Dinah Shore
Mae West
Peter Ustinov
Babe Ruth
Ruth Gordon
J. Edgar Hoover
All these famous people were known or rumored to have African ancestry.
According to anthropologists, *everyone* has African ancestry.
Barbara
---
Peter Marshall: "Who stays pregnant for a longer
period of time, your wife or your elephant?"
Paul Lynde: "Who told you about my elephant???"
- Hollywood Squares
http://dsc.discovery.com/convergence/realeve/feature/feature.html
Eve Explained: How Ancient Humans Spread Across the Earth
By William F. Allman
Font Size: [small] [medium] [large]
The greatest journey ever undertaken left behind a trail of unanswered
questions: How did our species arise and spread around the globe to become the
most dominant creature on the planet? Part of the answer came two decades ago,
when scientists stunned the world with the finding, based on genetic research,
that all humans alive today can claim as a common ancestor a woman who lived in
Africa some 150,000 years ago — dubbed, inevitably, "Eve." But while the
notion of an African origin of the human family has grown to be accepted by
most scientists, the details of how Eve's ancestors swept out of Africa to
populate the rest of the world have remained murky.
Now a team of scientists claim that, based on research on the ancient climate,
findings in archaeology and a new, clearer genetic picture of how the human
family tree has branched over the eons, the ancient itinerary of the human
diaspora can finally be pieced together. It is an epic story of escape from
starvation, glaciers and volcanoes and braving shark-infested waters in flimsy
rafts. And like any good tale, it has a surprise ending: Contrary to
established thinking, it appears that our human ancestors took a more southerly
route out of Africa, traveling east across the Red Sea into what is now Yemen,
and then through India and all the way to the far reaches of Australia, before
they swung up into Europe. "There was only one migration out of Africa," says
Stephen Oppenheimer of Oxford University, who is a leading proponent of this
new synthesis of our species's incredible journey. "They couldn't go north —
that was blocked by a desert — so they had to go south."
A crucial cornerstone of Oppenheimer's piecing together of the human itinerary
is the recent finding by Huddersfield University geneticist Martin Richards and
his colleagues that the world's entire population can be traced back to a
family tree that has its roots in Africa and a single branch leading out of the
continent and into the rest of the world. Based on analysis of thousands of DNA
samples from people worldwide, Richards' research reveals a detailed map of the
human family tree and its various branches.
Go to url for rest of story.
He isn't "passing". One of his Russian ancestors -- IIRC a general around the
time of Waterloo, or a decade or two after -- married an Ethiopian woman. He
wrote about this in his memoirs.
>Babe Ruth
Apparently Ty Cobb thought so, as he allegedly refused to "sleep under the same
roof as a nigger."
There was the fascinating story of Anatole Broyard, who became the chief book
reviewer of The NY Times. He was born in New Orleans in 1920 and went to
college there. When he died in 1990, it was discovered he had attended the
black university in NO and had attempted to hide any aspect of his past,
including cutting off his family.
About 10 years ago I was watching Tony Brown's Journal on PBS when he was
discussing a 1920 pamphlet accusing presidential candidate Warren Harding of
being part-black. I don't know what circulation the pamphlet had, or impact if
any -- only three copies of it are known to exist. Harding won the election.
But in passing Brown mentioned that there were "black" rumors about another
president who was alive. This was pre-Clinton, so the possibles are Nixon,
Ford, Carter, Reagan, and Bush.
Has anybody ever heard this before? Who would you guess?
=================================================
"I don't mind lying, but I HATE inaccuracy." -- Samuel Butler
>Subject: Famous Celebrities Who "Passed For White"
>From: Orien...@aol.com
>Date: Thu, 31 Jul 2003 18:14:49 -0700
>
>Who knows this? Confirm or deny
>
>Dinah Shore
It was rumored that Dinah Shore had a black child. I never heard that she herself was of African descent.
Gloria
Neither is true. Old old old urban legend.
I can't think of any others.
Anna (as in the King and I) Leonowens. Was also supposed to be part indian, She
even broke off with her family in order to hide it. By the way, she was Boris
Karloff's great aunt.
I believe she was what's known in India as a "chi-chi." She invented a story
that she had been born in Tasmania (to white parents), a story which still gets
accepted today.
Supposedly, late in life she was invited to go to Tasmania -- where of course
she had never been before -- and be honored by her "fellow Tasmanians."
She flew down and was about to get off the plane when she heard reporters
yelling. "Miss Oberon! We can't find any record of you being born in Tasmania."
She was so terrified the truth might get out that she refused to get off the
plane and flew back out on it, without ever accepting the tribute from her
"fellow Tasmanians."
>She used to pass off her mother as an indian maid.
>This
>is supposed to be true.
Yes, it's true. Very sad.
> Has anybody ever heard this before? Who would you guess?
Apparently, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, Abe Lincoln, Warren Harding
and Calvin Coolidge had black ancestors, according to this site:
so? whats so awful about not believing in god?
Makes you a fool.
On LKL in the past year, Carole Channing said that her father was part
African-American.
Never heard anything said about Ruth Gordon, what's the story on that?
On another note, Gordon is the godmother of Natalie Wood's oldest
daughter, Natasha Gregory Wagner. I always loved Ruth Gordon in the
cult movie, Harold and Maude, actually loved her in almost any movie
she made. Unfortunately there is suppose to be a remake of that
classic to star Shelley Morrison & Emilio Estevez.
Perhaps, but my question concerned the living presidents c. 1990: Nixon, Ford,
Carter, Reagan, Bush.
according to this site:
>
>http://www.geocities.com/cureworks1/5blkpres.htm
>
According to that site:
Andrew Jackson was our 7th president from 1829 to 1837. The
Virginia Magazine of History Volume 29 says that Jackson was the son
of a White woman from Ireland who had intermarried with a Negro. The
magazine also
said that his eldest brother had been sold as a slave in Carolina.
Joel Rogers says that Andrew Jackson Sr. died long before
President Andrew Jackson Jr. was born. He says the president's
mother then went to live on the Crawford farm where there were
Negro slaves and that one of these
men was Andrew Jr's father.
Many historians now believe Jackson was born, not in 1767 in the American
colonies, but in 1755 aboard a ship bound from Ireland to America -- which
would have made him ineligble for the presidency. This would also make him the
oldest man ever elected president (77 in 1832), and the oldest to serve (81
when he left office).
how does not believing that there is some all-powerful being that controls
everything make one a fool?
mariah carey may have beed presumed or considered "white" by the public and
the press, but she never called herself such.
in her earlier life as a non-famous redident of long island, new york, she was
never considered "white" by her neighbors or tachers, and was often made to
feel embarassed or ashamed of her "ambiguous' features and coloring.
it was only when carey became a popular and successful entertainer that
"white" people were moved to claim her as one of "their own".
since that time, like most celebrities, miss carey has undergone various
cosmetic procedures which have perhaps inadvertently obscured her "racial"
background even further.
it has been suggested that her record label did what it could to downplay her
african american background, but miss carey has embraced all facets of her
family tree, and has always described herself as "multi-racial.
her father was african american and venezuelan; her mother is irish-american.
the concept of "passing for white" is outdated.
we no longer subscribe to the one-drop rule, which was put in place as an
economic and social control.
today, individuals are free to identify themselves "racially" according to
their own beliefs and associations.
thank god for that!
ryan wrote:
(snipped)
> Anybody tells you the earth is millions of years old doesn't know what they
> are talking about and don't believe or want to believe in God.
