Hasta La Gadget!

I came to hate Mother’s Day and Father’s Day at a young age. It’s not that I didn’t have any people to celebrate, rather I had too many.

Mother’s Day List:
Mother
Mother’s Same-Sex Life Partner
Grandmother
Whomever my Father was married to at the time.

Father’s Day:
Father
Grandfather
Mother’s Same-Sex Life Partner who expects recognition of her female/male influence on both days.

That’s a lot to be grateful for when you are a fundamentally ungrateful child. What I wanted was a day to tell my Mommy she was the best, most special-est Mommy in the world, but I had all these other obligatory people to celebrate as well. I felt it watered it down.

Fast-forward, and I am now a divorced parent who has provided (whether they wanted me to or not) an additional father-figure for my children. Their biological father is still an active and positive influence in their life, and now they have a Quasi-Step-Father as well. (We live together in a committed family structure but do not plan on legally marrying. The complications of finding a word for that have yet to be resolved to either of our satisfaction.)

The irritations of the parents are indeed visited upon the children.

It took my youngest child the longest to accept my SigO as someone he wanted in his family, but this past May, instead of drawing the usual picture of Mama, Boy One and Boy Two, he actually included his Quasi-Step-Father on my Mother’s Day/Birthday card. (He was confused about what we were celebrating, but he knew it was all about Mama.) He even gave his QSF eyes and a smile, but not eyelids. Eyelids are probably too much to ask for for any of us.

Father’s Day rolled around as it always does, and of course my Mama heart hoped my children would want to recognize my SigO in addition to their father. Let’s be honest, us grownups look to these Hallmark holidays as validation that we aren’t screwing up too badly. I had secret plans of awkwardly forcing them to make breakfast or something reluctantly sweet, but my SigO stopped me.

“I don’t ever want the boys to think I am in competition with their father. This is his day,” he said.

I stepped back and realized the validity of his words. I remembered the truth of my childhood: the more you try and force children to bond with someone, the less likely they are to do so. The best thing I can do is just get out of the way. Let them bond when they are ready, in the way they find most comfortable, and never, ever make them choose between all of their parental units.

There is a national Stepfamily Day every year on September 16th (who knew?) so I can force them into a Hallmark moment then, if I want to. Somehow, I don’t think I will.

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To the Dad Who Chose Me,

I had a father before you and he was my world. And as hard as it is for people to believe, I was his world as well. You see, people often talk about the bad dads who leave their little girls, but no one talks about the good ones, and I wish they would have. I wish people would have said his name around me. Everyone in the family acted like he didn’t exist, like he didn’t happen. I know their silence was an attempt to shield me from the pain of his memory, but nothing could. I wanted to talk about him. I wanted to cry over him. I wanted someone to acknowledge that the pain was there whether his absence was openly acknowledged or not.

I use to wonder if the situation would have been handled differently had he died. If then my experience and the impact it had on me would have been taken more seriously. And at times, I wished he had. And not because I hated him, but because I loved him so much. I loved him so much that knowing that he was out there somewhere, making the choice every single day not to call, not to write, not to come home; it was unbearable. I’d see him everywhere I went. He was every dad standing at the bus stop, waving at the girl next to me. He was every father who walked through the cafeteria doors at lunch and never walked my way. He was the dad taking pictures at my play, only his camera and beaming pride was always directed elsewhere. Believing that he wasn’t with me because he couldn’t be would have given me some comfort. Being abandoned by choice was a wound that reopened every single day.

And then you happened.

My life is divided into two parts — the days before you came into it, and all the days after. I remember how excited my mother was about you and how she looked at you. Of course, as an adult who has had a marriage end, I now think of that look and smile. She deserved that feeling, she deserved you. But when I was little and untrusting and my mother was all I had left, I resented you for taking a piece of her away from me. I didn’t want to lose her too, so I challenged you constantly. You were changing my life and at that point in time, I could only equate change with heartbreak. I pushed, and you dug your heels in. I stretched the rules and you narrowed the boundaries. I couldn’t win, I couldn’t make you leave, and I couldn’t be hateful enough to mask the pain. I believe that you knew we were at war, and you chose to fight. And rather than fighting me with harsh words and games and threats, you came armed with so much love, choosing the family you wanted over the easy way out. That was new to me.

