I went to a Obama Victory Party last night (yes, before the results came in). My friend had gone all out: live music, catered food, and a 50-inch HDTV. By 10:00, I started getting anxious about “what if,” and went home. I just got out of the train station when
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
I Finally Believe!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I've Met My Grandbaby and She is Me
I’m a visual person. A direct line of sight to my target is preferable. When conversing over the phone, you best allow me an equal exchange of commentary or I zoom out, my mind wanders. My hearing comprehension, never too good even from childhood, is measurably aging, weakening. So when my son phoned, and within moments we were arguing, I asked to talk with him face to face. Not to just have it out with him, as some would think, but so I could look into his eyes, examine his facial expressions, monitor the rapidity of his breathing, observe his fidgetiness, or lack thereof.
That’s all he needed to do all those years ago: talk to me, one on one, face to face. No audience.
Is this the place where I tell you his wife didn’t ‘allow’ him to see me alone for fear I’d turn him against his one true love – her? Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less about anyone else. He was my one concern. I had an invested concern for his welfare. As a mother, I thought I had the right to ensure that, or at least inquire. Others were of another opinion, and actively kept us separate. He lives in their territory hundreds of miles away, and they had his ear and mind on a daily basis. They won; I lost – for a time. Does that matter? Don’t know. Maybe they were right. Except that they were wrong.
My son and I are both happy now that we’re communicating again as we’d done for so much of his life. The link was never broken as others intended, just heavily battered and bruised. No matter. He's anxious that we work at becoming one big happy family. Silly boy. That’s not very likely to happen. But those who would intrude on our relationship now know that he is unhappy unless efforts are made to bring us all together. So here we are trying to make a way for that to happen, even if it’s a shaky enterprise built on a landfill foundation of much dirt and a whole lot of trash.
It’s not that I’m looking for this alliance to fail; I just don’t really care any more. The time for that was when I reached out all those years ago, time and time again, and was rejected because I wouldn’t play the game their way. Well, I’m still not, but I’ve grown, and will find ways to compromise – not accommodate. Yep, even at my age, I’m still growing. Imagine that.
Take, for example, the opportunity to meet my grandchild for the first time. My son’s wife was traveling north on business. For whatever reason, she brought her mother and my grandchild with her. During the day, the grandmother babysat while she took care of business at another location away from the hotel. Getting to the hotel was difficult for me, but I found a way there by railroad. I planned to come early and stay a few short hours with the other grandmother, whom I happen to like, and the baby.
But no, that wasn’t to be. When I called my son’s wife to set a date, her immediate reaction was. “Oh, no, I have to be there.” What’d she think I was going to do, abduct her? (Don’t believe I’d’ve gotten away.) Use brain-washing techniques learned the hard way from her, and apply them to the child? (Not enough time.) Now, pay attention, this is where I showed signs of growth. I Did Not Say A Word EXCEPT “Okay.” I set a tentative appointment to arrive after 4pm when she could, apparently, supervise my visitation.
Of course, I fumed, I grumbled, I sulked (happen to own the Sulker Gold Medal). Then I called on my standup friends.
Short story: My posse dropped everything, and came with me to meet my granddaughter the very next day. These friends are classy ladies of sophistication, grace, and intelligence. They’ve proven their loyalty to me (and vice versa) several times. They know how to act.
They were also ready to apply Vaseline to their faces and braid their hair if they had to, and take on the Steel Magnolias on my behalf. They had my back.
So, for the short, but civil, hour I was given, I met the grandchild that I've not bonded with, and may never do so. The time for that was when she came into this world 16 months ago, and I was not invited to welcome her. Upon the door’s opening that evening, however, my granddaughter looked at me over chubby cheeks that only I could donate. She frowned into an intense gaze of soul-piercing, dark brown eyes that demanded “Who the hell are you, and what the freak are you doing here?” It actually tickled me. It was better than a benign smile. She’s no wimp. If as she grows up she ever gets it into her head that I’m her grandmother, and she’s going to love me anyway, well, it’s done. Case closed. I’m fine with that.
That’s all he needed to do all those years ago: talk to me, one on one, face to face. No audience.
