They look at you. They look at your kid. They ask the question, “Are you the nanny?” It happens on playgrounds, in elevators, in awkward sidewalk moments. A woman looks at you and determines a) you are not the same race as this child so you must be the help or b) you are a minority “in this neighborhood” and by default it means nanny. I’d never really heard of this happening before I went to the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference when one of my group members, a Mexican mother, submitted an essay about her experience moving to Dallas with a bi-racial child (half white, half Mexican). She wasn’t called a nanny. Her husband was asked by a kind neighbor if the woman in his house was the help. “No,” he replied. “That’s my wife.”

On Tuesday’s “Tell Me More” show with Michel Martin on NPR, moms discussed the difficulty of being confused for the help. Mom Nicole Blades, a black woman with a white husband, has been asked the same question again and again in her supposedly diverse New Jersey neighborhood, “Is that your baby?” Other moms have been posed the same question in equally offensive ways Blades wrote in a recent New York Times essay:

… on the playground: “Are you working part-time for this family? Because we’re looking for a new nanny and you’re so loving with her.”

… at the school’s front gate: “You’re one of the most prompt babysitter’s I’ve met. That must be such a relief to her mom.”

… at the market: “Please tell his mom that this little cutie is so well-behaved.”

"She's My Mommy, Not My Nanny"

“He is my son. And so, to be asked if my son is my son simply because the color of his skin is shades lighter than mine, hurts. It hurts my feelings and, in some ways, it hurts my spirit,” wrote Blades who said instead of painful acceptance or anger at those asking if her child is hers she wants to turn the tables and ask the inquirer, “I’m curious, why did you ask me that?” But for mothers like Jamila Bey, who is also in a mixed marriage, “to have someone come up to me and say, oh, you are so loving with him, do you need more hours? On the one hand its like, of course I’m loving because this is my child. This baby has my blood and my flesh. There’s the intellectual part of it that goes, do you know how much education I have? And all of that assumption of the struggle that my family has gone through to educate their daughters, all of that is negated.” And Nandini D’Souza, an Indian-American born mother with a very white mixed baby found out, “I began to believe that every person who ignored my attempt at conversation must think that I’m the nanny, therefore a snob I don’t want my child around,” D’Souza wrote for Harper’s Bazaar. “Ironically, the nannies shied away from me too, knowing I was the mom. I started to think that there was something wrong with me and that I was some sort of playground pariah.”

At her blog “I’m Not the Nanny,” one DC Metro mom discusses life in a bi-racial household as a white mom with mixed children, “as the mom of biracial children, I’ve been mistaken for the nanny, depending on which DC Metro park I visit.” Misjudgment cuts both ways. And I’m just as guilty as the next. I’ve seen some Hispanic mothers pushing fancy strollers in snooty parks and I almost always assume they are nannies. But then I wonder what people will think of me when I have children and take my mixed babies around town with me. Will they assume, as I do, she must be the nanny. And what the hell am I going to say if someone asks me, “Are you looking for more hours?” I’m almost scared to think of what my response will be. Because it’s one thing to have an adult mistake you as not being the mother based on your race, but it’s another thing when they approach you in front of your child and do it. It’s cruel. I think Blades’ suggestion to ask them a follow up question, “why do you think that?” is the best kind of come back because beating the b*tch with your diaper bag in front of your crying toddler will only get you arrested.

The thing about great women is that they’re great and then they fade away and we slowly start to forget about them. One woman we shouldn’t forget is Joni Eareckson Tada who became a quadriplegic after a diving accident in 1967. She’s also one of the longest living quadriplegics on record. I read her autobiography Joni as a little girl and it was the first time I thought of paralyzed people in a different way, in a human way. Like most little kids, wheelchairs and equipment and non-movement scared me. My aunt is also paralyzed and though I a grew up seeing her in a wheelchair and helping her through doors or upstairs, it wasn’t until I read Joni that I understood what paralyzed meant and how hard my aunt had to work through rehabilitation, through college, at work and as a mother with a disablity. Sometimes making a child used to paralysis doesn’t mean that they understand it. Even now I sometimes have to remind myself my aunt is disabled because I never realized the wheelchair attached to her bottom half was weird for some people. As a little kid, I saw it as an extension of her and never thought to ask, “What’s wrong?”  

But in her essay this month celebrating the 20th anniversary of the Americans With Disabilities Act, Joni points out that there’s still a long way to go, ”While I could now roll my wheelchair into buildings with ease, I still had a hard time getting people to look me in the eye and see me as a person rather than a condition. Even today, 20 years later, my wheelchair still makes people uncomfortable. Why is that? For the most part, able-bodied, “healthy” people still fear disability. As a nation, we treat disabled people more equally and humanely than any country in the world. However, most Americans, when they encounter a disabled person, first think of themselves, “I hope that never happens to me.” Joni remains an outspoken advocate for people with disabilities, a Christian and a woman whose open struggle and honesty has helped inspire millions. And she’s a reminder to us all that ramps and electric doors don’t always change how we see the people who roll through them.

