May you live in interesting times

The title is an old Chinese proverb that resonates in my life. I’m born post-slavery in the greatest of nations, participated in the liberating sixties movements, immersed from its formative years into the information age, and now witnessing the first man of color securing the presidential nomination on a major party ticket.

If sometimes I seem to be too cynical about life in America and its dominant society, if sometimes I fail to see the fundamental fairness and integrity in its hesitantly maturing humanity, let me remember and savor this significant moment in history.

And it’s about damn time!

Oh, now I remember

And now that I remember, I’m embarrassed. That bit about the Circle of Life . . . well, it really wasn’t all that. It’s just that it was a nagging something in my head that I wanted to jot down a few words about. Only it kept slipping away into that vaporland of Boomer Reality, i.e., “I forget/forgot . . . .”

Anyway, this is all that I was going to say.

I bought an apartment in Harlem that has outdoor space. A lot of outdoor space. It’s almost as big as my apartment. I don’t know how I got it. It was a fluke. The Universe/Force was with me. Whatever! If you know anything about how the housing lottery goes, you put down your money first, then pray you’re not stuck with a loser because you don’t get to pick an apartment for some time, or do a walk-thru for the first time several months later. You’re just supposed to be (blindly) grateful that you’ve managed to achieve the Miracle of New York (Nueva Yorque Miraculous) – affordable housing.

I digress. To continue: there are some wonderful, fun-loving people in my building. Everyone is so delighted that we have all these new friendly neighbors, and bought our bright new space to live in at such a reasonable price. We travel among outsider good friends and relatives, sing-songing: “Na na nana na.” (I did say “good” . . . . these friends and family just laugh at us and tolerantly rain selfless smiles on our good fortune.)

One evening after a board meeting, a couple of friends came over for an impromptu gathering on my terrace. C1, now an old friend of six months, brought over an unfinished (magnum? -sized) bottle of wine, and C2, a new friend of two months, were quickly acclimated to kicking back in the (finally!) summer-like evening. We chatted, giggled, and broke out into occasional laughter while fragile soft breezes feathered our faces. C1 offered the suggestion that I’d better make friends with the occupant of the upper floor. Invite them to occasional gatherings so that they wouldn’t be too quick to complain about the “noise” from down below.

A few moments later, a head popped out of that apartment window just over mine, and said in a mock-offended tone, “What’re you gals doing down there without me?” We hollered. D is already a good “new” friend, and I forgot her apartment is directly over mine. We told her to get her narrow butt down to partake in some wine. She demurred, claiming she was in her pajamas. I said, “And . . . ?”

D threw on a big top, came down, and we continued to chat, share stories, giggle and laugh for some additional length of time. That’s when it occurred to me that I hadn’t experienced this kind of communal warmth and good neighborly spirits since before I grew up and away from the projects.

Summer evenings in that vertical, pre-AC neighborhood meant neighbors sitting around on wooden benches, catching up with the day’s gossip, fashion, gripes, and revelations. The lulling softness of our voices matched the quiet of the night, carried by the occasional breeze rustling the leaves of the several maple trees. Now and then laughter would break out, splitting the night like the pleasant sharp chill of a Popsicle suddenly thrust onto our warm, waiting tongues.

In my musings, I thought of this night with my new friends as coming full circle. I give thanks as I wake each morning; that night I gave thanks that I’d come back to my beginnings.

I Forget

Whoa, it’s been a month, and not one word. It’s not like my world has stopped because Sean’s killers’ trial is over. It’s not like I stopped breathing because nothing excites me. In fact, just last week I was working out thoughts sprinting around in my mind about my life coming full circle. Too bad I didn’t write it down. Can’t for the life of me remember what it was about. Not even what inspired the wandering thoughts that I was trying to solidify into one coherent piece of work.

That kind of forgetfulness used to worry me. In the past I thought it was the first sign of the onset of Alzheimer. AARP, sweet souls that they are, convinced me that I just have a lot on my mind, vulnerable to distraction – but not to the state of mental disorder. Whew!

One would think that, being a writer, I would write my thoughts into a journal or something. Well this writer only types. My aversion to handwriting dates back to my high school days practicing shorthand. I wrote those symbols every single night for hours, for three years, determined to be the fastest at taking dictation, grooming myself to be the most perfect secretary. For a kid out of the projects, that was high ambition. For a black female, that was probably the highest of ambitions short of becoming a teacher or nurse.

