The older I get, and the more I set my sights on starting a family, the more reflective I am on how our cultural and spiritual upbringings affect the core of who we are. While I believe that our spiritual upbringing (or lack thereof) is probably the most foundational aspect we receive from our families, I think culture plays a significant part as well. Take corporal punishment, for example. The largest contingency of spankers in America is likely the Christians and for obvious (to me) reasons. The second largest contingency of spankers likely consists of people of color. I know many African American families who are not Christians, but do spank their children. Ambra's theory is this: if you live in a America and you are not considered a person of color or not a Christian, nine times out of ten you probably don't believe in spanking. I could be totally wrong. We'll never know now will we?

I use that little scenario to illustrate a simple point. As an African American I can wholeheartedly say that black families often raise their children very differently than "White" Americans. I realize this isn't a white and black world, but in many ways both literally and figuratively, I believe "black" and "white" represent two different extremes and I shall use them for the sake of convenience. All my brethren of color, feel free to use my logic as a template for your own culture.

There was a time in my life, however brief, when I thought I was a white kid. It was a fleeting thought and it almost got me killed. When I was ten years-old, my mother made me mad and in an attempt to manipulate her, I threatened to run away. I'd seen many of my friends from school use this tactic and it worked on most of the sitcoms (except the Cosby Show) so I figured I'd give it a shot. I wholeheartedly expected to receive some serious ministering to my backside, but my mother decided to run psychological warfare on me. Given this expectation, you can imagine my chagrin when my mother responded to my threat with, "Fine by me; just don't take anything you didn't buy."

Don't take anything I didn't buy? Wasn't expecting that one. I thought, where on earth did this woman come up with these snappy retorts? As a child growing up, there were times I seriously considered surrendering my uterus to the authorities for fear I'd never be able to match the ingenious rejoinders my mother pulled out of thin air. Surely my children would suffer from my lack of brilliance.

The next hour was agony as I tore apart every crevice of my room, searching for something, anything I'd purchased with my own money. After rifling through every drawer, sadly, I came up short. My clothes, books, and personal items all laid claim to the same financier: my loving parents. After digging a bit further into my messy closet, the one thing I managed to find was a pathetic-looking pink clay jewelry box with green flowers painted along the sides. It was one of the better pieces among the graveyard of my overambitious school art class projects. There was a time I could’ve sworn I'd be launching my own Plazgraff collection and no one could tell me otherwise. It is a sad day anywhere when you are running away to live on your own and all you have to your name is a poorly constructed piece of pottery. (Coincidentally, this reality would repeat itself twelve years later when I moved out on my own for real.) The four walls of the jewelry box were kind of lumpy and the handled top I made shrunk in the kiln so it didn't exactly fit perfectly. It was ugly and not well constructed, but in that moment, it was the most beautiful thing I owned.

I stuffed a few useless knickknacks into my precious jewelry box--some Bonne Bell lip gloss given to me by a friend and a few sticks of gum. It was summer so I didn't need a jacket. On my way out the door I bid farewell to my mother. I didn't bother waking my father from his nap to say goodbye. This was all a ritual I thought, and any moment my mother was going to beg me not to leave. I journeyed outside about fifty yards from our home and found a spot where the grass and the sidewalk meet. Just me and my ugly jewelry box there sitting on the curb. A few neighborhood friends in our predominately black neighborhood were out riding their bikes. They came and sat and commiserated with me. I told them my story of escape from the evil dictator formerly known as my mother. In many ways I was their hero. I'd done the unthinkable and managed to come out without unscathed.

After a good hour of watching blades of grass grow, it was clear that my mother called my bluff. Clearly I hadn't thought this one through and found myself missing home more than home missed me. I packed up my pride (and my jewelry box) and headed back to the house. Standing at my parent's doorstep with my tail between my legs, I regrettably rang the door bell. As if I were a turkey whose thermometer button just popped out, my mother looked pleasantly expectant to see me. I apologized to her and was banished to my bedroom to "think about" what I'd done. I never appreciated my parents as much as I did that day. As I headed up the stairs, my mom called out behind me,

"Oh and by the way…that jewelry box? You made that at your expensive private school. We paid for that too!"

Right then I knew I was officially indigent. That was the first and last time I ever ran away. That type of behavior might've worked in other households, but my mother wasn't having it.

Continue reading "My Black & White Life">>>

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I've never been a voracious reader (see the "Reflections On the Ill-Read Society"). I got through high school and part of college without actually reading through an entire book. That probably says less about my abilities and more about crappy curriculum. I've read the first half and the last chapter of countless books, but unless the writer is captivating, it's tough for me to make it cover to cover. As I'm sure you can deduce, I'm strictly a nonfiction reader. With nonfiction you can afford to speed-read, skip, and skim. I have to buy every book I read because prep school gave me a nasty habit: annotation. I underline, I highlight, I fold pages, I write notes in the margins. It's bad. The good news is when I like a book, I'm a faithful customer. I'll read it and reference it again and again.

Growing up, I always envisioned myself in bed on rainy Saturday mornings (of which Seattle has many), devouring books off my nightstand without a care in the word. Then life happened and I now realize that what little time I have for reading is usually spent online. When I get married, I will have to institute a "no laptops in bed" rule...for me not him. Ah the pitfalls of internet.

My nightstand looks like a library these days. It's full of books I've put off reading, as well as references I've read hundreds of times. Here's my current pile, what's yours?

1. Think and Grow Rich, Napoleon Hill
   
2. Imposters in the Temple: A Blueprint for Improving Higher Education in America, Martin Anderson
   
3. Boy Meets Girl: Say Hello to Courtship, Joshua Harris
   
4. Undercover, John Bevere
   
5. A Christian Manifesto, Francis Schaeffer
   
6. Jesus, CEO: Using Ancient Wisdom for Visionary Leadership, Laurie Beth Jones
   
7. I Kissed Dating Goodbye, Joshua Harris
   
8. The AP Stylebook, The Associated Press
   
9. The Content of Our Character: A New Vision of Race in America, Shelby Steele
   
10. Addicted to Mediocrity: 20th Century Christians and the Arts, Franky Schaeffer
    
11. Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ, John Piper

Related entries:
- Reflections on the Ill-read Society
- Books that Changed Your Life
- Hi, I'm Charles Dickens and I'm Overrated

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