Today I read Clyde Haberman's column in The New York Times, Cleared as Criminals, but Forever on Trial.
Sometimes there is a certain measure of Justice.
Ironic justice does promote restful sleep for me; I'm not grinding my teeth from the stress induced by an unfair world.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Personalizing Sean Bell
At work, there are four of us that almost daily e-mail each other: out of boredom, the news of the day, who’s screwing who on the job (and got promoted for it). Two are female, one of Chinese and the other of Italian heritage, and CK who happens to be a 40-something white, gay male. He sometimes likes to goad us into feminist rhetoric with tricky comments like, “Women want it both ways,” and sends ridiculous Hillary-bashing cartoons. Other times, any of us can launch into or participate in a flurry of e-mail discussions on some pretty serious topics – openly and with refreshing frankness.
So I took it serious when CK sent me the following e-mail.
My reply:
That’s my opinion, because Sean Bell could have been my son, and I had my own child’s life to worry about day after scary day. I knew that the same police officers who out of their job, passion, and sincere concern went searching for and found my wandering three-year-old, could be the same cops who could one day shoot him down for wearing his pants too big, his hair too long and nappy, his wise-talking mouth too sixteen year old, his testosterone-filled jogging body too “suspicious.”
My New York-born son never returned after graduating from the Wahoo (sounds too close to “yahoo,” doesn’t it?) college, University of Virginia. He chose to make a life for himself in the antebellum South. I finally released my 20-plus-years-old held breath, and exhaled with a black mother’s huge sigh of relief.
So I took it serious when CK sent me the following e-mail.
Subject: Bell verdict - All 3 officers aquitted
Mixed feelings about this... On the one had, the law hinges on intent and I don't think these police officers set out to kill this man. OTOH, as a police operation, it went so terribly awry that the participants should be held accountable.
I'm sure this is not over, with all the Civil lawsuits that will almost certainly follow.
Of the 3 defendants, only 1 of them is White, so how this pays [sic] out racially will be interesting as well.
My reply:
There may be a federal suit as well. I didn’t expect this city to convict anyway.
As for my opinion, I have little doubt what would have happened, or how race would have played out, if it had been my son who shot 31 times at a vehicle filled with unarmed white men. If my son had been brought up in a racially segregated environment ignorant of companionship, knowledge or respect for any other race but his own, yet forced to “work” with other races because of judicial ruling not civil or humane sensitivity, what then? Intent? – legal jargon, which hasn’t caught up with social reality.
That’s my opinion, because Sean Bell could have been my son, and I had my own child’s life to worry about day after scary day. I knew that the same police officers who out of their job, passion, and sincere concern went searching for and found my wandering three-year-old, could be the same cops who could one day shoot him down for wearing his pants too big, his hair too long and nappy, his wise-talking mouth too sixteen year old, his testosterone-filled jogging body too “suspicious.”
My New York-born son never returned after graduating from the Wahoo (sounds too close to “yahoo,” doesn’t it?) college, University of Virginia. He chose to make a life for himself in the antebellum South. I finally released my 20-plus-years-old held breath, and exhaled with a black mother’s huge sigh of relief.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
And then there's Bill (Cosby)
I keep receiving these e-mails about the great Bill Cosby, the one-time comedienne and TV personality, and his tirade about black people and what we’re doing wrong in our child-raising. I don’t disagree about the outwardly observable behaviors. But there’s something that goes a whole lot deeper that has very much to do with our racial history in this country. Bill shows no sensitivity to the complexities of that peculiar and unique American black experience. Those realities don’t serve as excuses for civic misbehavior, lack of scholastic interest, or maladjusted family relationships. But it takes more than media-attention humiliation to encourage people to change for the better.
What did Bill do to bring up people before he started putting down people? What improvements did he make before he started complaining about what improvements should be made – by other people? When his own “glass house” got broken, did he ever admit – publicly – to his own failings?