And I loved you for it.

You loved me on my darkest days and held me in my weakest moments. The way you love me is relentless and comes with no conditions or expectations. I don’t think you understand the impact that it’s had on me. My very first example of a father’s love was my very first heartbreak, and you healed it. You saw that emptiness and you filled it with trust and compassion. You were careful with your words and your actions, and you never stopped looking for new ways to show me that you care. You’ve created a high standard for the kind of love that I’ll accept because you’ve shown me how much I deserve. You loved me so much that I had no choice but to love myself.

And I can’t ever say it enough, but thank you. Thank you for choosing me to be your daughter. Thank you for choosing me every single day.

Happy Father’s Day.

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We sat in a diner at 4 a.m. with a stack of chocolate chip pancakes and chicken fingers between us, the only meal that made sense at that time of night. After a while, the food soaked up enough of the alcohol that we could converse somewhat effectively. He looked up at me and smiled, pancakes drooping from his fork. “Babe,” he said, “the guys and I were talking last night, trying to figure out who had hooked up with the most girls of different races. And I won!”

I sat stiffly as he listed off different ethnicities, not attaching a name or even an anecdote to any of these women, as if he was running through ROYGBIV for some elementary school test. When he finished, he took another bite of pancakes and added triumphantly, “We thought no one had hooked up with a mixed girl, but then we realized: Natasha! She’s ­… what was that word for you? Mulatto?”

I took a sip of water, stalling for time to gather my thoughts. I ran through the timeline of our three-week relationship. I was a freshman, newly free from my childhood; he was a senior, well­-liked on campus. Over warm keg beers, he had vowed that he would watch over me. But this wasn’t the first time I had told myself, “He’s just drunk. He means it as a compliment.”

I had found myself making a lot of mental excuses during my first month of college. I’d been justifying the continual inappropriate jokes, invasive questions, and strange obsession with my lack of melanin: How can you be Black when you’re so… white?

Back home in New York City at my progressive, diverse, specialized public high school, my ethnicity wasn’t an anomaly. I had always proudly claimed my identity and embraced both my differences and my sense of belonging in my family’s Black community in Harlem. But on campus people acted as though I had unveiled strange, secret sparkle skin like the Twilight vampires. Everyone around me seemed to be trying to throw my body into the sun and watch the transformation. Unfortunately for my peers, my skin does not sparkle when it comes in immediate contact with natural light, nor does it darken. Like other pale people, I just redden and peel.

Once, I showed a new friend a photo album of mine from high school; having grown up in upstate New York, she was curious to see what a childhood in the city looked like. Afterwards, she looked confused, and I asked if everything was okay. “I’ve just never met that many Black people in my life,” she explained. I felt similarly, I realized; for the first time, I was now spending my time with large quantities of white people. I looked like I fit in, but every time my friends asked nosy questions or put me and my ethnicity on display, it reminded me that I did not.

People on campus treated my racial make­up like a party trick — like when someone opens a bottle with their teeth or ties a cherry stem into a knot with their tongue. I was introduced to new people with a game unofficially called “Guess Natasha’s Race, No Seriously, You Won’t Believe It.” The contestant usually guessed a smorgasbord of Eastern European descents, and would eventually object “you’re lying!” when I finally told them the correct answer. I began to carry a photo of my family along with my campus ID, something I could hand over as proof — or at least a way to sidestep a long-winded inquisition into my family tree.

I wasn’t used to being the center of attention because I was the diversity in the room. It’s sad to think that if I’d grown up darker, or grown up in a whiter environment, I might have become accustomed to casually racist treatment by the time I hit college — but I hadn’t, and I couldn’t. It was an overwhelming experience.

