Editor’s Note: So I was fussing around on Twitter Sunday afternoon when I came across poet and writer Bassey Ikpi’s tweets from the frontlines—er, playground. What started out as a lazy, playful afternoon for the Baltimore-based mom and her deliciously cute son, Elaiwe, quickly turned into a “get it straight” verbal smackdown when another mom questioned whether her son was “slow.” Right. In one almost hour-long twitter stream, Bassey expressed the fears, frustration, and anger black parents face when others make foul, wrong-headed assumptions about our brown babies. Here, the blow-by-blow of Bassey brilliantly breaking down why it’s just never a good idea to “innocently” verbalize said assumptions about black children to their moms, as told through Bassey’s tweets.

By BASSEY IKPI

• At the park with Boogs. Poor thing needs some friends. He’s trying to convince some big kids to let him play soccer. 1:29 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• This kid isn’t afraid of anything! Where did he get that from? I long to be that free and unafraid. 1:31 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Ugh! This is why I hate hanging out with parents I don’t know. Just because our kids are playing together don’t mean you and I should talk. 1:39 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• E is clearly smaller than your kid. Why would you ask me if he’s delayed? Do people do that? Am I wrong? 1:40 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I was like… what? He’s 2 and a half. She goes, what?? Then she wants to compare notes. He started walking when?? He says what??? 1:42 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Bitch, you started it! I wasn’t trying to tell you he was a genius. I was letting him play with your barely talking yet 5 year old. 1:43 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• White people blow me with that! He can’t be gifted? He has to be tiny and slow?? 1:44 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• My 2 year old is convincing your 4 year old not to be scared of the slide and you trying to say what to me? Ridiculous. 1:46 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• And yes I am tweeting in her face. 1:46 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Boogie is having fun but if this chick doesn’t stop with the questions. Like I’m going to say well when his home planet was destroyed… 1:50 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• “Oh his father must be thrilled.” Someone is about to be arrested. 1:52 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I’m taking my cues from Michael. I’m a lover not a fighter. I just explained to her that her questions come off both rude and racist. 1:56 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• She apologized and said that she saw how he was behaving and assumed he was older but because he is small she thought he was autistic… 2:01 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I’m not sure how that’s better… but I asked her why she wouldn’t assume that he was advanced for his age rather than slow for his size. 2:02 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Hell why not just ask me how old he is? She said she was just stunned bcuz her 4 yo 2:03 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Doesn’t speak as clearly and isn’t as self possessed as E is. I said that has nothing to do with me and my kid. 2:04 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Was that rude? I’m not trying to be rude but Boogie is just Boogie. I don’t compare him to other kids. 2:04 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• She shouldn’t compare little Dakota or Simon or whatever. No wonder he’s so scared of slides. Let the boy live. 2:05 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Crap. Stupid bleeding heart. Now I feel bad.2:06 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Boogie: What happened, mama? Me: That lady is stressing me out. B: Me too! Can I have ice cream? (Love this kid) 2:13 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• E is fine for his age. He’s smart but he’s not Doogie. So to think he’s a tiny 5 year old that’s slow? What time is your plane to conclusions? 2:14 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• It was more how she asked. He started walking early. He started talking early. Yes he eats fast food. Yes he watches TV… 2:17 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• These are just facts. I’m not all hmph.. give your kid a happy meal. That’s what works for ME! (Kinda) 2:18 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• I get nervous about my parenting but I know I’m doing the absolute best I can. That’s it. Leave me alone random white woman! 2:19 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Oh I don’t feel bad. I know Boogie is awesome. I just was annoyed by the whole conversation. I don’t like talking kids with parents.

• So if I’m saying yes he knows a lot of words. Yes he’s pretty fearless. Yes he’s very confident. LEAVE ME ALONE. 2:23 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

• Ok. I’m done talking about this. You can’t be mad and eat ice cream. It’s like illegal in 4 countries. Thanks for listening to me! 2:24 PM Aug 30th from twidroid

About our MBB Contributor:
Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius… the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi, who, as you can see in the picture above, be flyer than most, even on a sick day. Get more Bassey at basseyworld.com

If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.

By BASSEY IKPI

E is a very friendly little boy and I know that most mothers are jumpier than I am about whom their kid speaks to or plays with. So I stay calling him back from every kid he tries to turn into a new friend. I love this about him, but I know that not everyone understands it. Kids in the pediatrician’s waiting room are even trickier. There are stark differences between the flushed, concerned, exhausted faces of the parents with the ill children and the sunny, yet no less concerned and exhausted faces of the parents who are just in for a quick check up. I’m still perfecting the demure, distant smile that reads, “He’s not contagious—he just likes to hug people.” It seems like it’s working until E sneezes on the little blonde girl in the pink, puffy vest and her mother hustles her way.