It’s not what or how he’s telling the truth, it’s that his truths seem shallow and certainly one-sided. Here’s what I heard: Bill’s family had their own problems. If his child became a junkie, his wife must have read her daughter bedtime stories, tended to her care and welfare, and brought her up with good manners. All was done while Bill was out being the great comedienne and TV personality – and hardly ever home. All was done while he was supposedly placing himself in positions to being accused of impregnating other women – just not getting caught. His wife performed motherly acts that didn’t take exorbitant amounts of money to do a good job, so why wasn’t Bill there to be the father the child needed?
Or is life all that simple.
My opinion: Bill Cosby beats his breast about global observations and condemnations, while wearing self-imposed dark shades and steel-armored self-reflection.
What did Bill do to bring up people before he started putting down people? What improvements did he make before he started complaining about what improvements should be made – by other people? When his own “glass house” got broken, did he ever admit – publicly – to his own failings?
It’s not what or how he’s telling the truth, it’s that his truths seem shallow and certainly one-sided. Here’s what I heard: Bill’s family had their own problems. If his child became a junkie, his wife must have read her daughter bedtime stories, tended to her care and welfare, and brought her up with good manners. All was done while Bill was out being the great comedienne and TV personality – and hardly ever home. All was done while he was supposedly placing himself in positions to being accused of impregnating other women – just not getting caught. His wife performed motherly acts that didn’t take exorbitant amounts of money to do a good job, so why wasn’t Bill there to be the father the child needed?
Or is life all that simple.
My opinion: Bill Cosby beats his breast about global observations and condemnations, while wearing self-imposed dark shades and steel-armored self-reflection.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, April 18, 2008
Welcome Back, Me
A three-year hiatus, but I’m back. I stopped writing for a few reasons. But mainly – One: I moved twice in one year; Two: I was too emotionally involved in my pain with the forced separation from my adult son, K.
There’re always the jokes and horror stories about mothers-in-law (MIL). I presume they’ve been written and spewed out by indifferent and ungrateful sons- and daughters-in-law (DIL). I have friends who have the sweetest, most loving children, SILs and DILs. I once had a sweet and loving son. We had a close relationship. My sister, not of the touchy-feely sort, complained while walking down streets with him; he walked so close to her. My son and I walked that close together comfortably while sharing comments, observations, jokes, moments of peacefulness and quiet.
His first day at college, I didn’t know how to leave him. He was great about it, ready to throw himself head on into his new life. I was busy tucking in his bedsheets and blanket, something I hadn’t done since his striving for independence at eight years old. Delaying the time I would have to walk out the dorm and on to a life concerned mostly with my own well-being, my own thoughts and actions about feeding, clothing, sheltering, protecting, pampering, bolstering, boosting, encouraging, confronting, scolding, sweet-talking, soothing, growing, and educating myself – not our selves.
He graduated from a top-notch university, where I sent him to rub elbows with connected kids, children of similar aspirations, a future of unlimited possibilities. Instead, he met an insecure, whining steel magnolia, member of a family of female man-eaters – except for one: the patriarch who guided his family of female acolytes and cultivated their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands to genuflect and obey. That family had unerring eyes set on what type to pick: sociable, non-confrontational, gullible – and maybe somewhat over-protected – young men whose adolescent social age belied their marriageable chronological age.
Once K’s girlfriend, C, found out I “peeped her whole card,” and wouldn’t comply with the role of simpering and fawning MIL, I was done. I never saw my son again, alone, for the next three years until she was safely married to him. Visits and phone calls were sharply curtailed. Feeble excuses and outright lies slid more easily from his lips. False accusations inflicted on my heart became the norm. Isolation from “unacceptable” members of the family was completed through C’s unrelenting encouragement. His “favorite” family members became only those two or three that, for whatever their own reasons, appeared to dislike me. I don’t know how many there are. The ones that matter, who love and care about me, I’m still in close contact with.
The cult-like tactics were many. I began to refer to them as “The Cult Fs”. No way I could blow him away from them with a guided atom bomb.
I finally built up the courage to cut myself away from that pain. This year I sent out letters to friends and family I had not regularly communicated with in all that time to reestablish our ties. Although the pain cut deep, I was healing.
Truth: my son does not like me. Period. Live with it.
And so I have. My health is improved; my mind is at rest. I gained additional friends, and I’m closer to the rest of my family.
