Racism: An Ongoing Cry

I have been called the n word repeatedly over the years because I was supposed to sit quietly and not voice my opinion in the classroom, in the newspaper and now on the Internet. There are people who don't like you because you don't look like them. It doesn't matter how successful, pretty, handsome, who you know, in their eyes, you will always be whatever their parents told them to call you.

What makes me shed angry tears, you know the kind that if anyone is near they might get caught with one of your blows or something might go flying, is that my four sons will one day be called the n word too. Born into an evil, weird, scary, and violent world, my innocent children don't know what is ahead -- God they just don't know!

Now I talked to God, I asked him years ago, in fact I pleaded with him to make something happen so that I wouldn't have children, that's a dangerous request isn't it? But a neighbor of mine told me that is what she did and she has no regrets. I talk more about this in my book When Mothers Cry on Amazon.com.

Racism whether bold or covert is an evil designed to belittle, abuse and eventually twist the mind of the hearer so that all they see in the mirror is just what someone calls them.

As a mother and an African American, the journey is long and at times difficult: to win friends, to talk about your woes, to listen to others without wondering if they have a hidden agenda, and on and on.

You may come from a race that is looked down upon as well. Allow the anger that you feel for every time someone gives you that look, writes something insulting, or whispers negatively behind your back that you are everything that they are not, a strong woman who isn't afraid to stand by her beliefs, protective of her children until death, and will not hesitate to fight in court!

Nicholl McGuire
http://spiritualpoemsbynicholl.blogspot.com

Behind Every Successful Husband...

When I surf the Internet I see many successful entrepreneurs who are primarily male. I also see alot of men writing about women's interests too. So I gathered from seeing these things that behind every one of those men who brag about what they know and how much money they make that there is a wife, girlfriend or ex somewhere in the mix watching the children, cleaning the house, cooking, and working outside the home (and in many cases making more money than he!)

I will be the first to admit that I am not always following biblical principles and I do covet the life of a man on occassion. He usually has enough time in his day to do the things he loves whether it is to perform well at his job (stay late, travel, go to nice restaurants, entertain important people, etc.) However, when you are a mother who spends the majority of time with your children, you don't have the kind of time to be a five star performer, you are lucky that you don't burn the toast because you are trying to multi-task.

Mothers fight for their time. But fathers, most anyway, don't do much fighting, they just turn on the television, hang out around the watercooler on weekdays after 5 p.m. (when they should be thinking about getting home to help his wife), and leave out the home to shop uninterrupted while mom is in the other room tending to the children.

So when these family men boast about all their wonderful accomplishments, I know that behind that successful man is a mother who allowed him the free time to achieve his dreams. I can only hope that he can step out of the limelight long enough to help her with the children, so that she too can be equally successful. However, there is a price to pay for those so-called family men who don't know how to pull away from the computer, leave their jobs at a decent hour, and communicate where they are going for long hours at a time. Putting aside her motherhood role, a woman will get tired of being taken for granted and if a tear shall fall from her eye in the midst of her frustration with her man, she will eventually talk about leaving, if she hasn't already, to pursue her own dreams -- its only a matter of time.

Mothers appreciate a good man when you have him and train the one whose bad. (Training doesn't always mean living with him or talking into the wee hours of the morning either.)

Be blessed.

Nicholl McGuire
http://parentsbabieschildren.blogspot.com

8 Reasons Moms Dread Holiday Parties

So now that the holidays are here everyone gets invited to people's houses for parties and gatherings. I dread this every time and usually don't RSVP because I'm scared to commit to going.

First of all..can I even make it on time with both kids?

Second..I have to pack almost everything they sell at Babies R Us if I'm driving far away

Third..again if I'm driving far away..will I have to pull over to feed the baby or change either childs diaper? (Last time I did that a cop knocked on my window and told me it was illegal to do that) I guess next time I should just do it while driving then officer?!

