being an American means different things to many people based on their life experiences. America is the land of opportunities however we must be mindful that Americans, who cannot completely assimilate into society's pale image, have more barriers and slower mobility to opportunities and success than others. So although I may come off as bitter or still blaming the white man for my troubles, it is because my experiences in America does not come from an assimilated standpoint. I cannot blend into America with a simple name change or accumulation of wealth. Just ask Kim Kardashian, who has fully assimilated her whole life. She found out about America first hand. In an essay Kim writes, "So the first step I'm taking is to stop pretending like this [racism] isn't my issue or my problem because it is, it's everyone's."

     In conclusion to my story on being an American, I am deeply Hopeful that recognizing a problem exists is the first step to opening a healthy dialogue for a solution. Believing that people are "still blaming the white man," only proves that you are so happy with the privilege you already have in America, that everyone else's view is invalidated. As a nation of multicultural individuals, we need to stop pretending that everyone has an equal slice of the pie or that privilege no longer exists. Acknowledging the problem is the only way we can begin to close the remaining gaps to equality. Mass incarceration, poverty, lack of education and voter disenfranchisement are the remaining barriers to equality in America. This is why Hope is so important to me being an American. Only Hope can give Americans the courage to listen and understand the needs of all Americans  without feeling that the other person is simply whining about something that doesn't exist, because it doesn't happen to you. This is why my American story is about Hope, Hope that we as a nation can work together and create a truly equal America for all the people.

Thank you for reading my blog I realize it is super long. Now I am going over to my mother's house to enjoy a traditional southern meal of Hope... stewed chicken with hoppin johns, greens and cornbread, my favorite.

BridgetQueenLit    
    
 


   

Smoke Signals ~ A Message of Forgiveness

The movie, "Smoke Signals" deals with many themes including, American History from the prospective of Native Americans, popular American stereotypes, Native American cultural traditions and the connection between fathers and sons. All these themes are certainly interesting to explore but nothing is as powerful or universal as the connection between a father and a son. A father's role is protector, provider and leader within a modern society. No matter what nationality one belongs to the father is expected to be emotionally stable in order to function well at his role. Then sometimes our fathers have pain from emotional scars that have not healed. How do we rise above the pain our fathers pass on to us from their past?  "Smoke Signals" sends a message that forgiveness for our father's actions is how we can rise above the adversities of a terrible past and make peace with it.

Idaho Native American Lands - Coeur d' Alene

The film, "Smoke Signals" produced by Chris Eyre with screenplay by Sherman Alexie, is a wonderful example of the father and son connection and how a person can heal from a painful event in the past. The film is set on the Indian Reservation of Coeur d' Alene in Idaho with an all Native American cast and characters. In the film, the father Arnold Victor gets drunk after an Independence Day BBQ then sets a home on fire. That fire kills the parents of Thomas, who later grows up with Arnold Victor's son Victor. That accidental fire becomes a guilt to the father that destroys him. Victor carries his father's shame with feelings of abandonment resulting in verbal and physical violence towards Thomas. In the end, Suzy Song tells Victor his father accidentally set the fire that killed Thomas's parents and that he never got over his guilt years later. Victor realizes he must face the truth about his father and forgive himself for the guilt he is carrying from his father abandoning him.

There is such a strange second-sight one has watching a film like "Smoke Signals," about young men in the Native American  Coeur d' Alene tribe and being a descendant of another tribe. Perhaps some of the more subtle nuances of the Indian culture were lost on American audiences except for the father and son theme. The film's opening is classic Indian folklore, as it starts with Thomas's story of how he was born, flying out of a window in a fire being caught by Arnold Victor. Thomas says, "We are children of the fire." Listening to the opening story of the movie reminded me of own father's stories of how family members were born. I was told the event surrounding one's birth is significant of their future life on earth and if that event is negative, they must fight to over come that throughout life like an ongoing trial. Like my father always tells the story of my birth he said, "When I was born I was the loudest, fussiest baby in the whole hospital nursery--- we knew you weren't never going to be quiet at that moment." Such creation stories are critical to one's birth and later personality.
  

1910 Advertisement of Indian Land for Sale

In the film it is important to understand the significance of the opening "creation" story surrounding Thomas and Victor's early life. These creation stories of Native Indians set the tone for the story. The importance of the dark silhouette of Arnold Victor handing Thomas to his grandmother reveals the darkness of that moment. The grandmother twice asked Arnold Victor, "What happened?" Arnold Victor never answered but handed her baby Thomas. It was in that moment that Arnold Victor could have redeemed his guilt. If he had admitted to setting the fire he would have been guilt free but instead he said nothing and ultimately ran from the truth. From this setting it was clear that Victor caused the fire due to the explicit setting used to frame the scene like an elderly storyteller. Indians often use setting to explain a story like saying, it was dark and only the fire was glowing when the man handed a baby to an old, small, crying woman.