Luckily for me I’m a boomer baby. The sixties told me that I could achieve anything my mind conceived. No holds barred. If that sentiment was directed at only white kids, I missed the joke. I was a believer. Hell, we stopped the war, beat de facto segregation, burned the bra, legalized birth control, ensured our own orgasms, defied gender role employment, single parented by choice (okay, so I blew that), chanted with raised fists “Mgowa, Black Power,” wore slacks and dangling earrings to work, straightened my hair, napped up my hair, and then cut it off. Ha! I’ve been wearing my hair platinum for years – just because. No tattoos, though – that’s still sucky.

Much to my financial relief, personal computers and software development came into being. I pursued a computing career to access a modicum of healthy American wealth. I’m now considered a veteran information technology specialist. I work for a public agency in which my computer title earned me a very good salary, and my pension and health benefits are lifetime. I won’t be eating cat food to make ends meet when I retire. I’m a financially independent black female! Who would’ve thought?

You males my age – don’t start commenting to my blogs. You’re searching for a nurse or a purse. I’m neither. Frankly, I’m what is referred to as a Cougar. Uh huh, I like the younger ones. They can keep up with me. Yeah!

Oh well, this stream of thought didn’t shake up and out that Full Circle of Life piece that used to flip around, but instead flopped, in my mind.

Next!

I hated being a child

I hated being a child because my life was controlled by others: parents, teachers, siblings, friends, strangers. The core of my being was malleable, ready to be molded by anyone who held out a manipulative hand of compassion. I had no shame; I would’ve accepted pity.

My mother beat me, my father ignored me, my siblings disliked me, my friends betrayed me, my teachers misunderstood me (“quiet children are good children”), and strangers couldn’t have cared less about me. I don’t know why. My life was just what it was, and no one explained any part of the mystery of my aloneness. Don’t know if anyone was even aware.

People, after all, get caught up in their own issues: my husband doesn’t love me; her hair is longer than mine; she’s light-skinned, I’m dark-skinned, can’t trust her; I only like cute little boys that I can mother and hold in high esteem by default; spare the rod, spoil the child – never spare the rod, never spoil the child; my feelings are the only feelings that count and kids are flexible, she’ll get over it; I can make it up to her tomorrow . . . or the next day . . . or . . . .

Being a child so sucked.

I was a favorite though to other members of my family who instantly loved the first born child to the favorite baby daughter of the most respected brother who married the most loving woman. But they lived somewhere else, not with me, and I became convinced that I didn’t know if they would have been better for me – love me better – if they got to live with the real me.

Don’t know what was wrong with me. No one ever bothered to say – even when I dared ask. My younger sister could get away with saying the most disrespectful things, behave in the most outrageous manner, settle for the lowest range of her capabilities – and everyone but me would ask for more, more of her punishment. She dropped out of high school, I began college; she got pregnant, I stayed a virgin until it became embarrassing; she went on welfare, dabbled in drugs, had sex with her boyfriends, and loved the street. I went to work, stayed a virgin, participated in routine entertainment, and avoided getting high (as much as possible). One day she woke up and pronounced, “I think I’ll turn my life around.” She did. Well, she at least had a life.

But I am the most fortunate adult. I was born a first-year Boomer.

Boomers got to break all the rules in the 1960’s. We got the pill, burned the bra, wore pants to work, took on any number of lovers and rejected those that attempted to restrain our freedom to choose – choose anything we damned well pleased. I fought hard for my financial and emotional independence. I didn’t need anyone or their opinion of me.

My inner strength came from me accepting me. Who knew it would take something like thirty, forty years?

The Age of Aquarius coincided with the Information Age. Instead of spindling my life away as an underpaid secretarial drudge, I discovered my knack for computing and made the most of it. With no unsolicited mentor willing to guide me, I hacked out my own “bull in the china shop” method of learning and promoting myself from one job to the next better paying job, from one position to the next higher position.

I’m done believing I’d probably have to work until the day I dropped. Today I own property that includes my own home, have a little money in the bank, and contemplating in-house service to my personal needs when I decide to retire to a sweet little village in Central Mexico.

My good friends are fun, supportive, and loyal. My lovers don't exist -- but I'm not waiting for the good knight on the white charger. My jobs have finally developed into a career. I'm happy.

Childhood sucked. But timing is everything. Boomers rule!