I have no problem believing in the word of God AND believing the earth
and universe is millions, not thousands, of years old. Jesus spoke in
parables...why wouldn't God do the same, through stories in the bible?
--
Phyl
"The woods would be very silent if no birds sang
there except those that sang best." -- Henry Van Dyke
---
Outgoing mail is certified Virus Free.
Checked by AVG anti-virus system (http://www.grisoft.com).
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Would that include the Koran?
I HEARD THE DINAH SHORE RUMOR 30 YEARS AGO. LOOK AT HER EARLY PICTURES.
I almost forgot about Dwight Eisenhower....his momma was supposed to
be an octoroon...
I believe that when she died, PEOPLE magazine said that her mother was
an African-American woman who was the maid of Winchester, Tennessee's
only rabbi, who impregnated her.
I couldn't agree with you more. I guess the problem I have with some
multiculturalist is the need to downplay African blood. Asians and
Latinos are given "honorary" whitehood, but not whites with traceable
amounts of sub-saharan African ancestry.
As a lapsed Baptist and Catholic (yes, I tried both and hated both
equally), I have no idea why people believe in the concept of some old
man in a beard and robe sitting on a cloud, not missing a thing. But
that is what people want to believe -- I have always thought religion
was created out of fear. No doubt the world was a scary place eons
ago, so for whatever reasons, man created this deity known as God.
Remember people, this is AMERICA, people have the unalienable right to
CHOOSE to believe or CHOOSE NOT TO....
> "Phyl" <ph...@earthlink.net> wrote in message
> news:5UJZa.6155$M6.4...@newsread1.prod.itd.earthlink.net...
>
>>
>>ryan wrote:
>> (snipped)
>>
>>
>>>Anybody tells you the earth is millions of years old doesn't know what
>
> they
>
>>>are talking about and don't believe or want to believe in God.
>>
>>
>>I have no problem believing in the word of God AND believing the earth
>>and universe is millions, not thousands, of years old. Jesus spoke in
>>parables...why wouldn't God do the same, through stories in the bible?
>>
>>--
>>Phyl
>>
>>"The woods would be very silent if no birds sang
>>there except those that sang best." -- Henry Van Dyke
>
>
> Would that include the Koran?
I couldn't say - I haven't read or studied it.
Wasn't there something out not too long ago about Carol Channing being part
African American?
Hester Mofet
Your thread is kind of confusing. First you ask for celebs who are passing for
white and then you post that these are celebs rumored to be part black. There's
a big difference between the two.
Besides Merle Oberon, I heard rumors that Lena Horne passed for white early in
her career to snag singing gigs.
But not necessarily from 400 years ago or later.
Here's an interesting page though at PBS's Frontline:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/secret/famous/
Alex
Because he foolishly and narrow-mindedly believes there is one.
>
>
>ryan wrote:
> (snipped)
>
>> Anybody tells you the earth is millions of years old doesn't know what they
>> are talking about and don't believe or want to believe in God.
>
>
>I have no problem believing in the word of God AND believing the earth
>and universe is millions, not thousands, of years old. Jesus spoke in
>parables...why wouldn't God do the same, through stories in the bible?
Well, man wrote the bible not god or jesus who probably didn't exist,
anyway!
What did she look like before her nose job?
>>Peter Ustinov
>
>He isn't "passing". One of his Russian ancestors -- IIRC a general around the
>time of Waterloo, or a decade or two after -- married an Ethiopian woman. He
>wrote about this in his memoirs.
>
>>Babe Ruth
>
>Apparently Ty Cobb thought so, as he allegedly refused to "sleep under the same
>roof as a nigger."
>
>There was the fascinating story of Anatole Broyard, who became the chief book
>reviewer of The NY Times. He was born in New Orleans in 1920 and went to
>college there. When he died in 1990, it was discovered he had attended the
>black university in NO and had attempted to hide any aspect of his past,
>including cutting off his family.
>
>About 10 years ago I was watching Tony Brown's Journal on PBS when he was
>discussing a 1920 pamphlet accusing presidential candidate Warren Harding of
>being part-black. I don't know what circulation the pamphlet had, or impact if
>any -- only three copies of it are known to exist. Harding won the election.
>
>But in passing Brown mentioned that there were "black" rumors about another
>president who was alive. This was pre-Clinton, so the possibles are Nixon,
>Ford, Carter, Reagan, and Bush.
>
>Has anybody ever heard this before? Who would you guess?
>
>
>
>=================================================
>
>"I don't mind lying, but I HATE inaccuracy." -- Samuel Butler
No, but I'd guess Carter.
>
>>
>> so? whats so awful about not believing in god?
>>
>>
> Makes you a fool.
>
>
Since I was raised Catholic, George Carlin has always found a special place
in my heart. This quote of his pretty much sums it up for me:
"Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told. Think about it,
religion has actually convinced people that there's an INVISIBLE
MAN...LIVING IN THE SKY...who watches every thing you do, every minute of
every day. And the invisible man has a list of ten special things that he
does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a
special place full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish
where he will send to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry
for ever and ever ´til the end of time...but he loves you."
Kat
>
George is a bitter old man who doesn't know the first thing about religion. Why
would you look up to someone who actually thinks God is a man sitting in the
sky?? There is *no* religion that teaches this. All the rest he's talking about
is bullshit, too.
-------
Keeper of the Wonderful, Talented, Handsome Oscar-winner...
Benicio del Toro
Offical web site: http://www.beniciodeltoro.com
[Note: I have no affiliation with the site or site owner]
>>
you're joking, but are you also saying you don't understand?
we're talking about *mixed* folks, and that, for most people, culture trumps
color.
there used to be laws about this; now there are not.
we're free, mary!
can you explain what you mean?
<<
Besides Merle Oberon, I heard rumors that Lena Horne passed for white early in
her career to snag singing gigs.
>>
i can't imagine where you heard that!
horne was a jazz/blues/swing singer.
she sometimes was the only Black in all-white bands, but her audience loved
her *because* she was Black.
in hollywood they tried to get her to be "latin", but horne, backed by walter
white and the naacp, refused.
have you seen any pictures of horne?
she was lighter than many, and had sharp, indian/european features, but she
couldn't have "passed for white' if she wanted to.
plus, her family might have disowned her.
as an infant, horne was named the youngest member of the naacp.
she came from a famous and respected Black brooklyn family and her mother,
cora horne was a community activist who visited the white house representing
Black women.
lena horne was a race woman from the beginning, and a less likely "passing"
candidate could not be suggested.
miss horne was a heroic, proud Black woman!
Says a lot about the insanity of god's followers. THEY are the ones who have
this imaginary friend. THEY are the ones who believe virgins have babies and
a man can walk on water.
THEY believe a man can rise from the dead.
Yet those who don't believe are fools. This all powerful god sure has some
insane followers.
Big J
-----
Why can't people accept that others have a different view? I accept that
some people don't believe in God, and I accept that some people have a
different view of God than I do. However, I wouldn't dream of making fun
of anyone else's beliefs, so long as they don't hurt me or those I love
and care about. What's the point?
I guess it's our culture - ridicule what you don't understand or what
you don't agree with to be certain YOU feel superior.
Downright sad.
My belief system, which obviously quite different from yours ;) is that
the bible was written by men who were inspired by God. In my belief
system, Jesus exists, and the bible is a series of stories and journals,
some parable-like.
