Recently I looked for the art piece that helped me heal the hate I had for JPF.
I hung it in my art studio. But it seemed to always be looking down at the space where my grandchildren play, so I moved it.
I usually keep it in a drawer. I didn’t really like looking at it. It was too powerful and painful. Although the intention of healing was tremendous 4 years ago, I felt a heavy weight in my heart when I looked at it.
I searched everywhere and couldn’t find it.
I called my husband he said, “Honey, I think you threw it away.” I was stunned. I couldn’t conceive of throwing it away. How could I throw away this powerful symbol that transformed me and JPF so deeply? I was so disappointed in myself.
My fear and anxiety grew.
For days I was deeply concerned about my mental health. Why couldn’t I remember throwing it away? It didn’t seem like something I would do; throw away meaningful art. I wondered why I wouldn’t sell it rather than discard it? I had offers to purchase it. But I kept it to use in race and ethnicity classes at the community college.
Days of beating myself up and retracing my steps led me to remember what happened:
I had a strong urge to listen to the last of the recorded conversations I had with JPF, the day before his execution. In our conversation, he showered me with compliments, gratitude and love. He seemed genuinely sincere when he told me how much it meant to him that I would forgive him. He asked that I call his friend Glen Miller, suggesting he would be good to me.
I never called his friend. I may have forgiven JPF but I’m not stupid. I felt strongly that if I visited him, JPF would have someone waiting in the parking lot at the prison to finish what he started in 1980. That’s why I only spoke to him on the phone. I didn’t trust or like him. I pitied him.
I couldn’t listen to more than a few minutes of our conversation. It was too painful and traumatizing.
I looked up Glen Miller and found several articles including these:
Miller’s murders were committed on JPF’s birthday, the year after his execution. This act of domestic terrorism was mostly ignored by mainstream media. I sincerely believe that ignoring these domestic terrorist’s crimes, helps white supremacy flourish in the shadows.
JPF and Miller’s stories sickened me to my core.
At that moment, I felt that no one, who can do anything about it, cares about healing racism or holding white supremacist domestic terrorists accountable in our country.
Something inside me broke. I walked straight to the garbage and got rid of it, along with the memory of throwing it away.
If only eradicating the ignorance of white supremacy were that easy.
- the lightness or darkness of a color
Brown Paper Bag Test– Slave owners held brown paper bags to the skin of a slave. Those as light or lighter than the bag would be allowed to work in the house.Those of a darker skin hue were sent to the fields. These were two very different life sentences, life circumstances and life expectancies. The residual expectations of beauty from the brown paper bag test still affect society today.
Colorism is a reflection of unjust expectations, within ones own race, of acceptable standards of worth and beauty based on lightness or darkness of skin tone.
Its like starving for acceptance and being given a beautiful inedible piece of cake.
• How does colorism affect our capacity to understand, love and accept our multi-ethnic families, villages and ourselves?
• Can we heal the misunderstandings of the beauty of value and the value of beauty?
For me, ethnicity awareness brought an awakening. The challenge of racism isn’t one I chose. It chose me.
On August 20, 1980, Joseph Paul Franklin, a racist serial killer was trying to start a race war across America. He murdered Ted Fields and David Martin, who were African American. I was hit with bullet fragments as we jogged from Liberty Park in Salt Lake City, Utah. I was 15 years old at the time. I grew up in Utah. But this wasn’t my first or last taste of racism.
When I fill out a census report I never feel like I choose the right description. White not Hispanic, isn’t true for me. Hispanic doesn’t feel right either. I am multi-ethnic. I come from a long line of open-minded lovers. Many were lost in their need to be as worthy as the white people in their world. Some of my beautiful Mexican ancestors bleached their skin. My mother remembers hearing her Mexican grandmother tell her, ” We may be dark but we are just as good as the Okies.” She believed there was a rating system of worth and importance. She told her “we are better than white trash.”
If she really believed this, how did she feel about herself and her grandchildren who carried the less “favorable” traits of dark hues and ethnic physical characteristics or the children whose skin was lighter?
My ethnicity is tied to the culture of my sphere of influence; my friends and my family as well as their friends and families. Our lives touch each other to shape our experiences. It is a ripple effect.
At times I’ve been told I look like an exotic white woman but my ethnicity is more connected to the African American and the Hispanic culture. My father had blonde hair and grey eyes, my mother is first generation Mexican American, with dark hair and eyes.
Growing up in Utah, my family was often ostracized and called “spic”, “wetback”, half breed” by our white Mormon neighbors whose parents didn’t allow them to play with us. To them we had no worth, no redeeming value.
“Tell Me Who You’re With & I’ll Tell You What Your Worth”.
Being a fair skinned, bright, shy, obedient, quiet and introverted child, I seemed invisible as I observed the grown ups around me. I quietly fell through the cracks and listened. I heard their unguarded conversations (as children often do) and learned about the toxic give and take of racism.
Those conversations treated me to the double-edged sword of white privilege at a distance. I still marvel at the poisonous mind-sets or sayings that imprison those who just want to fit in, to be valued and belong, to be seen as a person.
I believe in the law of three fold. You get what you give, times three. That’s why I don’t want to fight prejudice or declare war on racism or anything that offends or scares me. My intention is to heal racism with art and uncomfortable conversations. Healing begins within, exploring self imposed biases and prejudices. Everything touches everything.
My art is a hopeful prayer for the voiceless. It is an invitation into the void of uncomfortable conversations where the healing begins.
STATEMENT ABOUT MY ARTIST MENTOR EXPERIENCE
I think the women at Art Access are really fairy godmother’s who grant wishes for art waiting to be born.
I’ll always be grateful Art Access granted my wish and gave me the opportunity to work with such a talented and giving artist, Liberty Blake. She’s is teaching me the fundamental, structural and artistic process of collage art. Her generosity of time and wisdom has been priceless.
The evolution of this exhibit grew from exquisite conversations of vulnerability with Liberty. Her professional and personal advice allowed me to give a voice to the family secrets of colorism.
I look forward to working with Liberty in the future. This has been a challenging beautiful experience I will carry forward in my artistic career.
© Terry Jackson-Mitchell and http://www.idwellindreams.wordpress.com, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Terry Jackson -Mitchell and http://www.idwellindreams.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
My assignment in figure painting could be anything I wanted to paint so I chose to paint my version of Dorothy Dandridge in “Carmen”. I like how it turned out. We normally use oil or acrylic but I wanted to try watercolor. Its my third time painting an assignment in water-color. I like working with it but I think I would do better if I took a water painting class.
I painted a chrome statue of Buddha. It sits center stage in my home, keeping me mindful of being present & grateful for all the blessings in my life.
Spring semester 2013, I was asked to create paintings without using any black or white to mix the colors for paint.
I couldn’t help but think, “What would my life be like without black or white’s influence?” I often feel that I walk between the space of race.
I thought of all the races that are part of my DNA. I come from a long line of open-minded lovers, maybe some weren’t given a choice. Many ancestors were on opposite sides of race wars; French, Mexican, German, African American, Native American, Middle Eastern, English, Irish, Scottish, slaves & slave owners.
I thought of the imprint of pain & misunderstanding because of the black & white mentality that cripples my heart when I feel like I don’t fit in.
I wondered if I could heal my ancestor’s pain within me.
I visualized them all, speaking of their lives & their journeys. I wanted to hear them all. I wanted to heal them all. I saw them making peace with each other in another realm where no black or white was allowed, just the pure colors of their essence. They were my inspiration for these paintings.
I see them all dancing within me.
I see them in the face my grandchildren.
Changing the world begins within…. outside of black & white.