I’ve made emotional adjustments to the fact that I will age without child or grandchild by my side. But, just the same, I’m not alone . (smile)
I’ve made financial adjustments by not putting a down payment on their house, and buying a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with a 500sq ft terrace in Harlem – my house. (BIG SMILE)
I party, I travel, I'm gardening, I'm back to writing, I'm returning to customizing my jewelry creations again.
There’re always the jokes and horror stories about mothers-in-law (MIL). I presume they’ve been written and spewed out by indifferent and ungrateful sons- and daughters-in-law (DIL). I have friends who have the sweetest, most loving children, SILs and DILs. I once had a sweet and loving son. We had a close relationship. My sister, not of the touchy-feely sort, complained while walking down streets with him; he walked so close to her. My son and I walked that close together comfortably while sharing comments, observations, jokes, moments of peacefulness and quiet.
His first day at college, I didn’t know how to leave him. He was great about it, ready to throw himself head on into his new life. I was busy tucking in his bedsheets and blanket, something I hadn’t done since his striving for independence at eight years old. Delaying the time I would have to walk out the dorm and on to a life concerned mostly with my own well-being, my own thoughts and actions about feeding, clothing, sheltering, protecting, pampering, bolstering, boosting, encouraging, confronting, scolding, sweet-talking, soothing, growing, and educating myself – not our selves.
He graduated from a top-notch university, where I sent him to rub elbows with connected kids, children of similar aspirations, a future of unlimited possibilities. Instead, he met an insecure, whining steel magnolia, member of a family of female man-eaters – except for one: the patriarch who guided his family of female acolytes and cultivated their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands to genuflect and obey. That family had unerring eyes set on what type to pick: sociable, non-confrontational, gullible – and maybe somewhat over-protected – young men whose adolescent social age belied their marriageable chronological age.
Once K’s girlfriend, C, found out I “peeped her whole card,” and wouldn’t comply with the role of simpering and fawning MIL, I was done. I never saw my son again, alone, for the next three years until she was safely married to him. Visits and phone calls were sharply curtailed. Feeble excuses and outright lies slid more easily from his lips. False accusations inflicted on my heart became the norm. Isolation from “unacceptable” members of the family was completed through C’s unrelenting encouragement. His “favorite” family members became only those two or three that, for whatever their own reasons, appeared to dislike me. I don’t know how many there are. The ones that matter, who love and care about me, I’m still in close contact with.
The cult-like tactics were many. I began to refer to them as “The Cult Fs”. No way I could blow him away from them with a guided atom bomb.
I finally built up the courage to cut myself away from that pain. This year I sent out letters to friends and family I had not regularly communicated with in all that time to reestablish our ties. Although the pain cut deep, I was healing.
Truth: my son does not like me. Period. Live with it.
And so I have. My health is improved; my mind is at rest. I gained additional friends, and I’m closer to the rest of my family.
I’ve made emotional adjustments to the fact that I will age without child or grandchild by my side. But, just the same, I’m not alone . (smile)
I’ve made financial adjustments by not putting a down payment on their house, and buying a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with a 500sq ft terrace in Harlem – my house. (BIG SMILE)
I party, I travel, I'm gardening, I'm back to writing, I'm returning to customizing my jewelry creations again.
I'm back to myself. Welcome back, me.
Monday, December 05, 2005
I Am Wrong
I’m the wrong race – not pink; the wrong gender – not male; the wrong nationality – not foreign born; the wrong age – not under 40 (ha! Not under 50).
My nose is wrong – not thin and sharp. My body type is wrong – not weighed down nor swung back by triple-D cups.
My eye color is wrong – not blue. My hair color is wrong – not blonde. My tan-hued skin is wrong – not lighter than a paper bag.
My hair is all wrong – not limp and straight, nor limp and curly. My hair is very wrong – not growing, not un-greying, not cooperating with any hair product known to science or organic plant.
My shoe size is wrong – not a size six, not since I was six. My dress size is wrong – not a size eight, not since I was eight.
My hat size is wrong – not a peanut head.
My hand size is wrong – not petite. My bone structure is wrong – not petite.
