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Showing posts with label Washington DC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Washington DC. Show all posts

Why Boston?



It's been kind of a rough week.

Many of you know that most of my hilariously frustrating experiences in an interracial relationship take place in the city I call home: Boston, Massachusetts.  I've mentioned the Boston Marathon in a previous post and most recently during my own journey from backslidden jogger to 2012 Boston Marathoner.

Last Monday I spent the afternoon camped out near the finish line of the Marathon, at the corner of Newbury and Hereford Streets, cheering on friends running in this year's race.  The intense noise from spectators was so deafening that a simple phone call from a friend became an an exercise in futility:
"WHAT?! HIS PACE? IT'S 6:40! NO! I SAID 6! 40! I HAVEN'T SEEN HIM YET! I DON'T KNOW WHAT COLOR HE'S WEARING! ALL THESE PEOPLE LOOK THE SAME TO ME! HUH? OKAY! OH WAIT, HE JUST CROSSED THE FINISH LINE!"
After a few failed attempts to get through a wall of people and closer to the finish line, I figured it might be wise to make my way home since I had to catch a flight to DC in a few hours.  Within minutes of taking off, it became the most depressing flight ever.

One word that describes my feelings over the past week?  Conflicted:  Should I keep watching a news station if the anchors can't pronounce the names my city's street names?  Where do homeless people go during a shelter-in-place? What if the suspect had fled to Roxbury instead of Watertown?  Why is All-American Muslim considered an oxymoron?  What would our city and our world be like if we harnessed the same energy and resources used to track down these suspects, to search for every child that went missing?  Is an arrest more like chopping off a branch than killing at the root?

On Saturday morning I had to remind myself that the last six days were not a dream.

"How do you feel knowing they caught the suspect last night?" my husband asked.
"I feel a sense of ease...but not relief," I replied. "Because I still have more questions than answers."

A 61-Year-Old Bootcamper, The 2012 Boston Marathon, And Me


A few weeks ago while traveling in Washington, DC for work, I happened to walk by the gym I used while living there this past summer.  Through the glass walls and door I could see my former bootcamp instructor speaking with another gym member.  We caught eyes she began waving excitedly, motioning that I should come over.

After hugs and a brief motherly/priestly check-in that coaxed out a confession of falling off the exercise wagon and eating lots more sugar, I turned to go about my merry way when my instructor exclaimed, "Oh! I did my marathon! I have pictures! Come and see!"  I'd completely forgotten about seeing her morning after morning, trudging along on a treadmill in the corner, head down, earbuds in place, until it was time to teach her first bootcamp or spinning class of the day.

I followed her into her office, and she proudly placed a large 8 x 10 photo of her victoriously crossing the finish line at the 2011 Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC.  "I finished in 6 hours and because of my age group I placed pretty well! Right in the middle of the pack."

Oh yes.  I should mention that my instructor was running the marathon to celebrate her birthday.  Her 61st birthday.

As I smiled, nodded and listened to her marathon highlights,  she had no way of knowing about the thoughts going on in my head; how just a few hours earlier during my flight from Boston, I continued mulling over the idea of running the Boston Marathon -- a thought planted by my husband after completing a longer-than-usual run.  But I could think of a lot of other things I'd rather do for four hours on a state holiday, like eating a big plate of chicken nachos from my favorite burrito place.
"Wow, well this is really inspiring," I responded.  "I've been thinking about running a marathon myself --"
"DO IT," my instructor insisted,"You can totally do it."
Aside from the whole 26.2 mile thing, I also knew running the Boston Marathon wouldn't be easy just in terms of getting into the race.  I had no qualifying races under my belt.  Regular registration was over.  And considering how late I was in the game, I new the few nonprofits able to get numbers through the John Hancock Charity Program finished their application processes months, kicked off their respective fundraising campaigns, and already began team training.  Yet, I failed to see the timing of this conversation as random.

I returned to Boston and thought of the nonprofit organizations to which I felt most connected.  I had no expectations that my inquiries about applying for a charity team and made peace with the fact that if it didn't work out, well, it just wasn't meant to be.   But I thought, "What the heck, it never hurts to ask right?  What's the worst they say? No?"

So I emailed Boston Partners in Education, an organization whose doors were some of the first I walked through when we moved to Boston five years ago: "I know the application period ended last month," I wrote, "but just wanted to see if you were still looking for team members."  The response?  Suprising: "Hi Tinu,  We are still looking for one more team member to run the 2012 Boston Marathon for Boston Partners in Education and fundraise for us."


After completing an application and providing some additional information to Executive Director, Pam Civins, later that week I received a call inviting me to join Team Boston Partners.  And I accepted.  Afterward I hung up the phone, sat back at my desk and said, "WHAT DID I JUST DO?!?!"  With each ensuing week of training, I'm finding that out.

To keep up to date with my training and fundraising progress, check out my Team Boston Partners Crowdrise page: http://www.crowdrise.com/tinudiver 

From Beans to Chocolate

I knew something was up when my husband came home from work one evening, disappeared into our kitchen without a word, and reappeared in our living room holding two glass of bubbly.  Now you'd think I'd get the hint that he had something important to share with me, but as I am wont to do, I tried (and failed) double-tasking as long as I could, assuring my husband that I was hanging onto his every word by grunting a few "mm-hms" and "uh-huhs" every thirty seconds while clicking away on my keyboard, eyes locked on my computer.  When I realized the looming shadow suddenly cast over my screen was from my husband standing over me and not the sun setting, I had no choice but to put my computer aside and give him my undivided attention.