Being a good housewife used to be the expected role for women (and from my experience abroad is still the role for many women) but the stigma of a stay-at-home wife or housewife is a “near-extinct species” in places like Norway, according to The New York Times. But stay-at-home wife/mom/husband isn’t a role many are proud to claim The Times reports, ”Today it’s mostly the other way round, pitting women against one another along the fault lines of conviction, economic class and need, and, often, ethnicity. Across the developed world, women who stay home are increasingly seen as old-fashioned and an economic burden to society. If their husbands are rich, they are frequently berated for being lazy; if they are immigrants, for keeping children from learning the language and ways of their host country.” And for those who do want to be stay-at-home moms or who want to work but are struggling with balance it’s even more difficult, “In countries where mothers still struggle to combine career with family and quit work less out of conviction than out of necessity, they are often doubly punished. In Germany, the biggest economy in Europe, most schools still finish at lunchtime, and full-time nurseries fit’s or children under 3 are scarce. Yet in this generation of young mothers you are more likely to find women saying they are on extended maternity leave or between jobs than admitting they are housewives,” The Times reports.

By default, I am currently a stay-at-home wife as I am at home, not working full time or even part time through the rest of the summer until the next teaching semester starts. And as a writer/blogger my working time is hardly traditional. And I feel GUILTY! I’m not contributing financially and find myself feeling lazy and judging myself for not being out there in traffic with other girls my age, for not rushing to Subway for a quick lunch break, for watching an entire marathon of Gene Simmons: Family Jewels yesterday instead of going to the office (otherwise known as my converted dining room). I used to work like a dog all the time. And when I teach and lecture and grade and write, I do work like a dog. I just don’t have to 9-5, Monday through Friday stuff. I chose, with the support of my husband, to have a non-traditional working life. And to compensate for the guilt I carry, I have contributed more and more to “housewifey” tasks: laundry, cleaning, cooking etc. And sometimes I have to ask for money from my husband which just makes me sick to my stomach–not that he says anything. He says it’s “our” money. But I’ve always had “my” money. And now I’m in a dry stint. And I don’t want to be called a housewife or homemaker (I think of women like Hillary or those “Real Housewives” that are ridiculous or “Desperate Housewives” that are, well, desperate and they are not the kind of women I ever want to be). I feel a stigma–maybe one of my own creation–but to me it’s like I’ve made a choice to be a stay-at-home wife and not work. And I have by default but that was never my intention. I feel trapped by these walls a lot. And I hate that I smell of cleaning products some afternoons. And that today my “to do” lists includes cleaning the oven. It makes me feel like I went to school and had big feministic dreams for nothing–like I was just waiting for a good man to come a long and sweep me off my feet. I do have a good man, and I am a wife at home, but the fact is I’d rather be called unemployed, lazy or worse but not a housewife. And that makes me feel so judgmental but women who do choose to work and who don’t want to stay and raise their kids at home are often equally judged.

The fabulous girlShow kicks off this Friday and continues through Saturday and this year’s event promises to be as fun as last year–I got some great art there and funkadelic stuff including super cheap eco-friendly rings. Check out the all female cast of Dallas-based artists, musicians, jewelers, photographers including an all female breakdance crew. Sweet! The event is from 8 p.m. to midnight at Life in Deep Ellum, 2803 Taylor Street. Tickets to the show are $10 per night for adults and $5 for children ages 6-12 years (updated: previously listed for $1, my bad). This year’s theme “The Perfect 10″ celebrates the un-airbrushed images/mind/body/shape of real women. Yes, these are my kind of ladies and the folks at ArtLoveMagic hold all sorts of great, family friendly, interest driven activities that are both fun and affordable for all. Check out the girlShow 2010 blog for updates and take a peek at a recent interview with Art&Seek.org. And haul your pretty behind down to Deep Ellum for an estrogen-driven evening of ArtLoveMagic (and great jewelry!) P.S. I love this year’s logo too (but the gas mask chick was awesome last year)! Whoever is doing your art rocks!