In Indian culture, stories are sacred to understanding why everything happens and I have found it to be quite accurate. One should never ask if the story is true because the storyteller never says yes or no. It is for you the listener to think and decide its worth in truthfulness. Indian stories have hidden or double meaning in everything said. The film "Smoke Signals" is completed in this same riddled tradition I was born into, where nothing means one thing and it all connects in a greater universal way. Elders do this to make sure the person hearing the story remembers and thinks of its meaning for years to come and it is passed down through the ages. Just as a smoke signal is carried in the wind high into the clouds for everyone to see and interpret for miles around.

Even though I am not from the same Coeur d' Alene tribe, my father to this day still tells me riddles. Watching the film I reminisced about our family. One day my father's great-great uncle, King David (yes his real name) said this proverb about family, "The sins of the father pass to the son through the ages until someone in the generation releases the past." What uncle King David means is that people have to accept their past in order to release the pain of the past. The poem at the film's end "Forgiving our Fathers" by Dick Lourie confirms the film's true message to fathers and sons and the significance of forgiving the father's past in order to move forward.

My grand mother used to say, "You don't forgive people for them-- you forgive them for you." What grandma means is to move past pain and guilt you have to learn to forgive yourself and others. This describes Victor's guilt before he forgives his father after talking to Suzy Song. When Victor cuts his hair in the trailer where his father dies is a sign of his mourning but not about true forgiveness. Victor does not forgive his father until he is running for help after the car crash. Running for help, Victor realizes the guilt his father must have felt for causing the fire and not getting Thomas's parents out. That moment running to get help Victor finally forgave his father.

When Suzy Song wakes the next morning and burns the Arnold Victor's trailer down it was done after Victor had forgiven his father. Once Victor had forgiven his father his guilt could be released. In our culture, the sage plant like Suzy Song used to burn down the Arnold's trailer is used to cleanse a space of negativity and fire is used to release the energy (or soul) to prevent it from being trapped in the living world over guilt. Fire is one of those double meanings whereas it consumes and frees all at once. Thomas and Victor being born of fire and the fire Suzy Song set to Arnold's trailer shows fire's double meaning.

"Smoke Signals" is a powerful example of redemption and overcoming the past through forgiveness between a father and his son. This universal theme follows a pattern for all people whether they are Indians, African Americans, Italians, British etc. Just as the title of the film "Smoke Signals" is universal as an age old method of sending a message, this film sends the message that we must accept our past and forgive our father's mistakes to move forward with peace in our lives.

Russell Means: Welcome to the Reservation

Lecture on America

P.S. to Columbus...Grandma Sends Her Regards

Cherokee Woman

My grandma never took off her head scarf. Dad once said his mother and grandmother did this for their protection and I never understood that as a small child. Both women had long, flowing hair that went past their waists but they would wrap it into a big bun before slapping a scarf over it.

Then one day I got this assignment in elementary school to make a family tree. Since my dad was always on the road working I asked my mother for help first. Mother could not tell me who was in her family beyond her grandparents but she assured me that dad could recall much more information about his kin folks. With that I waited until my father came home to question him. After dad finished his dinner and was relaxing in his Lazy Boy recliner with the Sunday paper and an ice cold Budweiser, I pounced on him.

I sat up close to face the newspaper that covered dad's face and without hesitation I asked, "Can you help me fill in this family tree diagram for school?" Dad slowly pulled down the paper and saw me sitting on the ottoman ready to write notes with a pen and notebook. He looked at me so strangely I will never forget. I  felt that he was going to tell me he was as unsure about this as my mother was about her family history.

Dad sat forward and went into this story. He said... Well you already know I came from Richland, Georgia near Columbus and we still got plenty of family in Columbus right now. The plantation that held our family was actually located north of there but I am not sure of the exact location because it was chaos right after the

Current map of Richland, Georgia

Civil War. The Union soldiers burned down the old plantation leaving everybody to run and fend for themselves. 

Now my ma, who is my great-grandmother and your great-great grandma was full blood Cherokee. My pa, who is your great-great grandpa was half Chickasaw and Black. When ma and pa got their freedom they stopped using their slave names and began calling themselves Love. They went further south into Georgia and set up a Church. Pa was making a living by giving Sunday sermons and teaching other former slaves how to read. Now I never understood how they learned to read but ma told me when I was a boy that pa was the one who taught her and he used to lead Church service when they were still slaves.