Why I Spank Other People's Kids

"Me and Cheryl have a little process, a little system, called Beat A@#! Early.  It wouldn't ever really evolve  into hitting.  It's more of a pinching thing, like, if you do get fed up to the point where you feel like you want to hit your child, instead of hitting him you can pinch him."

"Ah, come on with that time-out.  Time-out's for white people.  Get out of here with that."


-Excerpts from the book Whatever It Takes: Geoffrey Canada's Quest to Change Harlem and Americaby Paul Tough

A couple of years ago I almost got into a fight with a homeless man in Washington, DC and ever since my husband has tried (and failed) to keep me from inserting myself into other people's business.  I was in DC for work and on my way to the training location, I walked by a homeless man who asked me for change. I denied his request and he responded: "Fine, you black b$%@*&!"

Now most days I would just shrug it off, charging his belligerence to the influence of drugs, alcohol, or a mental disorder, but this was not one of those days. I turned around, proceeded to curse him out, and made it known: "I'm from P.G. County!" The only problem is that my cursing began to agitate him and he proceeded to chase after me. Thankfully all of this occurred in close proximity to my destination so I just ran inside of the building. But it does make me wonder why people reference their hometowns during altercations. I remember hearing Taylor from Real Housewives of Beverly Hills saying: "I'm about to take you out back and get all Oklahoma on your a#*%&#!" Wow. Oklahoma? Really?

Last year a friend gave me the book Stickin' To, Watchin' Over, and Gettin' With: An African American Parent's Guide to Discipline after a heated debate I had with my husband about my habit of inserting myself into other people's business. I do blame my mother. To this day she carries out impeccable, covert operations on all of her children and anyone who steps within ten feet of her home. We can't get anything past her. Although some might balk at the idea of a book focused on discipline within the context of a specific race and culture, just over the last week there have been three very high profile models of discipline that were all different and arguably tied to culture. First there was the "Uncle Beating His Wanna Be Thug Nephew Over Facebook" (complete with about five lashes from a belt that would have been better suited for holding up the uncle's pants; interesting to note that Youtube recently removed the video for "shocking and disgusting content"). Then you have Joe Biden, Vice President of the United States of America, "Negotiating Release of Speech Script From Three-Year-Old Thief " (my favorite part if when the Vice President snatches the speech back, ha!). And then the highly controversial and contested Wall Street Journal article by Amy Chua called "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior."

So, my latest run-in occurred one sunny, Boston afternoon as we walked home from an ice cream run at J.P. Licks.  Our apartment building at the time had a number of shops and restaurants on the ground floor and on this particular day, the florist held a sidewalk sale to make room for new inventory.  While passing by the wares lined up outside of the flower shop and along the sidewalk, I noticed some young boys running in and out of the stores, yelling, and causing a ruckus.  I pretended to ignore them, but behind my sunglasses I was pulling a "Focker."  I kept my eye on the boys, two black males who looked like they somewhere between the ages of eleven and thirteen. 

Then my jaw dropped as I watched one of the boys steal an item from the florist and start walking away--he didn't pay and he had no intention to pay (it wasn't one of those "let me run around the corner to the ATM real quick" type of situations, it was more like one of those "petty larceny" type of situations).   I pulled down my shades, gave him the side-eye/now-you-know-you-wrong look and stated loud enough for everyone on the sidewalk, across the street, and in the neighborhood to hear: "UM, YOU MIGHT WANT TO PUT THAT BACK."  The young man froze like a deer in headlights, turned around, put the item back, gave me the evil eye and murmured something under his breath about "playing around."  I didn't catch his response because my husband grabbed my arm and dragged me into our apartment building, scolding me for sticking my nose where it didn't belong.

My Husband: "What were you thinking?!  Now he know where you lives!  (and I thought to myself "well, he wouldn't know where I lived if you hadn't dragged me in here!")  That kid could have a gun!  He might come back looking for you!  You shouldn't get involved in other people's business!"

Me:  "Shoot!  I ain't scared of no little kid!  I'm from P.G. County! (see, there it goes again; and how announcing that fact would stop a weapon, object, or person from hitting me, I do not know)  I wish he would try something!


Now, rest assured, my husband's reaction wasn't motivated by a domineering sense of paternalism or some deep-seated fear of black men as perpetual perpetrators of violence.  He just wanted to make sure I didn't have  a repeat of the scene in DC.  Understanding something like how a person's culture informs their approach to disciplining children can be hard to understand and accept as an outsider looking in.  So in trying to explain my rationale for the florist incident to my husband, initially I struggled for words.  I knew I couldn't give trite and shallow defenses like: "Well, you don't understand because white people don't know how to discipline their kids, they just run around all crazy and wild," or "The only children Americans think about are their own, they'd probably prefer just throwing those two black boys in jail," because I knew neither of those statements to be completely true based on  my own experiences.

But what I could explain to my husband was that as a black woman raised in a hybrid culture of middle-class Black America and upwardly-mobile Nigerian immigrant, I am acutely aware that my success as an adult is because of "the village" that raised me: their Stickin' To-- unconditional love and support (affection); Watchin' Over -- loving supervision (protection); and Gettin' With -- loving confrontation and accountability (correction). And as an adult, I think it is important for me to show that same care and concern for youngsters whose lives I have the opportunity to influence.