We’re the only black people in the room. This isn’t important but it’s something I notice. I quietly wonder if I’m also the only one without a ring. These things don’t matter but they do.

After pulling E away from another nervous looking kid across the room, I make a mental note to start teaching him the difference between who is “huggy” and who is not. That woman and her kid? Definitely not “huggy,” E.

I watch the woman next to me shift her eyes slyly. She appraises me quickly, then turns her gaze to E. She’s not as slick as she probably thinks she is. She’s the kind of mother that makes me nervous. She looks like she bakes and likes it. Like her children and family consume every waking moment and 80% of her sleeping ones. She probably has a recipe box and a system for removing stains from various things. She looks at me like maybe I’m here because I broke my kid. I shift uncomfortably in my grey, knee-length, cable-knit cardigan and black leggings. My black suede Pumas next to her olive green Crocs tell the real story about who we are. I want to make sure that E’s energy isn’t mistaken for ill behaved. I know it shouldn’t matter, the boy isn’t feeling well, but I’ve been the “black kid” enough times to know that it does. I don’t spot her child. Small waves of panic start to erupt as I wonder if she’s the Parent SPY I made up in my head one night.

The Parent SPY is someone who to the casual observer is just the man making a deposit at the bank or the old lady weighing melons in the store or this lady… sitting next to me in her judgmental Crocs trying to figure out if I’m a good parent. I haven’t quite worked out whom they report to or why. No, scratch that, they definitely report to my mother.

I decide to sit up straighter in my chair and readjust my ponytail. I look over to make sure that E isn’t trying to force a tiny embrace on anyone. He is watching the fish in the tank and counting them, “One, two, three, five, eight, double you, auntie, Elaiwe… ” I smile to myself and look down at my vibrating cell phone.

“Well, isn’t he a charming little man,” The Parent Spy sniffs, her Crocs pointed in my direction.

“Yes. He’s a good boy.” I reply. There’s a “handmade Halloween costume” inflection in her voice. I think quickly about a way to slide in that I read to him every night… every other night… okay, when he asks me to, but she has already moved on to her next line. “And he’s dressed like a little teenager!” I look up because now I’m certain she’s not using the words she really means…

“He likes to dress like a big boy,” I say. I’m a little puzzled by the “thing” I detect and I’m not quite sure where she’s going with this so I play it safe and go back to ignoring her and her ugly ass shoes.

“Oh look at that! His little jeans are even sagging underneath his diapers.”

There it is.

In our rush this morning, I forgot to belt his pants. Considering, that A) I was going to let him go out in his pajamas and B) a few hours before, his fever was so bad that I could almost see the cartoonish heat waves rising from his body, whether or not his “little jeans are even sagging…” was about as important to me as what he plans on majoring in if and when he goes to college in 16 years.

It took me a few seconds to process what she was implying but when I did, my brain began to speed up in a manic rush of words and insults. I took in the aforementioned Crocs, the suffocating mom jeans, the shapeless bob, the ill colored and thin, pursed lips. I had my head cocked and the neck in half roll before I remembered the space I was in. I got heated thinking about all the times I felt I needed to apologize for my choices as a single mother—the times I wondered if the unsure, uncomfortable decisions I’d made over the two years I’ve been a mom would somehow be detrimental to E’s development. And this run of emotions was only compounded by the fact that I was paying for this visit out of pocket and praying that the card swiped would print out a receipt and not a notice from my bank.

And then I got tired of explanations and excuses and reasons. And my precious little sicky, huggy boy was sagging and he was counting fish all wrong. And he had pulled his hoodie up to cover his big head because that’s what his uncle Kebe does. And he was laughing hysterically at the fish that kept hiding in the castle. And I just sat there relieved that he wasn’t slumped over and radioactive and I turned back to The Croc Bitch and I inhaled and smiled.

A brown haired little boy, whom I’d noticed earlier, sitting in a corner reading a worn book, came skipping over to Croc. He looked to be about 8 or 15 (I kinda suck at figuring out kid ages), wearing a pair of brown corduroy high water slacks, an oversized fuzzy sweater and a purple ski cap with a green, fuzzy ball at the top. He began pulling at his mom, screeching, “It’s time to go! I want to go!” His mom tried to hush him and get him to sit or keep his voice down. He pawed at her and whined.

I was glad I didn’t fire off any of the thousands of quips I could have. I refrained from the “Dear Bitchy Lady” status update. I smiled to myself, re-tied my Pumas, stood up with an audible, “Woosah!” and walked over to E. His pants needed to be pulled up.

When I got to him, E turned and said, “Hiiiiiii, moooooomy!” and hugged me like he hadn’t seen me in awhile.

