Beverly Tatum's "Racial Identity Development" - Where Does an Upper-Middleclass White Girl Fit in?

It’s difficult for me to categorize myself on the development scale, but if I had to choose one, it would be somewhere in between the stages of Immersion/Emersion and Autonomy. In my early stages of development at my private preschool, elementary and middle school, I was isolated from the Black culture almost completely, with the exception of the presence of my family’s African American maid who cleaned our house once a week. On the one hand, I did not personally know any Black children, so I had no way to identify with them, but on the other, I could understand why African Americans would not like Whites because I went to classes with the direct descendants of Charleston’s slave and cotton plantation owners, and, as far as I could tell, the turd gene has yet to be bred out of their genomes. Because I was not born into this circle—my parents came from little towns in South Dakota—I was cast off to the side and treated as an inferior, along with a handful of other misfits who I am still friends with to this day.

When I finally left that small Hell on earth in eighth grade, I was swept up into a polar opposite environment: a public magnet arts school. These people were not brought up in luxurious mansions south of Broad Street downtown; they came from literally all over the county, and brought to the table their diverse talents, racial backgrounds, and personal experiences. Here, I was accepted (or at least not openly mocked or ignored) by most everyone, and even became close friends with an African American girl in my art major, who I’ll refer to as S. To a passerby, she was as Black as they come, but in reality, she was very different. S was quiet around most people and had a dark sense of humor, so naturally we got along just great. She was also a lesbian, though I did not know this for sure until just recently, and an agnostic brought up by parents who owned and operated an extremist Baptist church. Despite knowing her well, there were many secrets I will never know the details of the physical and mental abuse she endured from some of her family members. Honestly, I didn’t want thoughts of her suffering to plague my mind; I only wanted her to be the happy, hilarious S that I saw everyday. As a White girl who never fit in the South, which was the only place I ever knew, I could never really know what it is like to be a Black girl. I suppose I will never be able to identify and fully understand what it is like to be a Black girl like S because I am just the opposite in the eyes of many Americans: an upper-middle class, straight White girl who has never faced any serious struggle in her life. But are we really opposites? I do not see race as a clear-cut Black and White issue. In fact, my foreign friends (a White European, a Hispanic, and a Chinese girl to name a few) all just lump Americans together with the same traits. I hate when they do this because I want to be seen as an individual, and my family came from some of the same countries they were born in just a few generations ago. Didn’t that mean I was something special like them? The way they see things, Americans are all looking for a way to categorize themselves: “I’m a quarter Sioux Indian!” or “I’m 1/8^th Italian!” etc. They don’t care if you are 1/72^nd German, if you had not been born there, grown up around German influences, or even had German parents, you are not German in their eyes. You are an American like everyone else, nothing special.

I’d like to think of myself as normal, but that is all just a matter of perspective. I’d like to think of myself as a normal kid, no missing teeth or extra limbs or laser vision. But I was rejected at my elementary school for not being normal like them, although now I know few people who really were like them. And now I feel like I’m not weird enough. Sometimes it feels like the underbelly of society is even more pretentious and finicky to please. I dunno. Maybe I’m just a weird kid who only wants to belong.

A Presentation by Joseph Bathanti, the Poet Laureate of North Carolina

At 7 p.m. on Monday, March 25, I had the pleasure of attending "An Evening with North Carolina Poet Laureate Joseph Bathanti" at the Laurel Forum in Karpen Hall of the University of North Carolina at Asheville. Dr. Bethanti is the author of seven collections of poetry, three books of fiction, and a book of non-fiction, and has won many awards for his hard work and dedication. Additionally, he is the creative writing professor at Appalachian State University as well as the Director of Writing in the Field and Writer-in-Residence for the Watauga Global Community.

Many of the poems and short stories he read incorporated serious issues with entertaining and humorous descriptions of everyday life. His pieces cover everything from gross restrooms encountered during road trips to mothers in prison reuniting with their children living on the outside. The pieces of poetry he recited include “Drought,” “Peaches,” “Wheeling,” “Knocked,” “JoJo,” “Women in Prison,” “Dogs of Salsbury,” and three poems from his latest book Sonnets of the Cross: “Jesus Carries his Cross,” “Jesus Falls I,” and “Shooting Pool with Samuel Becket.” In addition, he read the short stories “Driving” and “Actavia.” He concluded the event with a questions & answers session with the audience, comparing his mentally demanding career as a writer and professor with his father’s physically stressful and dangerous job in the steel mill, discussing how he avoids writer’s block, and explaining the process of being selected to be a poet laureate. Overall, it was a fascinating and enjoyable evening made complete with an excellent presentation of quality literary works.

In the clip below, Bethanti gives us a glimpse into his personal life and relationship with poetry.

"Hair" - A Poem in Response to Tony Hoagland's "Dickhead"

Yeah, he's cool...

This is a little poem I actually wrote a couple years ago that was originally published in print in the book To Kiss the Other Bird Beyond the Glass, which can be purchased here. When I read Hoagland's "Dickhead" (which can be read here, along with some of his other poems), I was reminded of it again right away. The awkwardness of adolescence is an period of our lives we all try our best to pretend never happened, but it is important to not to forget it because it was a significant time of growth (both physically and mentally) and is what makes us strong, mature adults today.

Hair

I don’t spend much of my time
looking at my armpit.
It’s not a place you would go searching
for a lost sandal
or a poem, for that matter.

There’s not much there
except the occasional smell
of Del Taco on a busy Saturday afternoon.
I was never expecting to find anything there
or for anyone else to either.

When I caught another twelve-year-old girl
staring at me and snickering,
then quickly turning away,
I frantically searched my shirt
for a spaghetti sauce stain that was not there,

only wisps of soft, brown moss
growing in what had always been
a dry, naked desert.
I tried to tug down my sleeves,
but they had become too small.