But I could make it stop, I realized; all I had to do was give up my voice. Weakened by the unending scrutiny, I responded in a way that my family members have never had the luxury of doing: I blended in. I stopped speaking up when I saw other students of color weather racist jokes, snide comments, or double standards. I didn’t correct people who assumed I was white. Sauntering around in this fake persona, I lost my way; I started trying to fit in with the values of those around me, instead of living as my authentic self. Which is how I found myself across the table from this man — a cappella singer, athlete, improv performer and fraternity brother — in this diner, at four in the morning.

Finally, I cleared my throat. “That’s not a term you can use — it’s highly offensive. And really outdated. Historically, like way back in the day, I would have been referred to as…” I stopped for a moment to gather my strength. “As a quadroon. Which is also highly offensive, and you can’t say that either. My mom is Brazilian and Liberian… which means I’m a quarter Black…”

His dismissive laugh interrupted me. I had missed the point. “That definitely counts, babe. I won’t because of you.” He beamed at me, confident that he had just bestowed upon me one of the great accomplishments that all multiracial women hope for: the badge of honor for completing the last arch in a white man’s hook­up rainbow.

The nausea slowly creeping up my esophagus, I realized, wasn’t from the beige, greasy meal I had barely touched or the excess of alcohol swirling through my bloodstream. It was shame. Shame for the self­-involved deal I’d made, the one that won me the prince as long as I gave up my voice. My subconscious had persuaded me that it was just for my own well-being, that it was okay to make concessions in exchange for a seat at the table. It had foolishly assured me that declining to speak up didn’t mean I was enabling or condoning racism. I had been sitting by and listening for too long. It was time to take back what I had too quickly sacrificed.

After that night, I began to surround myself with people interested in working to dismantle the segregation on campus. People who celebrated me when I shot down an insensitive joke rather than acting like I was a burden for “killing the mood.” People who engaged with me about my experiences, rather than projecting their ignorance and passivity onto my already complicated social identity.

My boyfriend broke up with me soon after, potentially due to the fact that I was no longer a sock puppet, devoid of perspective. Despite the personal visibility I had gained, I was still heartbroken. Perhaps, I thought, with time our dynamic would change. He was funny and witty and had friends in a variety of social groups; his lack of awareness was a symptom of a larger cultural issue, not one rooted in malice. When it ended, we met up in front of a laundromat, and he reassured me, “I still think you’re pretty. Exotic, even.” On the way back to my dorm, nauseated and sad, shame swept over me one more time; I had done it again, allowed myself to be silenced in the wake of the final veiled, misguided compliment he would ever give me. This relationship was the last remaining tie to the deal I was sure I had already revoked.

As I walked onto campus, wiping tears from my eyes, someone asked me if I was all right. Embarrassed, I assured them I was fine, and in that moment, I knew it was true. I heard my voice for the first time in a while. It was back, and that felt good.

This piece by Natasha Diaz originally appeared on The Establishment, a new multimedia site funded and run by women.

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Dilma Rousseff, Brazil’s first female president, is being impeached and faces permanent removal from office. She and her predecessor belong to the Workers Party. During their combined administrations, 29 million Brazilians were lifted out of poverty.

Here are some numbers of a different kind. According to the corruption monitoring group, Transparency Brazil, 60% of the 594 members of Brazil’s National Congress face serious criminal charges, mostly involving graft, bribery, and electoral fraud, but also illegal deforestation, kidnapping, and murder.

As president, Rousseff did nothing to stop the now numerous investigations into these politicians. She herself has never been accused of corruption and is not charged with it now.

The impeachment charges leveled against her are that she used money from public banks to temporarily cover budget gaps. The practice is widely used at all levels of Brazilian government, including by her two predecessors. No specific, well-defined law against it exits either in the constitution or the penal code. If congress wanted a tenable law against it, it could have created one.

Both the House of Representatives and the Senate voted to approve impeachment. In the House, the atmosphere was raucous, sexist, and tinged with homophobia. Most of the pro-impeachment congressmen cited “Family, God, and Country” as their motivation for impeaching their president. One spoke approvingly of the man who tortured Rousseff during the dictatorship she fought, and indeed the dictatorship itself. (The 22 year-old Rousseff was imprisoned for three years, endured extreme torture, but gave up no names. )

The Senate process was more dignified, though it included a brief pro-impeachment speech from ex-president Fernando Collor de Mello, who resigned in 1992 after being impeached for personal corruption, and is now facing new corruption charges.