Don't bother slamming me - I don't really care. Just clearing up why I
made the statement I did.
Phyl wrote:
> Kennebunk_guy wrote:
>
> > On Mon, 11 Aug 2003 10:05:53 GMT, Phyl <ph...@earthlink.net> wrote:
> >
> >
> >>
> >>ryan wrote:
> >> (snipped)
> >>
> >>
> >>>Anybody tells you the earth is millions of years old doesn't know what they
> >>>are talking about and don't believe or want to believe in God.
> >>
> >>
> >>I have no problem believing in the word of God AND believing the earth
> >>and universe is millions, not thousands, of years old. Jesus spoke in
> >>parables...why wouldn't God do the same, through stories in the bible?
> >
> >
> >
> > Well, man wrote the bible not god or jesus who probably didn't exist,
> > anyway!
>
> My belief system, which obviously quite different from yours ;) is that
> the bible was written by men who were inspired by God. In my belief
> system, Jesus exists, and the bible is a series of stories and journals,
> some parable-like.
>
> Don't bother slamming me - I don't really care. Just clearing up why I
> made the statement I did.
Regardless of Belief systems, isn't it way past time the header was changed to
reflect reality..................
You are so right!
Duh. She was Indian. From India.
Kaiju
--
No more fiendish punishment could be devised,
were such a thing physically possible,
than that one should be turned loose in society
and remain absolutely unnoticed.
-- William James
close....she was an indian (from India)
Quartorzejames wrote:
>can you explain what you mean?
No. Figure it out Genius
Quartorzejames wrote:
> i can't imagine where you heard that!
<snip out boring rant>
It's called a R-U-M-O-R. I didn't say it was a fact. Do you even bother to
read before you spew?
I posted this elsewhere. She wore make up to hide her dark skin, but when
company came, she threw an apron on her mother and told everyone she was the
maid.
>
> George is a bitter old man who doesn't know the first thing about
> religion. Why would you look up to someone who actually thinks God is
> a man sitting in the sky?? There is *no* religion that teaches this.
> All the rest he's talking about is bullshit, too.
>
He is old, yes. Maybe he's bitter. Certainly he's cynical. He's a little
past his prime, not nearly as funny as he was a few years ago. However,
that's neither here nor there. His message in that comedy bit so many years
ago hit home with me, because I happened to agree with him on a lot of
issues, namely religion.
I always liked Dennis Leary too, for similar reasons. Maybe you have to
grow up in a Catholic family to understand the humor.
By the way, when he was talking about "a man in the sky", he was being
facetious. He was trying to make a point. He was questioning the validity
of blind faith in a being that is completely inaccessable and therefore
"invisible".
Kat
>
>
> Regardless of Belief systems, isn't it way past time the header
> was changed to
> reflect reality..................
>
Oops yeah, I suppose that would be a good idea.
Kat
Just like Michael Jackson does with his skin bleaching....but of course we
already knew he was a black man before he went through his White Woman
transformation.
(Feb 4, 2001)
A MASKED EXISTENCE
The man who would be white
Richard Lim
The late Anatole Broyard, a star New York Times book critic in his day,
lived a disguised life. It was a secret kept even from his children on
his dying bed
MY LONG apprenticeship in journalism consisted mainly in studying the works of
a few newspapermen I admired.
One of them was Anatole Broyard, the late leading book critic for The
New York Times. When I sought him out for an interview in 1988, he was
no longer a critic for the daily - he had already put in 13 illustrious
years as one - but was one of the eight editors of the influential New
York Times Book Review, the weekly tabloid supplement which comes with the
Sunday edition of the paper.
As editor, he still kept his hand in though, maintaining in the
supplement a monthly column called On Writing. I remember how much I
enjoyed those monthly pieces that he wrote, even as I was studying them.
They were really short lyrical essays that, despite their brevity,
conveyed depth, insights and a winning charm and playfulness. They were always
peppered, in just the right places, with the most apposite of quotes from a
mind-bogglingly, wide range of literary works.
This was a man who had read widely, and for whom literature was life.
I still remember vividly several of the columns.
One of them was about him visiting a house which had been put up for
sale, and discovering inside it, a collection of books that was left
behind that must have taken the house owner a whole lifetime to build up.
Why did the owner choose to leave all these books behind, these books
which amounted to a life? Broyard mused.
Did he want to erase that life, and create a whole new self altogether
somewhere else?
When I met Broyard at his office canteen, I did not know then that the
68-year-old man had himself erased his past brutally when he was in his
20s, and reinvented himself.
Neither did his son and daughter, nor his friends and colleagues. His
erasure of the past was so total that he could live the life of a lie
without being caught out by even those nearest to him for almost five
decades.
It was a lifelong secret which he refused to unburden to his two
children even when he was dying of prostate cancer in 1990.
Broyard was a black man who had passed himself off as a white, a fact
which was revealed in 1996 by the eminent black scholar and writer Henry Louis
Gates Junior in an article in the New Yorker magazine.
The article is included in his 1997 book, Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A
Black Man.
I did not know about the article then, but I did read a short news story
somewhere about this revelation. Although surprised, I didn't think much of it
at the time.
The pathos of this disguised life, and the inumerable implications of
such a life, hit me only last weekend, when I read Philip Roth's latest
novel, The Human Stain (Houghton Mifflin, 2000).
About a classics professor who is forced to leave the small New England
university where he was the dean because he was accused of using a politically-
incorrect label on two black students, it is the last of a
trilogy of stories that add up to a scathing commentary on the excesses of
mid-20th- century America.
The other two books are American Pastorial, the 1997 book which won the
Pulitzer prize, and I Married A Communist (1998), which is an angry rebuttal to
his long-time lover Clare Bloom's book, Leaving The Doll House (1996).
The premise of The Human Stain appears to have been inspired by Anatole
Broyard's life or the account written by Gates.
The professor, you see, is a black who has passed himself off as a
white.
This is supposed to be the book's secret. When the conscientious Claire Tham
reviewed it in Life! last August, she made very sure she did not give it away.
I'm sorry I've done so here, but since the book isn't
really a whodunit, I don't suppose it would hurt your enjoyment of it.
You must absolutely read it though, if you haven't already.
Broyard was born to a black family in New Orleans, and spent his
childhood in the black section of Brooklyn, New York. After serving in
the navy, he moved to Greenwich Village in Manhattan where, with the
help of the G. I. Bill, he went to the New School of Social Research
three nights a week, studying under German professors like the prominent
psychoanalyst Eric Fromm, who had fled to America from Hitler.
Greenwich Village in the 1940s after the war was like Paris in the
1920s, the place to be. Broyard lived the life of a white bohemian,
which he recounts in a slim, elegantly-written memoir, When Kafka Was The Rage,
published posthumously in 1993. He kept away from people from his past, even
his darker skinned sister, whom his children met only after his death.
He was such a natural writer that most people expected him to write The Great
American Novel. He did try, but never succeeded in doing so, perhaps as Roth
suggests of the professor in his book:
'Writing personally is exposing and concealing at the same time, but
with you it could only be concealment and so it would never work. Your book was
your life - and your art? ... your art was being a white man. That was your
singular act of invention: Every day you woke up to be what you had made
yourself.'
Rereading Broyard's memoir for this column, I thought I detected a
couple of clues which, on hindsight, serve to point to the reinvention
of the man.
Commenting on the fact that most of the German professors at the New
School were Freudian revisionists, he writes: '...that was what I
wanted, to be revised. I saw myself as a first draft.'