Did anyone catch the news stories from New York and Washington DC yesterday? Or do you have East Coast friends of Facebook whining about the heat? The Northeast is experiencing “record breaking heat” and “stifling humidity” one reporter said …hmm sounds exactly like what we experienced last week. And what we’ll experience again next week and throughout the whole month of August and we all live and many of us work, swim, have cookouts, garden and thrive in the heat. Puh-lease. I get that many Northeastern residents do not have air conditioning in their home and aren’t used to triple digit heat waves that bake the blacktop but these are the same people who make fun of and ridicule us anytime there is ice on the road and we close schools or cause major accidents. “Jeez! Those Texans don’t know how to drive in a little sleet.” Yeah, I may not be able to handle black ice or put chains on my tires or shovel snow like parka-clad Yankee but I can take a heat wave like woman not a punk! That’s right. All my Texas sisters wilting in the heat, with great flat ironed hair ruined by 100 percent humidity, who stroll the sidewalks in heels at lunch time with sweat dripping down your back and thighs and still manage to look good when you get back in the office. Stand up my green thumbs who mow and weed eat at 6 a.m. and pluck weeds at 8 a.m. and still get a farmers tan and hooray for all you moms who ride the bleachers during summer camps and two-a-day football practices, and for you well prepared girls out there who always carry sunscreen and a bottle of water and know how to hydrate rock on! Texans get heat. We live heat. We burn in heat. We complain a little but you live here because you love it! Enjoy the warmth New York and DC.

It’s that time again. Time for snow cone season and the amazing treats of Mary Mathis writes contributor Alexis Ashcraft today. If you’re from Frisco, you definitely know about her. You think about her all year long. And by the time May 1 rolls around, you’re craving one of Mary’s concoctions. She is Frisco’s favorite decades-long secret: The Snow Cone Lady. Owner Mary Mathis, 62, doesn’t have to advertise, but relies solely on word of mouth. She’s been profiled in local magazines  and web sites and has been selling snow cones to Frisco residents for almost 30 years. Her shop was named one of the best snow cone spots in Texas but the woman behind the air conditioned window never thought she’d be this popular.

When she first moved to Frisco, Mathis had a small shack behind a gas station on Main Street, barely large enough to fit two people to make all of the snow cones. So many people lined up, happily waiting for hours for that delicious cold treat, that Mathis began setting up a few tents to shield out the burning sun. Today, people melt in line waiting for one of her sweet concoctions. In the scorching Texas heat, kids, adults, and teens discuss which of the flavors they’re going to get (honeymooners delight or bahama mama), and whether or not they’re going to add sour or cream flavoring.

The Snow Cone Lady now leases a Frisco building at 8760 John Elliott Rd. She has been there since 2008, and still puts out tents for lines—though there is discussion of moving her stand to the Frisco Heritage Center. If you’re on John Elliott Road, look for the blue tents and a long line of people, especially now that school is out. But no badmouthing or line-cutting; she has signs out forbidding both. Mathis sells gift certificates in any dollar amount, as well as tie-dye Snow Cone Lady logo t-shirts in adult sizes for $12.50 each, on top of the snow cones. The snow cones come in over 50 flavors, some of which are sugar free. The snow cones are $1.25 for a small and $1.50 for a large. She is open from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. on Monday through Friday, and from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. On stormy days, the business is usually closed, but you can be sure if she is closing by loggin onto her MySpace website: http://www.myspace.com/friscosnowconelady. Also, check out her Facebook fan page. 

CBS 11 had an inspiring story on last night’s broadcast on Denise Brown, founder of the City Ballet off Lovers Lane in Dallas, who hid her Jewish identity from her family and herself for 55 years. Born in Paris, her father was sent to Auschwitz and died. The young ballet dancer joined the French resistance and married an American GI who told her to hide her Jewish identity. “I knew they wouldn’t understand anymore than they understand the way you are Mexican, or you are Black, or you are Catholic, or you’re Chinese… that doesn’t happen,” said Brown. Her daughter, Evelyn, learned of their Jewish ancestry on a trip to Paris to visit family and two of Brown’s children later raised their children as Jews.  Evelyn, told The Dallas Morning News last year keeping the family secret wasn’t easy, “”I remember as a teen Dad going on about the ‘damn Jews,’ ” Evelyn said. “I said, ‘If you hate them so much, why did you marry one?’ And he said, ‘I was going to make damn sure she never acted like one.’ ”

Brown’s fear of “outing” herself was largely unfounded. She thought people would hate her. Would discriminate in the same way they did in the 1930s and 40s (including her in-laws).  ”For 55 years I’ve been lying to everybody– including myself,” Brown told CBS 11. Three years ago she finally accepted her real identity not as a Methodist but as a Jew. And decades after her father’s death, his prayer shawl found its way back to Brown who presented it to her granddaughter, Madison, “I’m wrapping you in my father’s Tallit. His life ended in Auschwitz in early 1942. Today is the first day it’s been worn in 67 years. Your great-grandfather is part of the past. Today is part of the present, and thank you for making it part of the future,” Brown said at her granddaughter’s bat mitzvah in 2007.  Madison responded, “Nanny, without your bravery and love, I would not be here on this bimah today. You are like Jacob. You put courage and family ahead of yourself.” In honor of Mrs. Brown, last week her students gave a special ballet performance honoring Brown’s legacy in Paris and Texas. What a great story! And what better proof that the truth (and acceptance) will always set you free.