Native American lands mapped in 1820

Some years later ma and pa had a large following of Black folks coming from all over Georgia just to learn how to read. White folks found out about it and they were not happy. They felt that Pa had too much power with the Negros in the community. Ma told me that in the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep, the Knight Riders came. The Riders had strung up a noose for pa in the front yard. When everybody came out the house they lynched pa. They hung pa in front of ma and their five kids. Then they set the house to blaze. The family Bible with our kin folks names and all their saved cash was burned in the house that night.

Ma and the kids ran through the Georgia woods at night, getting help from Black folks along the way. Ma tried to settle several places but white people did not trust Indians to work as maids in their homes, nor would they trade goods with Indians. Then these former Confederate soldiers saw them in town and made them leave. They tried to make her go to the reservation but ma knew that her mixed kids would never be welcomed by the Indians. Besides she was snatched from her parents as a child and grew up like other Black slaves as a playmate for her slave owners. She knew nothing of Indian life.

Ma heard rumors that the railroad was going through Stewart County, Georgia and hoped that her three sons might land work there. When ma got to Stewart County she was again harassed. Although she had a dark skin complexion for an Indian, she could pass for Negro if she kept her hair covered. So she taught the kids to only refer to themselves as Negros and never mention that they have Indian blood. To keep her two girls from

Black railroad workers circa 1900

being harassed she made them cover their hair in public and she cut the boys hair close to the scalp. Ma then changed their names back to her old plantation master's name. Ma's plan worked and eventually all three of the boys got work on the railroad. In fact, that is how I learned how to fix cars and work on engines. My uncles repaired train engines and they taught all my cousins how to repair anything that is combustible. Our family was the first black family to have enough money to buy land in town. Back in those days most Negros lived outside of town.

I never knew what ma had been through. She was always so quiet. She spoke very little but when she did everybody in our house got quiet and listened. I never heard ma raise her voice until one day when I was a little bitty boy; I came home from school and started to tell ma what I learned about Christopher Columbus. Oh! Her eyes opened wide and she began cursing him. She said, "He's the reason why my parents lost their land. He is the reason I lost my mother and father. He is the reason I lost my husband. Damn him, damn his children and his children's children forever." Ma then told me the story I just told you and said make sure every generation from here after knows what happened to our family.

It was getting late and I still had to finish my family tree for homework. I looked up at my dad and asked, "But what about my family tree daddy? I have to fill in the names for school tomorrow."

Dad said, "Tell them your great great grand-momma said, Indians don't give a damn about a family tree when we don't have our land to plant the tree."

ASSIMILATION vs MULTICULTURALISM: A close look at "A Father from Darkness" by Bharati Mukherjee

Ranchi, India: population 1,073,440 in 2011

When immigrants reach the United States they immediately must decide which category they will subscribe to that helps them adjust to the American way of life. Immigrants will either assimilate into their new world completely or practice multiculturalism so they maintain their individual cultural identity for generations to come. In the story, "A Father from Darkness" author Bharati Mukherjee presents the conflict of assimilation versus multiculturalism as the root dilemma effecting a family who immigrates to Detroit, Michigan from Ranchi, India. Mukherjee shows the mother and daughter as feeling secure in popular American culture, while the father has anxiety about this new culture and chooses to keep his Hindu traditions alive for comfort. It is through the father's devotion to the old Hindu traditions that he recognizes an omen alerting him to his daughters pregnancy. An unwed mother in this family's culture has two options; get rid of the baby or give birth and shame the family name. The father chooses to beat his unwed, pregnant daughter with conviction. As one reads deeper into the characters and symbolism it is clear that Mukherjee wants the audience to see how one's ego influences decisions and how the choice to assimilate into society or practice multiculturalism has real consequences. Whether or not you believe the father was justified for his actions or deserves to go to the jail is a result of one's decision to assimilate into American society or practice your own cultural traditions.

Chamar people of India: The men have passed down the crafting
skills of making leather shoes  from the skin of dead cows. 

This makes the Chamar people unclean or "untouchables." 