Although a happy young man, he felt there was a shadow on his happiness, a
dissonant hum or crackle in his nerves which sounded like the AC-DC converter
which people kept in their closets, but whose whirring static
could be heard. He had a converter in his closet.
So he went to an analyst, recommended by Fromm.
He wanted to be transfigured, he told the analyst. He wanted to discuss his
life with the analyst not as a patient talking to a doctor, but as if they were
two literary critics discussing a novel. But the analyst
failed him.
'It might have been the shortest, or the only, way through my defences,
because I had a literature rather than a personality, a set of fictions
about myself,' Broyard discloses.
I don't know, but I do remember reading about admitting to one. I was
reading excerpts from her bio (Jeez, can't remember which mag it was
in) where she stated that the movie studios told her to dye her hair
and fix her nose.
That's correct, mi amigo. She is a descendant of the Lumbee tribe,
one of the few intact tribes to survive colonization. In th3 17th and
18th century, before the notorious 'black codes' came to be, they
intermarried with indentured servants, white and black. What many
people don't realize is that the first blacks in the US were
indentured servants, and once their contract was up, they were free to
do as they pleased, marry who they pleased, whatever. Many free blacks
became absorbed into the Lumbee blood line....
Yes. She wrote about it in her autobiography...
That's one of favorite descriptions, too! Sure sums it up and ties it
in a nice little package!
KG
Your are so white. It wasn't she trying to "pass" but the whites in
the business trying to make her "pass!"
KG
Yes, her and Mae West.
Since nobody else is going to do it...I will change the header.
Oh, shit! That was supposed to be "you're so right!" Sorry!
KG
Yeah, I remember her. In fact, I am a fan. She was half Indian (India
Indian, not Native American) and incredibly, incredibly beautiful.
--
nimue
"Because the thing about the Nerds, what made them so appealing, was
that not only are they underdogs, they are underdogs who accept other
underdogs unconditionally. And that speaks volumes to people."
Curtis Armstrong
"I don't understand why you don't want to see more of Spike. More
Spike makes everything better. Spike, Spike, Spike, wonderful Spike."
Clairel
"There are things I will not tolerate: students loitering on campus
after school, horrible murders with hearts being removed... and also
smoking." Principal Snyder
Carol Channing
I have heard the story about passing off her mother as her maid. I have
also heard kinder stories about her, though. Michael Korda writes about
when he used to go visit her and his uncle (her husband), he was so nervous
he often broke stuff (knocked over lamps, vases), and she would never tell
on him. She blamed it on her dog.
She actually was pretty pale. She was really lovely. Rent The Scarlet
Pimpernel.
what's up with the hostility?
i'm through fighting with you!
let's stick to discussing the facts, ok?
i was asking you what you meant, sincerely.
i presume that you take philosophical issue with the concept of "passing".
that's fine; i'm asking you to spell it out, because your meaning isn't clear
to me.
i'm including a great essay i found on the subject of "passing for white"
which might shed some light on the issue for those unclear on this complicated
and sensitive subject.
obviously, emotions run high when you get to "race place", as the author
refers to it, but information and honesty are the keys to understanding and
peace of mind(!)
ps.
re: miss horne:
don't have a cow, lisa!
no one blames you or cares that you were misinformed - i was happy to provide
the true info, which is readily available on the net and in the library.
i *still* can't imagine where you heard what you did - you're free to call it
a "rumor" - no one will argue with you.
however, it just sounds like *confusion* to me.
White Girl?
Cousin Kim Is Passing. But Cousin Lonnae Doesn't Want to Let Her Go.
By Lonnae O'Neal Parker
Washington Post Staff Writer
Part One
I have a 20-year-old white girl living in my basement. She happens to be my
first cousin. I happen to be black.
Genetics is a funny thing. So are the politics of racial declaration.
My 5-year-old daughter, Sydney, calls her Cousin Kim. Kim's daddy calls my
mother his baby sister. Kim's father is black. Her mother is white. And Kim
calls herself white. At least that's what she checks off on all those forms
with neat little boxes for such things.
She grew up in southern Illinois. Sandoval, population about 1,500. There were
33 people in her high school graduating class. Counting Cousin Kim, there was
half a black. I used to think Kim lived in a trailer park. But one day she
corrected me. We live in a trailer home, she said – "my mother owns the
land."
The black side of Kim's family is professional. Lawyers, doctors, Fortune 500
company execs. We have an uncle who got a PhD in math at 21. The white side of
Kim's family is blue collar. Less formally educated. Some recipients of
government entitlement programs. Not to draw too fine a distinction, but color
is not the only thing that separates us.
I brought Kim to Maryland to live with me after my second child, Savannah, was
born. She is something of an au pair, if au pairs can hail from Sandoval.
Back home, Kim had run into some trouble. Bad grades, good beer. She came to
D.C. to sort it all out. To find a way to get her life back on track. And she
came to get in touch with the black side of her family--and possibly herself.
She may have gotten more than she bargained for.
This is a story about how a close family can split right down a color line
without ever saying a word about it. The details belong to Cousin Kim and me,
but the outline is familiar to anyone for whom race is a secret or a passion or
an issue or a decision. The story is scary in places. Because to tell it, both
Kim and I have to go there. Race Place, U.S.A. It is a primal stretch of land.
It shares a psychic border with the place where we compete for the last video,
parking space at the mall or kindergarten slot in that elite magnet school.
Where we fight over soccer calls, and elbow each other to secure Tickle Me
Elmos for our kids. It is the place where we grew up hearing black people smell
like copper and white people smell like wet chickens. Where everybody knows
that whites are pedophiles and gun nuts. And blacks smoke crack. Where
interracial couples still bother us.
You've gotta pass through Race Place in order to make it to Can We All Get
Along, but most everybody is looking for a shortcut.
For Kim and me, there are no shortcuts. We meet in the middle, from opposite
sides of a racial divide. It is the DMZ and our shields are down. We may lose
friends, black and white, for telling this truth so plainly. Still, alone
together, we begin.
The First Time
Do you remember the first time somebody called you "nigger"?
I do. I was on vacation in Centralia, Ill., where both of my parents were born
and raised. Five minutes from where Cousin Kim grew up. It was the early 1970s,
and I was maybe 5 years old.
Two white girls walked up to me in a park. They were big. Impossibly big.
Eleven at least. They smiled at me.
"Are you a nigger?" one of the girls asked.
On the segregated South Side of Chicago where I lived, it was possible for a
black child to go a very long time and never hear the word "nigger" directed at
her. But I wasn't on the South Side, and after five years, my time was up.
I stood very still. And my stomach grew icy. My spider senses were tingling.
Where had I heard that word before? "I, I don't know," I told her, shrugging my
shoulders high to my ears.
The first girl sighed, exasperated. Then the other repeated, more forcefully
this time, "Are you a nigger? You know, a black person?" she asked.
I wanted to answer her. To say something. But fear made me confused. I had no
words. I just stood there. And tried not to wet my panties.
Then I ran. I turned quickly to look over my shoulder just in time to hear a
rock whiz past my ear and plop into a nearby creek.
"You better git, you little Ne-gro!" somebody else, a white boy, yelled at me
from a few feet away. I kept running, and this time, I didn't look back.
For the rest of the day, I harbored a secret. I harbored the shame for longer.
I knew I was black. I had found out the year before. I remember because I had
confronted my father, demanding to know when my blond hair and blue eyes would
kick in. Like the Miss Breck shampoo girl on television. Like the superheroes
on "Superfriends."