Fourth..is the party at a late time and my kids are expecting a bath and bedtime? If so they probably won't be on their best behavior and childless people may deem them "wild kids"

Fifth..is the place I'm going baby proofed? Usually not and there are almost always some stupid crystal cat collections displayed or tea sets right where my toddler and baby can reach

Sixth..will other kids be there? If not than I know my kids will get bored and into trouble and this probably means the house won't have toys for them to play with either

Seventh...is it even worth it? If I'm going to be chasing after two little ones and constantly saying "no!" and can't hold an adult conversation then why bother

Eight..I'm also not a fan of chasing toddlers in heels, give me back my Juicy Tracksuit!

Why not get a sitter you ask? Because my mom and mother in law are usually invited to the same parties. Ugghh the stress! I'd rather go to the park and call it a day.

Audra Rozen aka Milfy Mom @ http://www.diamondsanddirtydiapers.blogspot.com

Poem: an Example of a Loving Mother
Sometimes we forget about the good memories of a mother's love. This poem reminds us of the good times.
Read More

The Bad Mother

For reporters, the bad mother is a staple of feature story writing. I've interviewed some bad mothers in my time: there was the one who prostituted herself in front of her children; one who pimped her own twelve year-old daughter; the one who beat her son so badly that the sheet rock was marked with the impressions from his head hitting the wall. Bad mothers, the iconic story goes, either destroy their children – or create criminals. There was one young criminal I remember well – a gang member who had taken part in drive-bys and had himself been on the receiving end of a bullet or two. Here’s how he described his childhood: “My Mom - every night - Uncle Mike, Uncle Bill, Uncle Bob – I mean, I love her, but fuck her too.” And then he told me how he had shot a neighborhood kid who once made fun of him for being the son of a whore.

He was twenty years younger than I, and packed a sawed off shotgun in his jeans, while I carried only a pen. But I identified with him immediately. I recognized that mixture of anger and love. I understood how he might have felt so compelled to defend an indefensible mother. Because I have spent no small amount of time defending my own indefensible mother.

In my late forties, married; and commuting between Boston and New York as I began a teaching job at Columbia University. I once asked Mom could I stay with her for a week or so. She was wary; her husband, an actor, was just learning his lines for a new Broadway show. I promised I would stay out of the way, stay in the back room. Even so, after eight days she suddenly appeared at my bedroom door, her face a mask of determination. "How much longer are you going to be here?" she wanted to know. I was in the way. It was too hard for her to live with another grown woman in the same house. She said my presence was "disruptive" to the rhythm of their lives.

I went to class, then came home and packed my bags. As I was going out the door, Mom hugged and kissed me, apologizing for not being able to let me stay longer. She had to put her husband first.

That's the way it was, the way it had always been, with my Mom. She hadn’t raised any of her three children – we’d all been farmed out to foster homes, visiting when it was convenient for her. I learned to live under the conditions of her love. Ours was a complicated relationship not just because she was an erratic parent, but because she was white and I, her youngest offspring, was the daughter of a black man, an entertainer named Stump Cross who’d been popular during the forties. I wouldn't meet my dad till I was nearly thirty, and, then, when I made a film about the whole experience, Mom and I made the rounds of the talk shows. I always identified myself as African American, but one caller accused me of being so happy to have a white woman’s love that I would endure anything. Something about that barb struck home. For a long time afterward, I wondered whether I was indeed longed to be accepted by whites so badly that I would put up with anything. Maybe that explained why I was so often the only black person in my workplaces, why I befriended those with whom I disagreed vehemently even while I stuffed feelings of anger and worthlessness that led to depression and drinking binges.

But I don’t think it was because Mom was white that I put up with all this.

It was because she was my Mom.


June Cross makes documentary films and teaches broadcast journalism at Columbia University. June authored her first book, a memoir, "Secret Daughter," after releasing the Emmy Award Wining Documentary of the same title. For more information on the book, and June's story, please visit: Secret Daughter.com