21 Weeks or Mean Mommy

The magic pregnancy number is 40 weeks, so I'm more than halfway there.

My belly is popping and the little one's kicks are such that my husband can now feel them from the outside.

I did the most un-feminist thing ever today: Barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen, I made my husband a sandwich.

At a "Friday Faculty Hour." Mingling and making small talk, when she, the professor who asked "why I spoke Spanish," approached. How's my year going? Great. I started talking about teaching upper-level classes for the first time and how excited I was about teaching an Afro-Hispanic Identity topics class. "Oh, so are a lot of students in your class...like, is that, you know, part of their heritage?" Girl, whet? Are you asking about the ethnicity of the students in my class? Or worse yet, suggesting that they would only be in there if it (Hispanic-ness? Afro-ness?) were a part of their ethnicity? If you don't go sit YO self down somewhere...I kind of nervously laughed and was like, "Um, no, I have two Latino students who are heritage speakers, but for the majority of my students, it's not a part of their heritage at all." More awkward small talk ensued, wherein she asked me to describe my classes to her in Spanish so that she could practice her rusty Spanish. She talked about how she led a trip abroad to Mexico back in the day and brought her daughter along when she was a little girl and she picked up Spanish like a little sponge. Good for her. And then she was like, "She's 20 years old now, but have I ever shown you a picture of my daughter?" She whipped out her phone and there was a picture of a cute little biracial girl. I could see her waiting to see my reaction, like it was some kind of fabulous reveal. I did everything I could not to side eye her so hard. Like, do you want a trophy because you have a black child? (I already knew from offhanded comments from another professor that she had adopted a biracial child back in the day.) I can't explain why it was so annoying to me. Like, as if she were trying to say See, I get it, I'm on your side, I'm not racist, I understand, I want you to know that I'm a good, socially conscious person. Here's the proof. I have a biracial daughter. Be proud of me. Homegirl, why don't you stop worrying about proving your non-racistness to random black people and instead start learning how not to say problematic stuff to them?

Now, I will admit to taking some glee in my own phone picture reveal when someone asks about my husband. Well, the glee usually comes from seeing the surprise on white people's faces. But some black folks seem unfazed, as if it confirmed what they already suspected, and then I get my feelings hurt.

My new annoying question is "So, do you have a name picked out yet?" Like, 1. What makes you think if we did have a name that we'd want to tell you, particularly if I don't know you like that and 2. What makes you think I care to have your feedback on whether or not you like the name? See, these are the things going on in my mean little head. But P and I decided that we're just going to tell people if they ask, because we're pretty decided on the name, it's going to be our son's name whether they like it or not, and we don't really care whether someone scrunches up their nosy face if they happen to not like it, because...we don't really care. I think I should start a new blog after the baby comes called "Mean Mommy."

I'm really looking forward to my baby shower in my hometown next month. We still haven't finished with the registry...it's still super overwhelming to me, to be honest. There are so many products, so many choices, so many things you need...I want to be a mom, but I know in my heart of hearts that I have no idea what I'm in for and it's unsettling. Somehow the registry is like, representative of the unknown. Representative of there's no turning back. You can't just put a baby back. Graduate from parenthood like it's another degree. Not this time. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to my baby shower because I'm excited about seeing friends and family and celebrating with everyone. My best friend reminded me that this is a pretty singular event. Your first child. You're going to want to look back on this and remember it.

Today, I sent cards to people that I've been meaning to send cards to for a while. If you want to express something to someone, you should do it, no matter how long it's been since you first intended to do so. There are so many people who have contributed to my life. I don't take it for granted.

A couple of weeks ago I had lunch with an internationally known black feminist, bell hooks. She spells her name in all lowercase letters. She was born and raised in Kentucky and has an institute at a college similar to and not far from the one where I teach now. I did refer to her work in my dissertation, but I can't say I'm a bell hooks expert or anything. I was just grateful to be able to spend time with her. Many times, when I tell people where I am now, they turn up their nose. Kentucky? Why? I mean, I get it. Kentucky is not this cosmopolitan place. But there are little treasures here, and getting to meet bell hooks was undoubtedly a Kentucky experience. When I walked into the restaurant where she and another colleague were waiting, I just teared up. At first, I chalked it up to pregnancy hormones, but after thinking about it for a while, I realized there's something about being pregnant, about the prospect of bringing a new life into the world, that makes you want to be among your own—surrounded by mothers, grandmothers, aunts, women who are like you and who have the wisdom of years to share. And in that moment, I felt like I was among my own.