My facial features are strong – not cute. My mannerisms are sometimes straightforward, sometimes restrained – not cute.
My MIL-ing is wrong – not playing the role like DIL scripted.
My personality is wrong – not girly-ish, kittenish, Lolita-ish, or agreeable to all things male. My pheromone attraction is wrong – not reeling in the males (Shit!).
My income is wrong – not a trust fund in sight. My lottery winning luck is wrong – not a chance in hell. My earnings potential is wrong – not a promotion in sight. My career potential is wrong – go to the top of this list, do not pass GO, do not collect $200.
My attitude is all wrong – I like me anyway.
My nose is wrong – not thin and sharp. My body type is wrong – not weighed down nor swung back by triple-D cups.
My eye color is wrong – not blue. My hair color is wrong – not blonde. My tan-hued skin is wrong – not lighter than a paper bag.
My hair is all wrong – not limp and straight, nor limp and curly. My hair is very wrong – not growing, not un-greying, not cooperating with any hair product known to science or organic plant.
My shoe size is wrong – not a size six, not since I was six. My dress size is wrong – not a size eight, not since I was eight.
My hat size is wrong – not a peanut head.
My hand size is wrong – not petite. My bone structure is wrong – not petite.
My facial features are strong – not cute. My mannerisms are sometimes straightforward, sometimes restrained – not cute.
My MIL-ing is wrong – not playing the role like DIL scripted.
My personality is wrong – not girly-ish, kittenish, Lolita-ish, or agreeable to all things male. My pheromone attraction is wrong – not reeling in the males (Shit!).
My income is wrong – not a trust fund in sight. My lottery winning luck is wrong – not a chance in hell. My earnings potential is wrong – not a promotion in sight. My career potential is wrong – go to the top of this list, do not pass GO, do not collect $200.
My attitude is all wrong – I like me anyway.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Case of the Kamikaze Squirrel
I needed to save my window air conditioner being pelted with the brick-sized debris from the attached rehabbed building next door. I pulled it out of the wrought iron cage in which its nearly foot-and-a-half extended back rested, and on to my living room floor. This was a couple of months ago, before the summer sweltering began, and I could afford to leave the window wide open for alley-moldy-brick-smelling fresh air. I neglected to replace the window screen.
A few mornings later, I happened to glance over just in time to see the bushy grey-black tail of a squirrel jumping into my room from that unadvisedly open window. It occurred to me that I had choices: fruitlessly chase a squirrel around my house all day and miss work; shut the window, let it starve, then sweep the carcass out into the street for the neighborhood cat snacks; or give it up as a day starting all wrong.
When I returned that evening, it was as if the squirrel heard my intrusion, and this time I saw it stair-step on to the conveniently positioned air conditioner, up to the window sill, and then out into the cage. I rushed to the window with the grace and speed of an Olympic track star, slid the pane down with a resounding thud, and pulled closed the drapery. Comforted, smug, and feeling that the day had somehow righted itself, I snuggled into my throne – a covered wing chair worn down over time to the exact contour of my back and rear end. Then I heard the first thump.
The rapidity of the following thumps led me directly to the window where I slid the drapery aside just wide enough to peek at this Kamikaze Squirrel throwing itself up against the pane of glass. Periodically it revolved in a tight circle, profusely chitter, and then maniacally batter the window again. It wasn’t strong enough to break the glass, but I wondered if the nut-job was going to hurt itself demanding to get itself back into MY home. Several minutes elapsed before it finally stopped and went away – or at least I think it did, since I cowardly retreated to the sanity of my bedroom, leaving the Kamikaze Squirrel to the privacy of its dementia.
Yesterday, rearranging my living room to accommodate strategic placement of several speakers of my newly purchased home theater system (currently a bunch of expensive component paper weights because I can’t seem to get the wiring and cabling correct – another story!), I moved a heavy credenza. Some shredded paper was dislodged behind it. Moving the furniture from the wall to sweep away the offending disclosure of inept housekeeping, I discovered that what I once thought was a few bits of scrap paper was measuring up to be a rather large bunch, in fact, a telephone book of shredded paper. Revelation dawned.