Almost none of the pro-impeachment politicians spoke of the actual charge.

The Senate now assumes a judicial function. But this is not a legal process in any normal sense, but a political one. There is little time for the accused to prepare. There is no presumption of innocence. There is no impartial jury. A two thirds majority vote by a Senate riddled with corruption can end Dilma Rousseff’s presidency.

Since she has been suspended from office, the character and intentions of those who impeached her have become clearer by the day. This is indeed a “white coup” in all senses of the word.

As soon as Vice President Michel Temer, a principal architect of the impeachment, became Interim President, he replaced a progressive administration representative of a diverse nation with one that contained only white males. No Afro-Brazilians, no women. He tried to close the Ministry of Culture and seeks to dismantle vital social programs. He tried to appoint an evangelical pastor who does not believe in evolution to head the Ministry of Science and Technology, then merged it into, and made it subordinate to, the Ministry of Communications. He appointed as minister of agriculture a man who advocates opening up vast stretches of the Amazon to farming. According to Folha de Sao Paulo, one of the leading newspapers in Brazil, he intends to close TV Brasil, the Brazilian equivalent of PBS.

A number of covertly recorded phone conversations have been anonymously leaked. In them, several of the chief instigators openly talked about impeaching the president as a means to stop or at least impede corruption investigations. After a recording surfaced in which mention was made of speaking to the military and the Supreme Court to get their approval for impeachment and how there was a need to “slow down” the investigations, the Minister of Planning was forced to resign.

On a similar recording, the new Minister of Transparency, (the anti-corruption czar!) was heard giving advice to the president of the Senate on how to dodge corruption investigators. He resigned. In total three ministers have been fired or resigned, some within days of being appointed, all in connection with corruption.

The man who began the impeachment process, Speaker of the lower house, Eduardo Cunha, was found to have millions of dollars in secret Swiss bank accounts and has been removed from office by the Supreme Court. Cunha, an evangelical radio host believed to have laundered money through a megachurch, faces many corruption charges and could end up doing serious time.

Michel Temer, the new president, has already been found guilty of campaign finance violations. Once he leaves office, he is banned from running for any political office, including the one he now holds, for 8 years. Other more serious allegations are being investigated.

In conclusion, though the impeachment may have the appearance of legitimacy, it lacks both the spirit and substance of law. It is motivated by corrupt politicians trying to protect themselves from prosecution. It will result in the implementation of policies not sanctioned by the electorate when they voted for Dilma. It will lead to the weakening of human rights and environmental laws. While it is true that the economy has recently taken a serious turn for the worse and that Dilma doubtless made mistakes, her impeachment is unjustified, is in itself corrupt, and is a serious precedent-setting attack on a democratically elected leader of a young and fragile democracy.

The takeover has been so inept, and has inadvertently revealed so much of its own corruption, that popular opinion is turning against what is now widely described as a coup d’etat. Several senators have indicated they might change their minds and vote against ousting the president. To avoid clashing with the Olympics, however, the process is speeding up alarmingly.

A recently formed group in New York, Shout For Democracy, is planning a concert at the Apollo Theater on July 21st. Artists who have committed so far are Bebel Gilberto, Mauro Refosco and Forró in the Dark, Miho Hatori and Cibo Matto, Jesse Harris, and Wagner Moura. The aim of the event, according to organizers, is to publicize events in Brazil and protest a cynical attack on democracy.

Perhaps it will also remind senators, as they prepare to vote for or against impeachment, that people from all over the world have still not decided whether to attend the games, and news of a racist, sexist right-wing takeover might be even more abhorrent to them than the Zika virus.

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So it finally came down to this: an unbelievably epic battle between Jon Snow and Ramsay Bolton for Winterfell, the North, and maybe even all of Westeros. But which bastard reigned supreme?

Read more…