Only white people have blond hair and blue eyes, my dad said. "And we're
black."
The wicked witch, the headless horseman, the evil stepmother and all the bad
guys on "The New Adventures of Scooby Doo" wore black. Black eye, black heart,
Black Death. Black ass. Mine was a negative, visceral reaction to the word.
Five years old was old enough to know I was black. It was old enough for
somebody to call me a nigger.
And it was certainly old enough to feel like one.
That would be the first time.
One Black Drop
It is early June, and Cousin Kim and I are about to watch "Roots," the landmark
1970s television miniseries about a slave family. Kim says she's heard of the
movie but has never seen it. So I go to queue the video in the cassette player,
but first I make a cup of tea. And straighten the pillows on my couch. Then I
check my voice mail.
I am puttering. Procrastinating. Loath to begin. Because I don't know if our
blood ties are strong enough to withstand slavery. And I am scared to watch
"Roots" with a white girl. Scared of my anger. Scared of my pain. Scared that
she won't get it. Scared of how much I want her to. Scared of the way race can
make strangers out of family.
It has been nearly a year since Kim first came to live with me. She was a
cousin I barely knew. She had visited my husband and me in the summer of 1994,
when our daughter Sydney was a baby. The first time she had ever seen so many
black people in her life, she would later say.
Before that, there were brief visits with my mom and quick kisses at my college
graduation. Over the years, I heard much more than I ever saw of Cousin Kim.
Kim's father had a black family. His kids were adults when Kim was born. Later,
his wife died. And though they are now a public couple, my uncle and Kim's mom
never married.
My girls adore Kim. And when she goes to get Sydney from school, the little
black prekindergartners rush her at the door, greeting her with wide smiles and
hugs and shouts of "Hi, Cousin Kim!"
This past year, we've laughed over sitcoms and shared private jokes. We've
talked about old boyfriends, gone shopping and giggled over family gossip.
Still, up to now, we've never been down that black-and-white brick road.
I was shocked to hear that Cousin Kim considered herself white. I found out
only because she had to fill out some forms to get into community college.
Because I asked her if they had a box for race. Then I asked her what she
checked. I was ready to tease her pointedly for checking off "other." In
between. Not quite either.
I was prepared to lobby – to drop science about the "one-drop rule." In slave
days, that meant that if you had a drop of black blood, you were singing
spirituals and working for somebody for free. Trying not to get beaten, and
trying to keep your babies from being sold – even if the massa was their
daddy. Color gradations were a legacy of the plantation system. And although
light was favored, one drop gave us a common destiny. Shackled all of us
darkies together.
Later, one drop meant that blacks were able to form a common cultural identity.
To agitate for the common good. Because light mulattoes lynched as easily as
dark Africans. But one drop also meant there have always been those who could
pass. Who required writ, or testimony, or a declaration of intent to make them
black. For whom race has always been a choice.
Cousin Kim would be one of these. Her eyes are bright blue-gray and her skin
has only a suggestion of color. Generations of careful breeding have worked out
all her kinks. To white folks, she looks white. And mostly, that is how they
treat her. Like one of their own.
Still, I was ready to cast her lot with the sisters. You know half-black is
black, I was ready to say. I was ready for "other." I wasn't ready for "white."
Or that familiar sting of rejection.
Passing Away
I have The Sight. Like my mother before me. Like most black people I know. It
is a gift. A special kind of extrasensory perception. We may not be clairvoyant
enough to determine the location of the rebel base. Or have the telekinesis it
takes to shatter a glass ceiling.
But we can spot some Negro on you from three generations away.
It reveals itself in a flash of expression. A momentary disposition of features
in repose. The curl of a top lip that seems to say "Nobody knows the trouble
I've seen."
We have The Sight because we are used to looking at black people. Used to
loving them. We know the range of colors black comes in. Because there's always
somebody at our family reunions who could go either way. And because we are a
worldly people, and we know how these things go.
The Sight is a nod to solidarity. It is a reaction against dilution and
division. It is the recognition that when people face overwhelming odds, you
need to know who can be compelled to ante up and kick in.
We use it to put a black face on public triumphs that look lily white. And to
"out" folks who might act against our interests without sharing in the
consequences.
No matter how many times she thanked "the black community" for embracing her
music, we knew Mariah Carey was part black. And long before he opened his
mouth, we saw something in Rock Newman's eyes, even though they are blue.
When people wanted to call actresses Jennifer Beals or Troy Beyer beautiful, we
were eager to point out their black roots. Eager to claim New York Yankee Derek
Jeter and Channel 4 newscaster Barbara Harrison. Old folks swear Yul Brynner
was black and that was why he kept his head shaved. And speculation persists,
despite the fact that Georgia representative Bob Barr has affirmed his
whiteness.
Understand. It's not that we don't respect Tiger Woods's right to call himself
a Cablinasian. We just don't think it will help him get a cab in D.C.
My cousin calls herself white and I see a side of me just passing away.
Swallowed up by the larger, more powerful fish in the mainstream. And I wonder
if that will be the future for my family, some who look like Kim – others who
look like me but have married white, or no doubt will. And I wonder,
ultimately, if that will be the future for black people. Passing themselves
right out of existence. Swearing it was an accident. Each generation trading up
a shade and a grade until there is nothing left but old folks in fold-up lawn
chairs on backyard decks who gather family members close around to tell
nostalgic tales that begin "Once upon a time when we were colored . . ."
And I think to myself, I wish there were some things that we just wouldn't do
for straight hair. And I think of the struggle and the history and the
creativity lost. And I trust that the universe will register my lament.
When my cousin calls herself white, I see red. And I hear echoes. "Well, I
don't really consider myself black . . ."
Or maybe it is laughter.
The Real World
Cousin Kim is having a hard time with "Roots." Not her own, the movie. I'm not
having an easy time myself.
She isn't ready for the stuff they left out of her history books. I am unable
to restrain my commentary. Or my imagination. Sometimes my tears.
Ever heard of Calvert County, I ask Kim bitterly when a teenage African girl is
sold at an Annapolis auction as a bed wench to Robert Calvert. Kim didn't know
that Maryland had ever been a slave state.
There is a scene where kidnapped African Kunte Kinte won't settle down in his
chains. "Want me to give him a stripe or two, boss?" the old slave, Fiddler,
asks his Master Reynolds.
"Do as I say, Fiddler," Reynolds answers. "That's all I expect from any of my
niggers."
"Oh, I love you, Massa Reynolds," Fiddler tells him. And instantly, my mind
draws political parallels. Ward Connerly, I think to myself. Armstrong
Williams. Shelby Steele. Hyperbole, some might say. I say dead-on.
"Clarence Thomas," I say to Cousin Kim. And she just stares at me. She may be a
little tender yet for racial metaphors. I see them everywhere.
Kim is 20 in the way of small-town 20-year-olds all over the country. Her
best-best friends are Jenny and Nikki and Theresa. They send letters, e-mail
one another and run up my phone bill. She takes classes, takes care of my
children and passes time painting her nails and watching "The Real World," on
MTV. I tease her about being Wal-Mart-obsessed.
Cousin Kim walked out of the movie "Glory" when she was in 11th grade. When
Denzel Washington got lashed with a whip and cried silently. Couldn't handle
it, she said. "I just didn't want to see it. I couldn't stand the idea of
seeing someone literally beat." Avoidance and denial are twins in my family. In
others as well.
