Racist Songs of My Childhood #truestory #chicken

Sure, you can say, “It’s just a stupid ice cream song—quit overreacting.” But that’s exactly the fucking point. It’s the most benign, neutral thing I can think of. And this is part of its history (not even buried particularly deep)

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via Your Neighborhood Ice Cream Truck Is Playing a Racist Minstrel Song.

So, this reminds me of a song that I was taught by my grandmother growing up. It was a racist song and I had NO IDEA. In fact, when I’d ask my mother what parts of the song meant, she’d obfuscate to avoid telling me the truth. For example, “Mama, what’s a darkie?” “Oh, honey, that’s just a child who is dirty because they are too poor to have running water.” Or, “Mama, what’s a pickaninny?” “Oh, baby, that’s a child who worked in fields picking cotton.”

Uh-huh. I see.

A hint about the song.

This all culminated one day in the third grade when our teacher offered us extra credit points to stand up and sing any song we wanted. Oh, yes…oh, yes, I stood up and sang this song. My teacher was HORRIFIED. And when I got to the middle of the chorus and messed up, and asked to start over, she was like, “Uh, no, how about you just sit down now.” I was mortified and thought it was because I can’t sing well (and I can’t). But when I told my mom about it later she just about died of embarrassment. Also, there was a black kid in the front row. LET ME TAKE A BOW NOW.

So, yes, the lesson of this story is, I guess, don’t let your mom teach your kids racist songs because then their teachers are gonna think you’re a racist. Also, for what it’s worth, I’m not teaching this song to my kid, obviously. But I still know every. single. word, and I still wish darkies were just dirty children. But…that’s not what it means and I offer up an apology to everyone offended by my childhood ignorance.

By the way, this is the song I sang, except in the version I learned, we said pickaninny instead of the n-word — apparently my Appalachian family had some limits when it came to racist terminology. POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING! THE N-WORD IS USED!:

Speaking of the n-word…my daughter and I were talking about the book Huckleberry Finn the other day and she was asking why some people wanted to ban it. The subject of the n-word came up and I was like, “Well, there’s this word in there that is very offensive, but it was used really regularly back then. What’s interesting, though, is that the book was one of the most important piece of literature for illustrating that humanity is the same no matter a person’s color, and the use of that word in the book was to help illustrate that lesson.”

“What word, Mom?”

“Uh, it’s, the, uh, n-word.”

“What’s the n-word?”

I looked at her little face and couldn’t bring myself to say it. “I can’t say it. It’s just really never okay to say it.”

“But how will I know what it is?”

“I’ll write it down.” I then looked at a piece of paper and the pencil and couldn’t even do that. “I can’t write it down either,” I said. I couldn’t hand a piece of paper to my beautiful seven year old with that word on it.

“But, Mom, how will I know what the word is?”

I almost answered, “That word should be forgotten.” But finally I realized that it’s still pervasive in different parts of our society and culture, she might hear it and repeat it after listening to some rap, for example. So I explained it by saying, “It sounds like the word bigger but has an ‘n’ on the front.”

She said, “Oh. Okay. I’ll never say it, Mom.”

And I was like, “Cool, because it’s worse than the f-word and it’s so insulting to people that it really just shouldn’t be said, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

So…yeah. I couldn’t look into her beautiful face and say such a hurtful, awful word. It sucks so much that there are kids out there who hear it directed at them or their families. I hope some day that stops forever.

Reading Memoirs: Spying on Dysfunction

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After reading The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir twice, I decided that I would read another memoir to see if I could capture that glorious feeling of spying on hope again. I knew I had many unread memoirs in my stash of books, so I perused them and eventually chose out The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls.

I’m pretty sure that this book is more about spying on dysfunction. And truly I, like almost everyone else in the world, really don’t have to go very far or read a book to do that. I read the first two chapters and then had to put it down. It is, from what I read, a fantastically told tale, and one that many people will probably enjoy.

As a mother, however, I could not get past my rage at Walls’ parents. There were aspects of the brain washing depicted in the story – the father encouraging the children to believe that life on the run from the FBI (creditors) was actually the very best way to live – that reminded me too much of very recent realizations I’ve come to regarding the experience of childhood. While I’m always open to anything I’m reading challenging me emotionally, there are some things that are better left to cook awhile, rather than eaten raw and bloody. So, I’ve shelved that book until later, and I’ve put those thoughts about the nature and experience of childhood into a pot on the back of the stove to simmer quietly. I suspect that stuff will come out in some of my writing in unexpected ways. That’s the best therapy there is for it anyway, you realize.

Here, look at this picture of Brent and Josh’s most recent baby goats, apparently named Dion and Donatella, and spy on hope again for a moment. Wash away the taste of bad parenting, childhood brain washing, and bloody, raw, boiling soup of uncomfortable realizations with the adorableness of baby goats. Aahhhh, that’s nice. Much better. Oh,and you can follow the Beekman business at Fabulous Beekman Boys on Facebook, if you want more updates of goats, sweetness, and hope.
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In the end, I went back to reading Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente rather than continuing to search for another memoir that might hit the blissful spot that The Bucolic Plague managed to hit. Deathless is, by far, my favorite book that I’ve read in a long time. It is taking me months to finish it, though, because it is the most delicious word porn. Mmm, so good.

When reading memoirs, what you expect to get out of it? Do you expect that you will have a sense of, “Well, at least my life is not as bad as all that?”, or do you hope to feel inspired, or to feel like you can relate to the individuals writing? Or do you just want to read a good tale?