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I haven’t mentioned race all month, I don’t believe, though I’ve been thinking about it for a few reasons, some of which will require their own posts.

One item is this story in England about “black” and “white” twin baby girls. Their parents are both of mixed race. I just read about in JET. The magazine noted: “Often, people don’t believe Kian [the darker child] is my baby, which can be quite upsetting at times,” said the mother.

Another is the television show on FX called “Black.White.”, not coincidentally adjacent to the babies’ story in JET. I was REALLY nervous about this program. Blackface? Whiteface? But the makeup is effective, some better than others. The theme, by the show’s co-producer Ice Cube, is good.

Someone asked if the show was provocative, interesting, hokey. The answer is yes.

I’m as frustrated with the white guy, Bruno, as the black guy, Brian, is with his Pollyanic world view.

I thought Renee, the black woman, was naive or in denial, if she thought that what the long-haired guy in the bar wasn’t speaking some truth. He noted some of the black kids thought that excelling in school was not a desirable thing. (“Acting white” was the term I heard years ago.)

Certainly, the most touching character so far has been Rose, the white girl who, in makeup, joined a rap poetry session. Her palpable frustration about living a lie with these very honest poets was not only touching, but great television.

So far I’ve seen two episodes of the limited series that ends April 12, and have recorded a third.

So, I’m talking about these two stories and I get into this minor verbal tussle with someone who suggested that class is the real determining factor in how people’s lives will fare.

I don’t necessarily disagree in some respects, but the point I was making was that people make decisions about people based on race, long before they’ve sized up someone’s socio-economic status.

When black people are together trying to describe a non-present white male, they’ll say, “Oh, it’s the white dude with brown hair.”

At least in my presence, when a group of white people are discussing an absent black man that not everybody knows, they’ll often say, “He’s the black gentleman with…” and name some feature about his clothing or hair or family situation. Often, they’ll look at me to ascertain whether it was OK to identify another person by race, or have they stepped into Politically Incorrect land. Well, no, it’s fine, I nod.

People see race/color. People who claim that they don’t see race make me nervous. It’s like saying you don’t see hair color or gender. It’s out there. It’s OK to recognize it.

Black people, when describing an absent black person, often describes skin color, “the light-skinned guy.”

I had spent a lot of time in that house when I was growing up, at lunchtime every day from kindergarten through 9th grade. So, you would think I would have learned the proper operation of a coal stove. Well, apparently not, because I kept suffocating the fire.

As a result, there was no heat, which eventually meant the pipes froze and burst. I washed up at a friend’s house some nights. I would sometimes go out to the library or other public places. It was at a visit to the library where I was listening to the Beatles’ Abbey Road. “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” ends the first side. I kept playing it louder and louder, so that when the song abruptly ends, I briefly thought I had died.

I had a blanket that my ex had made for me on the bed, in a sometimes vain attempt to stay warm. One night, the blanket fell off the bed and onto the space heater, briefly catching on fire. Fortunately, the acrid smell woke me up. The very interesting thing about this particular event is that my mother dreamed about me and fire that very night. Perhaps it was her subconscious that actually woke me up.

My grandmother’s TV had only one station, the CBS affiliate Channel 12, WNBF. I watched a lot of soap operas. But what made me realize I was truly, probably clinically depressed at that time was that I watched at least three, and maybe all four episodes of Hee Haw that aired that month.

As the weather got warmer, I got a job, got in a play, got into a disastrous rebound romance. But I always remember that really terrible month.

March 26, 2004, a Friday, was scheduled to be Carol’s last day of class. Uncharacteristically, she felt a bit crummy about 4 a.m., but she drove off to her first school, in Albany County. After that session, she drove to adjoining Schenectady County, but had to pull over once on the road because of some pain. It was then that she thought she was MAYBE in the first stages of labor. But she figured it would be a couple days, and went on her way to teach at her second school.

I was at work when she called me around 3 pm to tell me not to meet her at the doctor’s office, but to come home, because she felt so lousy. She sounded so weak, and she knew her voice sounded so muddy, that she actually (and fortunately) identified herself by name. So, I came home. But the doctor’s office insisted she come in. I called doula Maureen to pick us up, and I instinctively furiously started packing some items for our hospital visit, which was on the agenda for the upcoming weekend.