When Kim was growing up in Sandoval, they didn't celebrate Black History Month,
she says. "Not even Black History Week. We just had Martin Luther King Day."
The town was not integrated. Her father was the only black person she saw
regularly. "And I don't consider him black," Kim says. My uncle is not one to
disabuse her of that notion.
Kim's dad ran his own sanitation business. He was a hard-working, astute,
sometimes charming businessman. A moneymaker. And my mother says people used to
say if he had been white, he would have been mayor of Centralia. Of course, Kim
has never heard this. In fact, "we've never had a conversation about race in my
house," Kim says casually. And for a moment, I am staggered. But I am not
surprised.
Making the Grade
My mama's people have always been color-struck. Daddy's, too, for that matter.
Black folks know the term. It is part of an informal caste system that has
always existed in the black community.
It is a form of mental colonialism. A shackle for the mind. A value system that
assigns worth and power to those traits that most closely resemble the massa.
If you're light, you're all right. If you're brown, stick around. If you're
black, get back, people used to say.
I am light; my husband is dark. When my daughter Sydney was born, everybody
wanted to know who she looked like. They weren't asking about her eyes. They
wanted to know what black folks always want to know when a baby who can go
either way on the light-dark thing is born. Whose color is she? What kind of
hair does she have?
The hair can be a tricky thing. Nothing for that but to wait a few months until
the "grade" comes in good. But for color, we've got it down. We're a race of
mad scientists, fervently checking the nail beds and ear tips of newborns to
precisely determine where they'll fall over the rainbow.
My paternal grandmother was a very light woman with straight hair and black
features. She had an inspection ritual she performed on all new babies in the
family. A careful once-over to check for color and clarity before she
pronounced judgment. I didn't know this until I introduced her to Sydney when
she was about 6 months old.
She sat my baby on her lap. After a few minutes, she announced her findings.
"Well, her color is good. And her hair ain't half bad considering how black
that nigger is you married."
Hmmmm.
You know these days we try to stay away from divisive pronouncements on color,
I wanted to tell her. We don't want to handicap our daughter with crippling
hair issues.
But please. My grandmother might have hit me if I had tried to spout some
nonsense like that. More to the point, particularly among the elders, there is
a certain unassailable quality to the color caste logic. A tie-in with life
chances. And my grandmother was nearly 80. So I took the only option available
under the circumstances. I smiled sweetly and said thank you. Because, after
all, this was high praise.
"Watch out for your children!" had been a favorite admonition passed down from
my maternal grandmother. The one I shared with Cousin Kim. She wasn't talking
about bad influences or oncoming traffic. She was talking about a kind of
Breeders' Cup standard for black love. At least the kind that ended in
marriage. Light skin, good-hair (a compound word), light eyes. That was the
Triple Crown.
Early on, I learned there is a premium placed on my particular brand of
mongrel.
I am Red, as in Red Bone. Or Yellow, for High Yellow. Or light, bright and damn
near white.
I used to be able to break into a full genealogy incantation in an instant,
with attention paid to the whites and Native Americans in my family tree.
Because that white girl was still running around my head asking me if I was
black. Because black and ugly always came in the same breath.
But I credit white folks with my slow evolution toward racial consciousness.
We moved to a suburb of Chicago when I was 9. And we arrived squarely in a
middle-class dream.
I had always been shy. A good student. With long hair. Teachers loved me. And
always, a few black girls hated me. "White dog," they called me – no, wait,
that's what they called my sister. I was a "half-white bitch." Theirs was a
reaction. A rage. A demonstration of the only power they had, the only power
perhaps they thought they would ever have. The power to bully. But back then, I
didn't know that. I had "A Foot in Each World" but couldn't get my head into
either.
I don't remember my moment of political and aesthetic epiphany. It was more of
a slow dawn, I think. An incremental understan of the forces that were working
around me. Certainly, watching white folks pack up and leave the neighborhood
in herds made an imprint. And when a white boy spat on me at a park, I took
that very personally. But it was the trickle of small slights that accumulated
over the years that combined to make one point very clear.
High Yellow was just a lighter shade of black.
To be in Chicago in 1983 when Harold Washington, a big, dark, deep-black
intellectual, was elected mayor was to see the face of racism. To watch the way
that hate contorts the features and purples the skin. White folks were rabid.
Foaming at the mouth. A few white newscasters could barely read their copy. A
flier circulated through my high school featuring a big-lipped black caricature
chowing down on watermelon. The city would have to be renamed Chicongo, it
said. And I understood.
Ultimately, race is political. And I am a partisan.
Sometimes I still hear that white girl ask me if I am black. And now I have an
answer.
Pitch.
Cold.
Blacker than three midnights.
As black as the ace of spades.
I'm so black that when I get into my car, the oil light comes on.
I've decided that it is unhealthy for us to surrender to white sensibilities,
including the ones that mock us from inside our own heads.
We have all been guilty of dumbing down our expectations of white humanity –
like white folks can't process nappy hair – and it's time to help them raise
the bar.
Part Two continued in next post.
White Girl?
Cousin Kim Is Passing. But Cousin Lonnae Doesn't Want to Let Her Go.
By Lonnae O'Neal Parker
Washington Post Staff Writer
Part Two
Playing the Race Card
Kim has a friend whose daddy was in the Ku Klux Klan. A poster-sized picture of
a finger-pointing Klansman adorned her living room wall. "I felt like Clarice
Starling in 'The Silence of the Lambs' whenever I went over there," Kim says.
"Like the first time she went to the jail and saw Hannibal Lecter."
The father didn't ask if Kim was part black. Kim didn't tell. She just sat on
the edge of the couch with her hands and legs folded. "I kept praying, oh God,
he's going to see something on me and know that I am mixed." So she stared
straight ahead. And she sucked her lips in a reverse pucker the whole time she
was there. Trying not to make herself too obvious, she says. Trying not to look
black.
When she was in fifth grade, Kim's dad took her to a basketball game. And the
bleachers went silent. Then they got whispery. Some folks already knew her dad
was black. After that, everybody did.
"They used to tease me," Kim says with a shrug. She is reluctant to talk. So I
press her. "Let's see, it went something like this, "Nigger-lips, nigger-lips,
nigger-lips." Kim won't look at me.
The grandparents of one of Kim's friends didn't like black people. They didn't
know about Kim's daddy. When the girls visited these folks, they weren't
allowed to watch "The Cosby Show" because the grandfather didn't want a black
man in his living room.
"I hate the N-word," Kim says. It is late. We've finished another installment
of "Roots," and Kim is unsettled. Ready to talk. Tripping over her pent-up
thoughts. "Whenever somebody said 'nigger' in class, everyone would turn around
and look at me. I hate that word. I hate that the first thing they associate
with that word is me."
When she was a freshman at Sandoval High, Kim wore a T-shirt with Martin Luther
King Jr. on the front and Malcolm X on the back. "They all looked at me as if
to say 'Oh, my God, she really isn't white.' " She grins when she says this.
Around 1993, Kim says she started getting into the "movement." Started watching
"Yo! MTV Raps" and "The Cosby Show." Started being hungry for black culture.
She gave a civil rights speech to her sophomore English class. Her teacher
thought it was a little angry. That summer, when my daughter Sydney was a baby,
Kim came to D.C. We toured the White House and saw the first lady. But it was
the Father's Day tribute at a friend's house where a group of us read
proclamations and praised all the things we loved best about black men that got
her. That let her know there was a different world than where she came from.