In the Indian caste system, it is unclean to work with the 

skins of dead cows. Cows are sacred animals in Hindu culture

The story takes place in 1985 and the mother commonly referred to as Mrs. Bhowmick is an educated, Agnostic and undeniably a contemporary woman. She was raised in a middle class family and her father was a barrister or lawyer. Mrs. Bhowmick saw herself in society as too progressive for the traditional Indian values held by most wives. In fact, she decides to hire a Chamar woman as a housekeeper, which is against the old Indian caste system. The father remarks about his wife that, "While other wives shopped and cooked everyday, his wife cooked the whole weeks menu on weekends." Its safe to say Mrs. Bhowmick hated life in Ranchi, India and cannot wait to reach the states. Mrs. Bhowmick assimilates into American society enjoying all rights of a modern married woman.   
  
The Bhowmick's daughter Babli is very interesting and integral to this story. For starters Babli is the only person given a first name in the story and the name Babli does not have a meaning in American, Hindu or Bengali culture although it is confirmed as a female name whenever mentioned.  In the Kabalarian Philosophy of Canada organized in the 1930's, the name Babli translates to: "Creates an independent, forthright, practical nature. Being consistent and stable in nature, you are decisive, capable, and efficient, though not always tactful in expressing opinions" www.kabalarians.com.

Gentleman wearing a traditional cravat around his neck.
The Cravat is an early version of the necktie worn

in the 1700's by men and originated in Croatia.

Babli is born in India and migrates to Detroit with her parents as a child. Over the years, Babli rejects her Hindu culture as foolish myths and fully assimilates into American culture by age 26. Babli would have had the hardest time during their early years in the U.S. because she straddled traditional life at home and popular culture in school. The father is proud of his daughter's intelligence and job title but admits she is not the ideal child when he states, "She is head-strong, and independent." Then father goes on to say, "she has yet to marry and produce grandchildren." In the latter statement the father is expressing resentment towards Babli for not being the traditional, nurturing, husband seeking girl, like back in India. Unlike Babli Mrs. Bhomwick exhibited some remnants of a traditional woman by preparing breakfast every morning for her family. 
 
When Babli is introduced into the story her work attire is carefully described in "a beige linen suit" also wearing a "polka-dotted cravat." This cravat symbolizes that she has accepted a non-traditional role in American society. Confirmation of this symbolism is Babli's work in a male dominated field, which is frowned on by traditional marriage seeking men. Babli does not need a man for anything including procreation. The father who is a traditional man has no way of passing down his culture and traditional values without her marrying and having children.

Mr. Bhowmick the father would be classified as the only one in the family celebrating multiculturalism by continually practicing his religious beliefs alongside American culture. Years ago in college the father used to be Agnostic like his wife but upon coming to America he returned to his old traditions. Perhaps he did this to keep him grounded within the stress of adapting to American popular culture.

Hindu Goddess: Kali-Mata. 

 

 

 

 

The story presents the father as a chief engineer at work and dutiful about his role as a father. Father is hen-pecked at home. His wife nags him about petty issues and he accepts it with sarcastic comments. One could say he has a little passive-aggressive side to him. He always threats to beat his wife with a shoe and never does. He refuses to buy a microwave although he owns a Rolex. The father does not come out and admit he likes his wife to cook everyday like his traditional mother and a microwave would spoil that.

The father prays every morning to the Hindu Goddess Kali-Mata. Kali-Mata symbolizes the removal of the ego created by the physical body to enlighten the soul. 

It cannot be mere coincidence that the writer says Kali-Mata is "...the patron goddess of his family, the goddess of wrath and vengeance." This explains the father's devotion to preserve his family by whatever means is necessary, even if it means beating Babli's illegitimate unborn child. In Hindu, Kali-Mata "liberates her children" and she is the key point in this story against cultural assimilation. Cultural assimilation that Mrs. Bhowmick and Babli have embraced like believing in  pop psychology magazines and abandoning marriage and children for a career makes them more attached to the physical realm. 

Sergeant Esterhous from the TV show, "Hill Street Blues" warned his officers at the beggining of every episode, "Let's be careful out there."  This is the same feeling the father felt when praying to Kali-Mata every morning except her warnings (premonitions) were not as friendly as Sergeant Esterhous.

When the father finds out his daughter is pregnant after a premonition from a neighbor's sneeze, the father was ready to accept the baby despite his traditional upbringing. Again this shows the father's willingness to embrace new concepts. It is not until Babli gives her final revelation she artificially impregnated herself because, "Men louse up your lives" and the damning statement "Who needs a man?" The father is not willing to compromise his tradition to this limit and in accordance to his faith and steadfast belief in Kali-Mata he beats Babli with a rolling pin to prevent shaming the family. 

