Sunday Morning - Pondering Privilege.

My 18month old has emerged into his Terribleness. With my limited child rearing experience toddler terribleness often associated with being two, is the discovery of free will and the power that goes with it. Not sure what the Dr. Phd. types that sell books on the topic have to say, but with Jibril and now his younger brother Jobim, they both went through a phase that I considered terrible. A baby goes from infant to toddler as they start walking and begin to say a few simple words, after that there is a magical period where they start to understand what is being said when they are spoken to, and can respond to some extent. During the magic period they are like dogs to their masters, thrilled that they can please their parents. For my boys this period was very short (literally 2-3 weeks). This period is followed by the terribleness, it is dominated by new favorite words with tremendous power like "no" and "mine". They realize they have desires often in opposition to their parents instruction, and they don't have to please their parents to get attention. In fact, they can often get more by ignoring their parents desires, taking advantage of their position of privilege.   Essentially they are no longer humankind's best friend, they are his greatest threat... they become human themselves.

Those who know me know I am a random theory generator, I create them out of life observation, prefer if they are against conventional wisdom, and steadfastly live by them. They are theories, but since they are on things that are near impossible to be definitive on, and I don't read enough of other peoples thoughts to contradict my own, from my perspective they are fact. So my terribleness strategy is one of these theories. Which is as follows, I need to build a case for pleasing to daddy, positive  interaction. A child is a selfish greedy little creature, for which attention (bleeding heart types could replace the word attention with "love") is the only tangible currency, not unlike an adult just without the layers of coping mechanisms and self deception that we use to help us believe we want other things. So my theory is if I create on my terms "daddy attention fiestas", they will be more desirable than the converse, child manipulated "no" festivals, "mine" wars, public meltdowns and selective deafness (a favorite in our house). 100% daddy time, playing with Lego, hanging out in the park, walking in the neighborhood. No distractions, no cell phone, no sibling. Lots of communication, my camera usually joins us as the one exception to the distraction rule. This was a lot easier with Jibril it naturally could happen whenever mommy was busy. It's been harder to do with now with two children, as it needs to be a coordinated effort. 

I never planned to ramble on like that about my parenting theories, it was meant as table setting for the story of my morning. Since its written I'll let it stand, but the table is probably a little over set because it has little to no relevance to the what I wanted to share. Kinda like fine china and 5 course silverware for Kentucky takeout. Nonetheless the table is set. 

This morning I had one of those daddy's attention fiestas for Jobim. 

We set out for walk this morning, I had plans of discovering new parks, pointing out planes and motorcycles, looking for animals and puddles. Jobim had other plans, and was asleep before I got to the end of the street. 

This entry is not about Jobim or parenting, told you the table setting was for naught. 

I wheeled my sleeping son on to the fenced street side patio of Gato Nero a neighborhood bar/Italian restaurant.  Think Terroni's with slightly less selection, much better atmosphere and no silly line up. Being still morning, the law and my better judgement kept me from ordering a Campari on ice, but a twisted need for approval (probably related to the attention craving discussed in the table setting), had me ignore my distaste for coffee and ordered a double expresso and a san pelligrino limonata. Hindsight highlights how pathetic my attempt to both fit in and appear worldly was, the exclamation point being the "gratzie" I added at the end of the order. Literally the only non derogatory Italian word I know, a remnant of a trip I took 10 years ago. The balance of my Italian is the benefit of competitive banter (read street fights), during road hockey games in suburban Brampton where I grew up. 

As I sipped my expresso, my story begins in earnest. A woman emerged from the bus shelter near the fenced in patio, clearly intending to talk to me. She tentatively meandered adding extra steps to her advance, before sidling on the street side of the barricade. When walking to the restaurant and as I sat down I never saw this woman, so I have no idea if she had just walked up or had been asleep in the bus shelter. She was not much more than five feet tall in a well worn pale blue k-way jacket, dark skinned of African descent, with her thick black hair in disorganized but not untidy plats. 