In time for the worst of the concrete jungle’s highly humidified days, and suspension of the attached building’s rehab destruction of my property, I had restored the air conditioner to its rightful place in the window. The back of the heavy machine was braced up with two fresh telephone books, replacing the previous wet and moldy one – one book, not two. The other missing book I now realize was the one that had been removed by the Kamikaze Squirrel and stuffed into the warm, dark and quiet cave-space under the bottom drawer behind the credenza to make a home for itself – and most likely for its family.
I know the Kamikaze Squirrel had a right to go up against anything that came between it and its home. It hadn’t done one thing wrong, and it wasn’t crazy. It did what every sentient living being has a right to do: fight for and protect his, her, or its home. The Kamikaze Squirrel lost out anyway. It didn’t matter that it was right. It did as much as I had done to protect my own home. I was beaten, too.
The Kamikaze Squirrel lost its home to a rent-paying, animal intolerant, lone-wolf, take-no-prisoners ghetto fighter. Amazingly, I lost my son to an insecure drama queen of a Southern belle DIL. I’m still dizzy from the sucker-punching tag team of her whole family. (“A family who plays together . . . .”)
We did nothing wrong, the Kamikaze Squirrel and me, but just the same, we’ve been dissed, pissed, and then dismissed. We’ve been hurt.
It doesn’t make one bit of difference; the Universe doesn’t care.
The Kamikaze Squirrel’s home was destroyed as completely as was mine. Swept away as if it had little significance, as if it didn’t take excited planning, precious time, prodigious labor, and, yes, considerable love to build.
The Kamikaze Squirrel has since moved on with his life. I, too, have moved on with mine.
A few mornings later, I happened to glance over just in time to see the bushy grey-black tail of a squirrel jumping into my room from that unadvisedly open window. It occurred to me that I had choices: fruitlessly chase a squirrel around my house all day and miss work; shut the window, let it starve, then sweep the carcass out into the street for the neighborhood cat snacks; or give it up as a day starting all wrong.
When I returned that evening, it was as if the squirrel heard my intrusion, and this time I saw it stair-step on to the conveniently positioned air conditioner, up to the window sill, and then out into the cage. I rushed to the window with the grace and speed of an Olympic track star, slid the pane down with a resounding thud, and pulled closed the drapery. Comforted, smug, and feeling that the day had somehow righted itself, I snuggled into my throne – a covered wing chair worn down over time to the exact contour of my back and rear end. Then I heard the first thump.
The rapidity of the following thumps led me directly to the window where I slid the drapery aside just wide enough to peek at this Kamikaze Squirrel throwing itself up against the pane of glass. Periodically it revolved in a tight circle, profusely chitter, and then maniacally batter the window again. It wasn’t strong enough to break the glass, but I wondered if the nut-job was going to hurt itself demanding to get itself back into MY home. Several minutes elapsed before it finally stopped and went away – or at least I think it did, since I cowardly retreated to the sanity of my bedroom, leaving the Kamikaze Squirrel to the privacy of its dementia.
Yesterday, rearranging my living room to accommodate strategic placement of several speakers of my newly purchased home theater system (currently a bunch of expensive component paper weights because I can’t seem to get the wiring and cabling correct – another story!), I moved a heavy credenza. Some shredded paper was dislodged behind it. Moving the furniture from the wall to sweep away the offending disclosure of inept housekeeping, I discovered that what I once thought was a few bits of scrap paper was measuring up to be a rather large bunch, in fact, a telephone book of shredded paper. Revelation dawned.
In time for the worst of the concrete jungle’s highly humidified days, and suspension of the attached building’s rehab destruction of my property, I had restored the air conditioner to its rightful place in the window. The back of the heavy machine was braced up with two fresh telephone books, replacing the previous wet and moldy one – one book, not two. The other missing book I now realize was the one that had been removed by the Kamikaze Squirrel and stuffed into the warm, dark and quiet cave-space under the bottom drawer behind the credenza to make a home for itself – and most likely for its family.