We went to the new doctor, who examined Carol, and ascertained that she was 8.5 cm dilated. He was surprised. I was surprised. Carol was very surprised. Maureen, who had assisted in over 100 births, was shocked. I call my parents-in-law from his office to ask them to meet us at the hospital; they live 75 miles away.

So, it was “do not stop at home to get the bag I threw together, but go directly to the hospital.” We check in around 5:15 p.m.

One of the things that is apparently hospital procedure is that a doctor of the hospital be assigned to the case if the mother’s physician isn’t there. Since our doctor was not yet present, at least three of these eager young physicians breezed in during our first hour there, introducing themselves, and explaining everything. This was NOT what we wanted in our birth experience. I asked Maureen to call our (new) doctor to make an appearance. Once he arrived, the revolving door of doctors finally stopped.

Carol tried a couple different positions to see what would be comfortable. At some point, a nurse came to tell me that Carol’s family, which included her parents, her brother Dan, her sister-in-law Tracy, and one of her young nieces were there. I went out to the waiting room and gave them the keys to our house, so they could pick up the clothing and also the boom box and some music my sister Leslie had sent us. The great thing about having the doula is that I knew Carol would not feel abandoned when I talked with her folks.

At one point, Carol used a tub to relax for about an hour. The folks came back with the goods and I went out to get the items.

After this, the serious labor process began. Because Carol had taken the Bradley classes, she was very fit to give birth. The problem was that the doctor didn’t really think she was making much of an effort. While Carol thought she was being very loud, and I knew she was working hard, it didn’t sound like one of those very vocal births one sees in the movies. But finally, I saw this Little Soul’s head coming out – full head of hair! At 10:27 p.m., the child was was born! 7 pounds and 11 ounces, 20 inches, full complement of fingers and toes.

The doctor, the nurse, Maureen, Carol and I just marveled.

I cut the umbilical chord, she gets cleaned up. Finally, around 11:30, I go find Carol’s family, give them the good news, and they come in in pairs, first Carol’s parents, then Dan & Tracy.

Around 1:30 a.m., we get moved to another room, where we attempt to sleep, though this new girl – we never knew her gender until she came out – wasn’t that co-operative. The nurses were checking on us seemingly every 2 minutes, but it was probably more like 90. I was in this lounge chair next to the bed.

The next morning was all a bit of a blur. I know medical people came in and out. I remember that, in midday, my parents-in-law came over, and I went home with my father-in-law to make about 20 phone calls, and then back to the hospital. We received a number of phone calls and a couple of visits.

Sunday midday, we went home, as a family: Carol, Roger, and Lydia Powell Green. That was the easy part.

I don’t want to get into talking at length about Bradley, except to say:
1. It’s not Lamaze, and
2. It was very useful in informing us about the birth process, and it felt as though we were taking control of much of the process.

One of the exercises we were to do was to come up with a birth plan, which certainly would not have occurred to me independent of the class. Ours is here.

At some point in February, there was a baby shower, arranged by Carol’s sister-in-law Tracy and others. Later, on a snowy St. Patrick’s Day, my office got together and bought me a wonderful baby carriage; Carol was in on the secret, and drove downtown to share in the festivities.

We were also busy emptying the room that would become the nursery. It had become a storage area for all sorts of things we didn’t know what to do with.

2/3/04- Little Soul “has been very active lately. Normally, [Carol] notices on her drive to work and drive home, but now she notices early in the morning, last night while we watched TV, much of the time.”

In the Bradley class, we learn about doulas. A doula is advocate for the parents before, during and after the birth.

Carol goes to her ob/gyn with a discussion of the birth plan, though without the actual sheet. She feels that the doctor is just placating her, something we talk about with our doula, Maureen.

Carol and I go back to the practice, and talk to a different doctor about items on the birth plan. He said, several times, “We could do that, if you remind me.” Finally, he declared: “What you probably want is a midwife.”

A midwife? Can we DO that? Moreover, can we change practices with Carol 8 months pregnant?

We can and we do. Carol and I go to see a midwife, who is in a practice affiliated with a doctor in mid-March, which goes well. We make another appointment to see the doctor. That’s scheduled for March 26…

Now, for the Adventures of Buckethead!