“Thank you, Boogie Butt!”

“Welcome! No! Pull up pants? I do it!”

“OK! You do it… But just a little bit. Mommy will not have her child dressed like a Muppet like some other mommies.”

Hey, I can be bitchy too.

About our MBB Contributor:
Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius… the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi, who, as you can see in the picture above, be flyer than most, even on a sick day. Get more Bassey at basseyworld.com

If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.

By BASSEY IKPI

I was the girl who was never going to get married—never going to have children. I mean, I’m not even all that convinced you’re supposed to eat EVERY SINGLE day. And I’d rather spend my rent money on a really cute pair of shoes. And I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to do with a baby. So when I saw the blue line on the pregnancy test and decided to become a mother, I had some explaining to do—to myself and a whole lot of other people in my life who thought they’d never see the day. The following are the very real, very true reactions to my statement, “I’m pregnant.”

1.
Sister: If it’s a boy, it’s going to be gay.
Me: Really? Why do you say that?
Sister: Well… you’re a girl and you’ve always been kinda gay.
Me: Oh.

2.
Friday.
Me: Mommy, I have to tell you something…

Sunday.
Mom: Nyono, it’s your mother. You called me on Friday and you told me something. I’m going to need you to repeat it. I don’t think I heard you properly.
Me: *repeats it properly*
Mom: Oh Lord… that’s what I thought you said. I’ve been hiding from your father for two days. I need you to tell him today.

3.
Me: Daddy, I’m pregnant.
Dad: Oh. What does that mean?
Me: Huh?
Dad: What happens next?
Me: Huh? What are you asking me?
Dad: What are you telling me?
Me: Huh?
Dad: Do you want to talk to your mother?

4.
Friend 1: What the hell? I thought you didn’t want kids.
Me: Well… I didn’t. Now I do.
Friend: Why?
Me: uh… tax write off.
Friend: Really?!
Me: Uh… no…
Friend: Oh. ‘Cause I’d get one too then.

5.
Friend 2: You do realize that you can’t play the “Go hide in the closet and Bassey will find you eventually” game with your own child, right? Right?

6.
Every friend I have in various forms: OH YIPPEE! We’re having a baby! You realize that once this child is born it is no longer yours?
Me: What kind of cult shit is that…
EF: Silence. We have to decide on names… .

7.
Friend (when I first found out): So I can start shopping for it now?
Me: Well, it’s not anything now. I don’t think you can really shop for a collection of cells.
Friend: YOU can’t. You apparently don’t know me very well.

8.
Me: First person to use the word “preggers” or ask to touch my belly or tell me I have a “bun in the oven” is getting cussed out.
D: *instant message being deleted*

9.
Friend 2: I don’t care what you name it as long as the middle name is Stacey Ann Chin.
Me: The entire middle name will be Stacey Ann Chin?
Friend 2: Yes.
Me: Even if it’s a boy?
Friend: Especially if it’s a boy.

10.
Tim: What up, ‘Nancy!
Me: What?
Tim: Get it? Preg NANCY
Me: Niiiiice!

11.
Former friend: You’re crazy if you think keeping it is a good idea. I just don’t believe you’d be that stupid.

12.
Everyone: I’m going to be an Auntie!
Everyone else: I’m going to be an Uncle!
Lara: I’m going to be a baby daddy!

13.
P: I will refrain from singing and dancing to a chorus of “I Told You So.”

14.
Lab Tech: And this is the embryo in the amniotic sac…
Me: Oh… look at it all… embryonic…
Lab Tech: Ma’am, not that.
Me: Oh.
Lab Tech: That would be the thumb print you just left.
Me: Oh.

15.
Mum: So you’re not sick at all?
Me: Nope. Just really tired. I feel fine.
Mum: Not sick at all.
Me: Nope.
Mum: Not even a little bit?
Me: No….
Mum: Well that doesn’t seem fair.
Me: What? Why?
Mum: Well, I was sick as a dog when I was carrying you… I just knew my grandbaby would return the favor.
Me: *Blink* Can I speak to dad?

16.
Friend 3: You know what’s a lovely name?
Me: What?
Friend 3: Joi… it’s such a good name.
Me: Thanks, Joi.

17.
Friend 4: I can’t wait to see you pregnant!
Me: Awwwwww
Friend 4: I’m going to laugh so hard…
Me: Hmph.

Love my family.

About our MBB Contributor:
Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius… the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child. Elaiwe Ikpi. And though she doesn’t think motherhood is very fun, she loves every second of it. Including the moments when she wishes it was 1993 and the only thing she had to worry about was how she was going to get home from Pom practice. Check her out at basseyworld.com.