I know the Kamikaze Squirrel had a right to go up against anything that came between it and its home. It hadn’t done one thing wrong, and it wasn’t crazy. It did what every sentient living being has a right to do: fight for and protect his, her, or its home. The Kamikaze Squirrel lost out anyway. It didn’t matter that it was right. It did as much as I had done to protect my own home. I was beaten, too.
The Kamikaze Squirrel lost its home to a rent-paying, animal intolerant, lone-wolf, take-no-prisoners ghetto fighter. Amazingly, I lost my son to an insecure drama queen of a Southern belle DIL. I’m still dizzy from the sucker-punching tag team of her whole family. (“A family who plays together . . . .”)
We did nothing wrong, the Kamikaze Squirrel and me, but just the same, we’ve been dissed, pissed, and then dismissed. We’ve been hurt.
It doesn’t make one bit of difference; the Universe doesn’t care.
The Kamikaze Squirrel’s home was destroyed as completely as was mine. Swept away as if it had little significance, as if it didn’t take excited planning, precious time, prodigious labor, and, yes, considerable love to build.
The Kamikaze Squirrel has since moved on with his life. I, too, have moved on with mine.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Walking Through Brownsville
Walking through Brownsville, you could revel in the music of Big Band music softly playing on balmy summer nights. Live! The tall (6-story?) buildings had rooftop dance floors. Occasionally these bands were hired to play for the tenants and their guests – maybe for weddings, anniversaries, or just simply a friendly vertical neighborhood gathering. I never attended, but years later saw the remnants of the Japanese lanterns, decorative trellises, and bandstand. My imagination filled in the rest.
Although I like and welcome today’s popular music, it feels somehow more intrusive on quiet nights. It may be that I appreciate the relief from round-the-clock MTV, chest-deep bass drums, and the like. Back then, that rooftop music was always a surprising and pleasant interlude.
Although I like and welcome today’s popular music, it feels somehow more intrusive on quiet nights. It may be that I appreciate the relief from round-the-clock MTV, chest-deep bass drums, and the like. Back then, that rooftop music was always a surprising and pleasant interlude.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Flow of Consciousness
| I have little faith in me as a woman larger than life. That’s why, when I decided to have a child, it had to be a man child. I know a whole lot better how to react to a positive male image and how the world reacts to males – even males of color, but especially black males. Even white males are jealous of the black male. The black man, no matter his position in life, when he is mentally strong, is stronger than all the sum of his atoms. He is the big monitor on the Times Square building. You can see him from all sides, if you really want. He’s that large. No wonder white men feel threatened. They do pale by comparison. So where does that leave us women in this world, in this reality. Better only in the movies. That’s why I like Buffy (of the vampire slayer ilk) and Beatrix (of the all out Kill Bill revenger ilk). They kick butt and neither one looks like a Hollywood bimbo – except for the blonde part. But that’s okay, I’ve been blonde, too. And blondes do have more fun. If you’re going to be objectified anyway, you might as well have more fun doing it. I looked GREAT as a blonde. But, guess what: gray hair doesn’t hold peroxide very well. I don’t look great bald. My head’s too big. So I’ll do something else. I always do something. Not afraid to experiment. Good damn thing, because anything else is boring. I will not be bored. That ‘s not happening any time soon. I’ve got to stay busy amusing myself – or win Lotto so I can get a boy toy. I accept boy toys of all ages – but I discriminate. |
Monday, April 04, 2005
Lying Through His Teeth
I looked in his eyes, and watched them slide to the left. Then shift to the right. Not at me. Okay, he’s uncomfortable, I think. Don’t look. I’ll close my eyes and listen to what he’s saying.
The words. They strike out softly and flick blood off my cheeks. They cut me every time he lets them pass over his tongue, clatter over his teeth, and into my face.
No truth in them. Truth would have sailed through his orifice and caressed my forehead. His lies should have bounced off my heart and back into his mouth, careening off shattered teeth.
I opened my eyes.
The words. They strike out softly and flick blood off my cheeks. They cut me every time he lets them pass over his tongue, clatter over his teeth, and into my face.
No truth in them. Truth would have sailed through his orifice and caressed my forehead. His lies should have bounced off my heart and back into his mouth, careening off shattered teeth.
I opened my eyes.
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