I think mistakenly I looked her in the eye for a split second. I know consciously I didn't want her to talk to me but couldn't muster the disrespect of not looking directly at her. Even though it was for the briefest of moments. For her I suspect the glance was more of a confidence boost than invitation, and she seized upon it. She burst into a flurry of words seemingly all in the imperative. It sounded like a creole French entirely indecipherable to me. As she gestured in her talk, I could see that she was missing part of all of her fingers on both hands but appeared to have complete thumbs. Saliva built up in the corners of her mouth, occasionally becoming airborne as adding drama to her use of "b's", "p's" and "th's".

I often feel it's acceptable to use negative stereotypes of the panhandlers and the like, to withhold real empathy but this woman's situation was clearly different. My heart should have been filled with compassion, but instead I was self-conscious, embarrassed that she was talking to me. My thoughts were, she had to approach the "Black Guy". Ludicrous, but my thoughts as I remember it were, why does the seemingly never ending struggle of my people have to haunt me here. Can't she see the way I sip my expresso, the way my fashion cleverly treads the line between Euro chic and hipster grunge, my freakish stroller assembled in a country with a minimum wage so high they should outsource their own ass wiping... Why is she ruining my shine!

Writing about my insensitivity, is akin to picking a scab on my self image. 

I replied in French that I did not understand, and that I had forgotten much of my French. She spat back in clear english "French!" The conversation proceeded in English. I still could only understand parts of her story. She explained that the shelter she had stayed the night in had mosquitoes and bed bugs, and that she was on her way to a place where either she helped prepare food or she knew she could find good food. She asked me if I was hungry, Not sure if it was because she wanted to take me to the place she knew or if she was trying to determine if I was waiting for food. As she talked to me she looked at Jobim, who was still fast asleep but never referred to him. I could see the other morning customers at the Gato Nero "Black Cat" taking in our little exchange. As it went on, I grew more comfortable and my initial angst subsided, though it was not replaced with empathy, but I became incredibly interested. 

She asked me if I liked my juice, I said it was good, and offered her my glass. I motioned to hold it to her lips but she gripped it with both hands making a diamond with her thumbs and fore fingers like the High Occupancy Vehicle lane marker or Jay-Z's HOV gesture. Clearly a practiced move but still awkward. 

She asked again if I wanted food. Then I started with the questions. 

My assumption was that she was from Haiti, but when asked she said Peru. Peru like every country in the Americas received African slaves and has a black population. Despite my visits to the country I know very little about them. In hindsight I should have been ashamed at my ignorance but instead I disbelieved her, figuring she miss heard my question or there was a town somewhere else called Peru. So I started listing Peruvian cities, "Arequipa, Lima, Trujillo..." she responded to Lima, "Where they chop my hand," making an axe like motion across the stub remnant of the fingers on her left hand, with her equally disfigured right hand. She continued, "The dogs... The dogs..." Now she motioned like she was swimming. "They took my papers, I have nothing".

My mind went to an in-flight movie called "Terraferma", that had jarring scenes of African refugees washing up on a Sicilian beach. European vacationers pulling near dead Africans to safety.  Notably, my takeaway from the film was how would I feel if I were vacationing on that beach, not what would make me so desperate I would attempt to flee across the Mediterranean. 

She retreated to the bus shelter to enjoy her Limonata in relative peace. 

The mirror tells me my place is with the desperate swimmers in the Mediterranean, and the fingerless woman on the other side of the patio fence, but my now cold double expresso, symbolizes my masquerade.

I think of the desperate swim of the black captives that reached St. Vincent when their slave ship wrecked at sea. It is only the time of my birth that grants me the privilege of 'shine'.

Moments later she returned the glass now empty, and gestured to the coming street cars. I gave her bus fare and  she climbed on to the streetcar, waving when she reached her seat but offering no smile. 

Jobim slept on. I read Wiki articles. Starting with this history of Peru's African population, then the atrocities of the Peru's military rule in the 1980's, and the story of freedom fighter Tupac Amaru.

My thoughts returned to myself. My place in it all. My Juxtaposition. Perched between two worlds strangely part of both, however faintly, despite my protests. Opportunity and responsibility. Failing both. My thoughts move to my sons and I feel growing fear that they risk a complete disconnection, that privilege could come at the price of perspective.