In 2002 we ran away from Illinois where we were born and raised, and started a new life in SW Florida. This blog is about me (an eccentric old artist), ROM (my Real Old Man), Isabella (our neurotic Standard Poodle) and Emmy (our crazy snake killing Jack Russell Terrier). Oh- and the neighborhood old people. Life is good in Florida!

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Saturday, June 13, 2015

I Was Born A Poor Black Child...

I was born a poor black child... I was born in a teepee in Montana ... On a dark stormy Montana night, I was born a poor black child in a van down by the river... It was never easy for me. In the middle of a dark starless night, as the worst blizzard in Montana history raged outside, I was born a poor black child in a teepee. In the middle of a dark starless night, as the worst blizzard in Montana history raged outside our teepee, I was born a poor black child to an abusive white mother and father step father . The abuse started even before I took my first breath. With each contraction, my mother's cruel uterus muscles forced me from her womb. I remember the pain I suffered as the walls of her vagina pushed me out into the heartless world. Weak, cold and crying I sought the comfort of my mother's breast but she denied me even that small act of kindness. Instead of putting me at her breast to suckle, she wrapped me in a old dirty rag and shoved me to the side of the teepee. When I continued to cry, my father my step father placed me outside the teepee where the blizzard continued to rage. 

I was sure I would die alone in the frigid cold and be buried by the heavy snow. Soon I was so weak all I could do was faintly whimper. I was barely conscious when I felt warm breath on my face as something grabbed my swaddled rag in its teeth and carried me away. I drifted off into a an exhausted sleep. The next thing I remember was awakening in a cave in an underground den as I was gently licked by a warm tongue and nudged toward a milk filled teat. And that is how I began my life as the youngest member of a pack of wolves. 

I was raised by wolves for the first four years of my life. By the age of one I was running and hunting with the pack. At the age of two I invented the bow and arrow and the ability to make fire. By the age of four I had learned everything my beloved wolf pack could teach me. It was then that they first suggested I go to Africa and connect with my roots. The only problem was how would I get there? One of my wolf aunts suggested we set up a Go Fund Me account and soon there was enough money to buy a plane ticket to South Africa. 

I arrived in Africa alone and unsure where to start in search for my roots.  As I wandered alone in the jungle I was adopted by a troop of baboons the streets alone I was taken in by an African family. I learned how to braid black hair and to create sculptures from elephant dung. But like I said, it was never easy for me. Though my darker skinned siblings were treated the worst, we were all beaten with baboon whips for the smallest transgressions. Many a night I cried myself to sleep, longing to be back with my beloved wolf pack. 

In my teen years, my amazing elephant dung sculptures won many prestigious awards. I was making quite an impression in the art world and this exposure brought me to the attention of Howard University. When they offered me a full scholarship for my graduate degree I was on the first flight out of Africa. I was as surprised as the the dean of Howard U when after I showered and washed all the elephant dung off that I was a fair skinned freckled blonde.  In spite of my fair skin and blond hair I was allowed to stay, though some of my black professors were unduly harsh with me. But I persevered, completed my master's degree and married a black man. 

Married life wasn't easy, because just like my mother and father step father, my husband was mean. After just a couple of years, I divorced my abusive spouse. The judge awarded me my husband's race in our divorce settlement and my transformation into a black woman began. My skin started to magically darken and my blond locks took on the texture and appearance of a true black woman. When my metamorphosis from a pale washed out white girl into a beautiful black woman was complete I decided to devote my life to fighting for my ex-husband's people my people's rights. 

I'm not sure exactly where or when, but I found my black father. I knew that mean white man who threw me out of the teepee into a horrific blizzard wasn't my real father! I had journeyed to Africa and back looking for my roots only to discover that Dad was right here in America.

I've been the target of eight documented unfounded hate crimes as I've fought for racial equality. Have I mentioned it's never been easy for me? But no threatening letters or nooses can deter me, for I am a proud black woman. By god, this is my story and I'm sticking to it no matter what my cruel white mother and step father say. Or what my adopted brother says. Or what my black father says. Or what my birth certificate says... 


I am proud black woman Rachel Dolezal- hear me roar! 

...an award-winning Mixed Media Artist with over 20 exhibitions in 13 states, internationally, and at the United Nations Headquarters. Dolezal completed her Master of Fine Arts at Howard University, where she majored in experimental studio and minored in sculpture. She has over 10 years experience in community development, human rights education, and intercultural negotiations. She is currently an Art Instructor at North Idaho College, Adjunct Professor of African American Culture at Eastern Washington University, Advisor for the NIC Black Student Association, speaker, education consultant, and exhibiting artist.


(This is a tongue in cheek spoof based on the recent news stories about Rachel Dolezal. Material for this spoof was found at Easterner OnlineCoeur d' Alene Press, Ms. Dolezal's blog and the movie "The Jerk".)

Update 6/15/15: Over the weekend I found another interview with Rachel where she weaves more of her bizarre tale. 

Update- Now even the authenticity of one of Rachel's art works is being challenged. A Huffington Post article compares her painting "The Shape of Our Kind" to J.M.W. Turner's "1840 The Slave Ship".

4 comments:

  1. This is comedy genius. First time I've visited your blog and I predict I'm going to spend hours here reading your old blogs. I've been following the Rachel story since it first broke. I'm curious to see how she is going to spin this.

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    1. Thanks for dropping by and leaving a comment!

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  2. I am thrilled you are back. I have been reading your blog a long time and missed you when you stopped. I am a 73 year old widow that watches all the Housewives shows. I found you when you were writing about the HWONJ. I love your humor and you views on life. Thanks for all your entertainment. Bonnie

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    1. Thank you, Bonnie, for taking the time to visit my blog and say such kind things!

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