Her mother said she seemed different when she returned. Kim says she's always
been different. In a town where everybody knows everybody and the social
hierarchy is simple and uncolored, Kim is an anomaly.
"I've never technically fit in Sandoval," Kim says. "I've never had the
small-town mentality. Then, after I moved out here, I thought maybe I do. Maybe
I'm just a little bit country."
"I'm really trying to figure out who I am."
Some of that goes with 20-year-old territory. It's a no woman's land.
Biologically grown, legally not quite, emotionally uneven. But Cousin Kim's 20
is more complex than most. She's never tried to deny the fact that her dad was
black. But she has never had the resources or the tools to embrace that side of
herself. She is provincial. Unexposed. Underdressed as a black girl. Searching.
On the phone or when she goes home to visit, Kim is still white. But in my
house, she is a real root sister. Neither are affectations. It's just the way
her cards fall. Kim is, I suppose, the ultimate insider. Privy to our private
jokes. The ways we laugh at white people. And at each other. A black spy in her
world. A white fly on the wall in mine. A study in duality.
We have also had some growing pains in my house. And I am quick to assign
blame. Quick to play the race card.
Cousin Kim smokes. I am hard pressed to name anybody else who smokes.
Especially anybody young and black. I want her to stop, and I make the
questionable leap. "You need to leave that nasty white girl [expletive] alone,"
I tell her. Initially when I said it, Kim just looked at me meekly. Now, she
gives me the finger.
Ours is a jocularity. Aided by silent code. Reinforced by a power imbalance.
Reverse racism, I suppose some would call it. I don't think so. I believe white
folks would know if blacks were ever to really reverse racism. We call them
countermeasures. Cousin Kim, I ask her, if you hate me because I am black and I
hate you because you killed my babies, is that the same?
It is a rhetorical question. Because in my house, we do not hate. We merely
understand that there are those who do. So we strive for balance. We try not to
resort to negative campaigning. Sometimes we succeed. Occasionally we fail. But
we always make the effort. Because fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate and
hate leads to suffering. We do not need Yoda to tell us this. It is something
people on the dark side have always known.
Killing Me Softly
A couple of months ago, Katie Couric made me mad. I had to vent with Cousin
Kim. For a week, the "Today" show devoted a segment to tracing family
histories. And Couric's roots go back to Alabama. When cotton was king and the
Courics were part of the ruling family.
You could buy fertile land cheap, the segment said. And the Courics did. The
family prospered and included a Civil War governor and a member of Congress.
Couric toured the family cemetery and recounted the stories behind the
headstones. Then she said, "Slaves lie in unmarked but well-tended graves
nearby."
That was it. No acknowledgment that these "slaves" were people her family
bought and sold. That some of them might be her kin. That no matter how smart
or talented or hard-working she is, her privilege was codified, her head start
generations long. That it came at the expense of somebody else's freedom. No
mention of any attempt to trace those other lives to see how they fared. Maybe
that would have been too much to hope for. But how about an expression of
regret. A mea culpa. An "I'm sorry – wish you were here."
Genealogy is about "our simple stories, not forgotten," Couric said.
Interesting choice of words. Black families have stories, too. Ones we don't
forget. That get passed down to our kids.
My great-grandmother shot a white man who tried to rape her in Mississippi, and
the family had to scatter. My grandmother's family, who hadn't been able to get
in on that fertile-land-for-cheap deal, was dirt poor and although she was the
only one of her people to finish high school, there was no money for college.
At 17, my mother sat outside a Birmingham train station crying because they
told her she was too colored for the white side and too white for the colored
side. On a family vacation, we were turned away from an empty motel lot because
the manager said there were no vacancies. In college, when I told a white
journalism professor I wanted to work at The Washington Post, he said, "Doing
what? Sweeping floors?"
Cousin Kim, I say. Which is better? The kindly massa or the sadistic overseer?
And Kim doesn't answer. Neither, I tell her. They are the same. Two parts of a
whole. Today, folks won't just walk up to you and call you "nigger lips." Well,
they might, but mostly it is the benign racists who are killing me softly. They
don't recognize themselves in the mirror. They didn't mean anything by it. They
harbor no ill will. They just don't care enough to step outside their comfort
zone.
I understand that proclivity. Often I share it. Most of us are too
self-involved to dig up the psychic pain of others. But when your family has
owned slaves, indifference is a self-indulgence you forfeit.
More than 300 years of chattel slavery. 129 years of terrorism and de jure Jim
Crow. Thirty-four years – one generation – of full legal enfranchisement. I
don't know, seems a little corrupt for white folks to cry colorblind now. We go
to the Race Place because these days, I find privileged indifference as
culpable as malice aforethought. When you step on my toes, I may not retaliate
in kind, but you must know that I will say ouch. Loudly. Such that it disturbs
your peace. Then you say, "I'm sorry." Then help me heal. After that, we can
all get along nicely.
Cousin Kim nods her head yes. I believe she really gets it this time. But
perhaps that's just wishful thinking.
Black for Me
Cousin Kim and I have watched all six parts of Alex Haley's "Roots." And three
parts of "Queen." Then we did an hour of WHMM's "Black Women on the Light Dark
Thing." We have talked and we have shared. And still she is white. And I am as
black as ever.
"We're lucky," the biracial woman Alice said in "Queen." "We can choose. Who'd
choose to be black? Black is hard. White is so much easier."
Still.
I want my cousin to be black for me. For the little girl who ran from a rock
thrown at her head. For all the niggers I have been. I want her to be black
because I'm still afraid of casual monsters in white-girl clothes. Not because
they might hurt me, but they might hurt my children. Not because they hate. But
because they teach 5-year-old black girls to hate themselves. And black people
of all ages to suck in their lips.
Cousin Kim still chooses white not only because she looks white, she says, but
"because I was raised white," and because most white folks don't know the
difference. Probably it is easier. Maybe to some people she is selling out –
but I also know that is an option a lot of black folks would like to have.
If I'm honest with myself, maybe I'm one of them. At least sometimes, if I
think about my husband or brother getting stopped by the police for speeding.
Or maybe at Tysons Corner, when tears burn my eyes as I watch a sales clerk
wait on everybody but me. My anger is hot and righteous. But I'd give it up for
a simple "May I help you?" any day.
Every day the world lets me know I'm black. And I wonder what it would feel
like not to carry that, just for a while. Probably guilty. Probably relieved.
Probably a lot like Cousin Kim.
There are no easy choices, but I think I understand my cousin's. Maybe I did
all along. I just had to tell our story to realize it. But understanding and
acceptance are not the same. Cousin Kim is white but conflicted, and I still
sting with rejection. So alone together, we linger.
The Magic Kingdom
Race. The final frontier.
The Race Place isn't crossed in a day. You can't pass through it in the time it
takes to watch a miniseries. We traverse the Race Place in fits and starts,
inch by inch, over the course of a lifetime. Or maybe two. Sometimes our
progress is steady. And sometimes we are dragged for miles back to the
beginning, chained behind a pickup truck, and have to start all over.
The overarching reality is that realities overarch. And jockey for head space.
The extremes are easy to condemn, but the vast middle is where most of us live.
Where we raise our families. And where we hope that life's lessons land a
little softer on the behinds of our children than they did on our own.