Christiane Amanpour is a legend in my eyes. She’s the brunette Barbara Walters with depth who doesn’t ask stupid questions like where you lost your virginity or what things “feel” like to make you cry. She is one of the few women in this world who can sit across from a dictator and look him in the eye and call him a dictator and not get sent to jail. I’ve always appreciated her in depth coverage and special reports on the Middle East in particular. Her foreign background and knowledge of the region always lent an authenticity to her stories that other journalists simply couldn’t touch. So, it’s sad to see her leave CNN after 18 years as an international correspondent to take the chair on ABC’s This Week, the cooler, hipper Sunday round table held in the Newseum not some stuffy studio. I can’t wait to see her and George Will! ABC’s gain is CNN’s loss. Who’ll replace her? Oooh. Mee! I mean, I’m traveling over there this summer anyway. Why not? Psst. CNN call me!

Momma Ruth and Me Circa 1984.

What’s the best advice your mom ever gave you? That’s kind of hard to say. My mother Ruth has never been a woman to mince her words. Phrases like “I don’t chew my cabbage twice,” and “I’ll give you something to cry about,” were common in our household. She has always meant business, was never one to put an “I love you” note in my lunch box and never once drove back to school to hand me homework I forgot in my room. So when DFW.com asked me to submit my favorite piece of mom advice I really had to think. I told DFW.com about one piece of advice that really stuck, “When I was dating my now husband, I had a hard time with our religious and cultural differences. He’s an Arab Muslim. I’m an American Christian. So I called my mother for advice — something I never normally do. This was her opportunity to read me the Southern Baptist riot act. She said, very simply, “Joanna, God puts people in our lives for a reason.” To this day, she has treated my husband with respect and kindness, and I love her for that.” But at the time I was floored. Who is this person? This same woman once emailed me a birthday greeting in college that read, “Happy Birthday. Pay your car insurance. Love Mom and Dad.” My mom also had other nuggets of wisdow I still remember.

Raised by a Dutch grandmother in a strong Catholic farming community, my mother is a stickler for propriety. I still don’t wear white shoes after Labor Day because of her. I always want a new Easter dress and never climb monkey bars without shorts because boys will try to look up my skirt. Before mandatory church most Sundays, I had to find length appropriate dresses, white fluffy socks and “always wear a slip.” Even now it still feels weird in the slip section of the store with women my mother’s age pawing through racks looking for a beige or black under garment. But when I wear knee length and calf length dresses out, that silk lining between me and the rest of the world is a reminder that I’m a lady. And ladies wear slips. Thanks mom! Happy Mother’s Day and I promise I won’t forget to call this year!

I finally met the Dallas woman I never want to be. Her name is Hillary. She’s blond, thin, tan and sat across from at the doctor’s office yesterday waiting for her Botox treatment, “gettin’ the tox,” she told her friend. I was there for some relief from my allergies and couldn’t help but overhear her very loud iPhone conversation. She and a friend were trying to coordinate a weekend getaway but couldn’t figure out when to pick up their children from pre-school. The two kept chatting and then discussed the difficulty of good help in this town. Hillary passed on the name of her housekeeper, ”yeah but she speaks English really well,” said Hillary who was so excited about getting lamps to put her new lake house together. The doctor called Hillary into the office so I never heard what kind of lamps she was so excited about. And I know you’re thinking what kind of doctor’s office does allergy checks and Botox? An Uptown clinic. And, yes, I felt very uncomfortable sitting in the office wheezing from one nostril while Hillary whined about her hard knock life. I was so thankful just to have the luxury of going to a doctor’s office again and paying a co-pay after almost a year without health insurance. But I will not be going to my local Uptown clinic again. Sorry, but women like Hillary make me more sick than I already am. I know these creatures exist in Dallas (not working, stay-at-home wife, afternoon Botox treatment after afternoon workout, kids in day care, housekeepers and lamps at the lake house) but seeing such oblivious selfishness up close and blared to world so loudly was just uncomfortable. Thankfully, for every Hillary in this town there’s another hard working woman with no housekeeper who likes her hair a dark brown and skin a freckled beige and who goes to the clinic when she’s sick not when she feels wrinkled. Yeah for all the none-Hillarys in Dallas!