Monday, February 26, 2007

SICK DAY TELEVISION

I finally gave into the plague that had been attacking my body and spent the day either in bed or on the couch. My son was home from school because it was a snow day and he spent the day standing in the doorway wondering when he would be able to go outside and play. Grandma and grandpa were involved in a continuing discussion about the redecoration of the bathroom, while I dozed in front of the television.

I awoke to find Maury Povich's face on the television screen. It has been years since I have watched his show. I don't remember it being so low-brow. I seem to remember him interviewing people and moderating questions from the audience. And when did he stop shaking and hands and start greeting people with the secret handshaking ritual from some odd fraternity?

I watch for a while and feel very superior to the parade of guest who come to the show to find out who is the father of their child or children. All of the guests, without exception are black. Some of the folks are having two or three men undergo DNA testing to find the real Daddy. In each instance, the woman is introduced and vows that the man to the only possible father. Then Maury introduces a video presentation where the father, usually in caps, baggy clothes, and elaborate jewelery, denigrates the mother and accuses her of infidelity, prostitution, or other offense.

They verbally joust onstage and finally Maury draws the results of the DNA test from an envelope. We witness the vindication or shock of the mothers and the bravado or crestfallen expressions of the fathers. It is like watching a train wreck. You know that you shouldn't look, but you just can't turn away until you have seen it all.

I thought I had seen it all, until the last segment. The mother arrives onstage with the tale of the questionable parentage of her three children. Her husband, hidden backstage, is sure they are his and soon he will hear of the infidelity of his wife and the possibility that the children are not biologically related to him.

I was lulled into the ritual of the fathers hearing that they were not the father and the excited jubilant reactions they could not hide. When I heard "you ARE the father" I knew the dejected reaction of a head in hands, hiding of a face, and the abject depression apparent in their bodies.

I watched as this black man was told three times running that each of the children he was raising were not his biological children. I expected relief and the lifting of the burden of supporting these three children and their promiscuous mother. Instead, he cried.

He cried tears of loss. Uncontrollably the grief flowed across his body in waves. There was no comforting him.

I sat on the couch shocked at my reaction. How could I be so racist to assume that because he was black he would love the opportunity to avoid responsibility for children? How could I accept such a stereotype without question? Why did I think I was so much better than the folks on this show?

I cried too. For the man who lost his family and for my own loss.

Neither one of us will be the same.