A few days ago, Cousin Kim said she got into an argument with her ex-boyfriend
over "The Wonderful World of Disney." The characters in the old cartoons are
racists, Kim said. Look at the crows in "Dumbo." "I won the argument," she
says. "He told me 'Kim, you think too much.' "
Cousin Kim smiled. And I smiled. Because this is what I want for her. To think.
To challenge. To recognize. To get it. If she does that, then maybe she doesn't
have to be black.
Still, I can't help giving her a silent "right on, little sister." You just
take your time. We're family. And I'll be here to hip-you-up if you ever change
your mind.
© 1999 The Washington Post Company
J. Edgar Hoover (who destroyed his birth certificate and threatened
black relatives with death if they ever revealed the truth). He also
wore women's clothing. Today we'd call him "multicultural
transgendered".
President Warren Harding, I think this is why he was killed -- he was
poisoned because people found out about his background. This is why
his wife didn't have kids with him. His mistress did though...
Louisiana Senator Robert Ellender (his friends called him "Kinky"
Ellender, due to his frizzy pate, and he was a noted segregationist),
Mississippi Governor Huey Long.
Hannibal Hamlin (vice president of the US), and Dwight Eisenhower (his
mother's people were of mixed ancestry.
I have also heard this about Jimmy Carter's mom, Lillian. You can
look at her and it really shows. She looked like a Latina.
Some of the oldest white families in the US have a colored person in
their woodpile...
In a way I can relate. I am African-American on my mom's side and
African-American/Latino on my dad's side. They are also of
Native-American, Scottish and Dutch ancestry. But those things do not
make me white, because most of my blood is black. I gather this is
how that girl feels -- she looks white, she was raised "white", so why
the hell not?
She was, next to Liz Taylor and Ava Gardner, one of the most beautiful
women on film...Michael Korda immortalized her in his fictional novel
"Queenie" which was later turned into an atrocious TV film. But Merle
was gorgeous, no doubt. Just look at "A Song to Remember" or
"Temptation"...she was amazing looking...
Kennebunk_guy <Kenneb...@yahoo.com> wrote in message news:<ojbijv88g87duhja0...@4ax.com>...
Kennebunk_guy <Kenneb...@yahoo.com> wrote in message news:<ojbijv88g87duhja0...@4ax.com>...
Now that one made me laugh out loud...
Kaiju
--
No more fiendish punishment could be devised,
were such a thing physically possible,
than that one should be turned loose in society
and remain absolutely unnoticed.
-- William James
no, she believed in herself, had self-esteem, high standards, a great work
ethic and demanded respect.
does that make you "white"?
i have wondered about horne's nose, myself - but her childhood pictures don't
look any different to me.
i have never heard about any surgery.
can you post your source?
This drives me to the point I want to throttle some people.
Look. There are black folks who were born with the most perfect noses
possible. Black folk are not always born with wide noses. Many have
perfect little pointy noses the type of which the best cosmetic surgeon
cannot duplicate. Horne appears to have one of those "born noses".
Halle Berry's nose as a teen is no different than what she has now.
Many of the black kids at the local high schools have noses half of
Hollywood would love to have...and these kids will never be able to
afford cosmetic surgery.
It appears to me that AGC folks are so accustomed to screaming,
"Surgery!" when seeing perfection, that they are incapable of
considering anything else.
Horne had NEVER denied being a black American. NEVER. If she had,
Ebony Magazine, which had always used her as a role model, would have
eviscerated her back in the 1950's. (Ebony Magazine, unknown to most
whites, could be worst than the worst celeb rag back in the
1950's-1960's when it came to black performers who didn't adhere to the
party line. They were scary.) And looking at Horne's relatives, she
has had very little, if any, cosmetic surgery.
BTW, I'll say this again. Halle Berry's nose looks precisely like her
mother's, and even her father had a perfect pointy nose. Why on earth
would she need surgery on it??? Genetics are on her side. Sheeesh...
Sometimes nature does its best job on some lucky people. I do believe
that those who deny the obvious actually dis-believe American blacks are
actually an admixture of whites. I ask, how can anyone ever draw the
line between the two? At least in the end...
She supposedly had her nose done by Claudette Colbert's husband, a famous
Hollywood surgeon at the time, who was rumored to have worked on lots of
celebs.
____________________________________________________
Leetie, Keeper of CRAIG DAVID and LIL' KIM
Heroic? You're easy.
No way. There are perfect wide noses, too, and given a few minutes I'll
give you some examples. ;> But Hollywood and a lot of shallow fans are
obsessed with the perfect little pointy variety, so that's what I
addressed.
I will never be able to sing "Love Hangover" again with a straight
face -- not that I ever could....
i found this when i researched "lena horne" "nose job".
it said the doctor worked on her, but i could not find a specific reference to
her nose.
horne's nose was odd, not perfect, in my opinion.
she may have had it "perfected" , like any actress, without attempting to
"thin it down".
as a child, horne's nose was pret-ty thin and unusual-loooking.
it's an "indian" nose.
as for halle berry, i think her nose looks different in her pageant pictures -
a little more bulbous.
as for "wide" noses that look great:
bill cosby"s nose is wonderful!
joie lee is gorgeous.
more on the way, dear.
ps
iamlaughing, i'm still waiting for you to quote your source re: hornes
cosmetic surgery - not a "challenge" i just want to know!
Her nose has ALWAYS been the same -- just look at her pictures....she
even said herself in a magazine interview years ago that she has
keloidal skin so therefore cannot have plastic surgery of ANY kind...
mariah carey hasn't made any bones about her heritage, so i don't
think she's "passing".
michael jackson is trying to pass, but everyone knows. :D:D:D
bryant gumble is trying to pass despite what he sees in the mirror.
o.j. tried to pass until he screwed up.
if someone is 1/16 black and considered black, is a black man who is
1/8 white considered white?
do blacks consider indians(from india) black?
is the rumor about may west because,,,,,,why???
is that whole speech by dennis hopper in "true romance" true?
Anyone can SAY anything, what you quote was from 1980. Ten years
prior she has her eyes done and 12 later she would have a little more
done on her face, the later was stated BY HER in a 2000 interview.
Her nose has had several surgeries, you must look at photos before
1945 very carefully. Then compare it to 1950. Then look at 1982.
Clean your specticles first. If still bewildered, have a plastic
surgeon look - it is VERY obvious. A tip - do not look at childhood
photos.
There is nothing wrong with having plastic surgery.
Ms. Horne never said she didn't have plastic surgery, she said she
didn't have a FACE LIFT. She hasn't had one, true!
Ophi...@aol.com (Ophie) wrote in message news:<872573c0.03082...@posting.google.com>...
Not gullible, nor damned. I just don't think she had nose surgery.
You can believe she did if you wanna...
1990s photo of her & newer nose:
http://www.aarp.org/mmaturity/jan_feb00/ladyattitude.html
Whatever anyone wants to believe based on the press releases that
publicists arrange such as her supposed lack of plastic surgery or her
marriage not being a lavendar one, is up to them. (there are some
obvious lies in the AARP interview)
Ophi...@aol.com (Ophie) wrote in message news:<872573c0.03082...@posting.google.com>...
I saw her in an old film clip on (PBS) "Great American Songbook", and I'm not
sure how she passed for _black_.
The show had performances by quite a few African-American performers -- look
for Dorothy Dandridge looking like a white person's idea of a "nice" black
person, and Ethel Waters singing "Taking a Chance on Love" and looking totally
black and totally fabulous (had almost forgotten she started in jazz, not
religious music).
--
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