Traditions keep all humans connected to who they are and their place in life. This is the reason why the father prays to Kali-Mata; he needs traditions to remind him of who he is and his role in the world as a father. Sometimes those beliefs are tested and our ego causes us to follow the traditions we identify with most. Various ethnicity of people have found themselves struggling to balance their old traditions alongside a greater foreign culture that is widely celebrated. Reading this story I could not help but sympathize with the father Mr. Bhowmick but at the same time I cannot ignore that he is beating an innocent fetus. Perhaps my sympathy is a result of my own beliefs in multiculturalism.

WORK MEANS POWER, POWER MEANS SECURITY; Carlos Bulosan, Filipino Writer & Union Activist

Carlos Bulosan, Filipino writer & Union Activist. (1913 - 1956)

     Carlos Bulosan has captivated me from one short story! Perhaps it was not the way he wrote his story that captured my attention but it was learning about his struggle from a poor farm boy in the Philippines to Labor Activist in the United States that has me memorized. For years minorities in the United States have shared similar struggles in search of the American Dream. Like Bulosan, my father was a poor farm boy who left home to became a migrant worker seeking a good paying, steady job and a nice place to call home.  This is pretty much "The American Dream" or for some a nightmare.

     Similar to Bulosan's migrant worker days, my father told me stories about how migrants in his day were worked harder than the animals, while the bosses over-charged for the toiletries necessary to live on a farm. I once asked my dad, "How come the men didn't rise up and protest against the bosses?" He explained to me that "In the1950's Florida the KKK would murder union organizers and nothing would be done. Everyone was scared to complain or say the word... union." According to the stories my father shared about migrant life, Bulosan was accurately depicting what it is like for a poor worker to achieve "The American Dream." I realized that something similar happened to Bulosan and my father during their years as migrant workers; these men learned to live their lives with a purpose. 

Bulosan's Village in the Philippines

      In Bulosan's story, "I Would Remember" he tells his audience of five terrible deaths witnessed in youth including the death of his mother. Interestingly, of all five deaths one in particular changes his life. Bulosan says, "And I knew that all my life I would remember Leroy and all the things he taught me about living." Why is Leroy's death so memorable? In order to discover that one must examine each death in Bulosan's youth.

       The first death Bulosan sees as a child was his mother and it is the first time he questions the meaning of life and this is clear from his statement, "I was fearful of the motives of the living and the meaning of their presence on earth."  Bulosan develops fear and sees himself as powerless against unseen forces in the world after watching his mother suffer and die.

      The second death confirms Bulosan's powerlessness in the world as he helplessly watches his father kill the carabao that he regarded as a pet.  Bulosan was only ten years old and could not help the carabao, he could not calm his father's rage and he could not stop his father from killing the animal. It is fair to say Bulosan was feeling vulnerable and alone in the world.

      By the third death of Bulosan's story his friend Marco is stabbed to death during his voyage to America. After this death Bulosan tries to give Marco's life some meaning by making sure his suitcase is sent back to the Philippines and by keeping a photo of the fiance. When Bulosan arrived in America he struggles to find work during the Great Depression and he again feels powerless, which is symbolized by losing the photo of the fiance.

       Crispin comes along in Bulosan's life as he is jobless, lonely and discovering that America's streets are not paved with gold. Bulosan is reduced to begging for spare change but having Crispin with him keeps him from being lonely and gives Bulosan a meaning to his life through companionship. Crispin shows Bulosan a new perception of beauty in the world despite their dire situation. Bulosan's power and purpose dies when Crispin dies of hunger.

      The fifth and final death in Bulosan's life completely transforms him forever. Bulosan has never met anyone like Leroy who had so much courage. Leroy is a Union Organizer who teaches Bulosan and the other workers to stand up for themselves and that "work means power... and power means security."  Bulosan must have been impressed to meet a man who could speak so powerfully in the face of present danger. "Union" was a dirty word with mortal consequences for many years.

      When Leroy is murdered Bulosan makes no mention in the story that he ever begged for his life even though his genitals were cut, his left eye gouged out, his chest cut open, his tongue sliced and he is eventually hung from a tree. Imagine the feelings of anger and powerlessness Bulosan had after realizing another friend is dead and mutilated for empowering others.

      Leroy fought to help others gain their power so to Bulosan Leroy's death will not be in vain like everyone else. Bulosan found his purpose in life from the death of Leroy, which is why Leroy is remembered most. Bulosan goes on to become a Labor Activist undoubtedly from having known Leroy and his experiences as an immigrant and migrant worker during the Depression in the United States.

Pictures courtesy of Google & Life Magazine