Is this the place where I tell you his wife didn’t ‘allow’ him to see me alone for fear I’d turn him against his one true love – her? Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less about anyone else. He was my one concern. I had an invested concern for his welfare. As a mother, I thought I had the right to ensure that, or at least inquire. Others were of another opinion, and actively kept us separate. He lives in their territory hundreds of miles away, and they had his ear and mind on a daily basis. They won; I lost – for a time. Does that matter? Don’t know. Maybe they were right. Except that they were wrong.
My son and I are both happy now that we’re communicating again as we’d done for so much of his life. The link was never broken as others intended, just heavily battered and bruised. No matter. He's anxious that we work at becoming one big happy family. Silly boy. That’s not very likely to happen. But those who would intrude on our relationship now know that he is unhappy unless efforts are made to bring us all together. So here we are trying to make a way for that to happen, even if it’s a shaky enterprise built on a landfill foundation of much dirt and a whole lot of trash.
It’s not that I’m looking for this alliance to fail; I just don’t really care any more. The time for that was when I reached out all those years ago, time and time again, and was rejected because I wouldn’t play the game their way. Well, I’m still not, but I’ve grown, and will find ways to compromise – not accommodate. Yep, even at my age, I’m still growing. Imagine that.
Take, for example, the opportunity to meet my grandchild for the first time. My son’s wife was traveling north on business. For whatever reason, she brought her mother and my grandchild with her. During the day, the grandmother babysat while she took care of business at another location away from the hotel. Getting to the hotel was difficult for me, but I found a way there by railroad. I planned to come early and stay a few short hours with the other grandmother, whom I happen to like, and the baby.
But no, that wasn’t to be. When I called my son’s wife to set a date, her immediate reaction was. “Oh, no, I have to be there.” What’d she think I was going to do, abduct her? (Don’t believe I’d’ve gotten away.) Use brain-washing techniques learned the hard way from her, and apply them to the child? (Not enough time.) Now, pay attention, this is where I showed signs of growth. I Did Not Say A Word EXCEPT “Okay.” I set a tentative appointment to arrive after 4pm when she could, apparently, supervise my visitation.
Of course, I fumed, I grumbled, I sulked (happen to own the Sulker Gold Medal). Then I called on my standup friends.
Short story: My posse dropped everything, and came with me to meet my granddaughter the very next day. These friends are classy ladies of sophistication, grace, and intelligence. They’ve proven their loyalty to me (and vice versa) several times. They know how to act.
They were also ready to apply Vaseline to their faces and braid their hair if they had to, and take on the Steel Magnolias on my behalf. They had my back.
So, for the short, but civil, hour I was given, I met the grandchild that I've not bonded with, and may never do so. The time for that was when she came into this world 16 months ago, and I was not invited to welcome her. Upon the door’s opening that evening, however, my granddaughter looked at me over chubby cheeks that only I could donate. She frowned into an intense gaze of soul-piercing, dark brown eyes that demanded “Who the hell are you, and what the freak are you doing here?” It actually tickled me. It was better than a benign smile. She’s no wimp. If as she grows up she ever gets it into her head that I’m her grandmother, and she’s going to love me anyway, well, it’s done. Case closed. I’m fine with that.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Lemonade from Lemons
I’m reading an article in the NY Times preview from their Magazine section. It’s a first-person detailed depiction of a long-time drug-addicted, woman-battering guy who becomes a journalist, and how he finally came to his sober senses some time after the birth of his twin daughters to his drug-addicted girlfriend. Now you may ask yourself, as I did, why a prestigious newspaper even bothered taking such a risk with this individual. They hired him and entitled him a journalist after years of his abject degradation and turpitude. Why give him a chance? Why pump him up to star attraction? Why him above other long-sobered writers of equal skills begging for this chance? I for one don’t have an answer, but I assumed one thing right off the business end of a bat: he must be over 21, male – and white.
The infamous study comes to mind that, given a choice to hire a drug-addicted, ex-felon white man or a college-educated, never-arrested black man of equal employment skills, the employer would more likely than not hire the white man.
(And people question why Affirmative Action is still needed.)
But I’m not complaining. I’m rolling with the reality. Going to make lemonade from lemons. And, in my long-about way, I’m going to tell you why and how.
The Iowa Writing Workshop at Iowa University is the premier workshop in the country. Only the best are accepted into its writing program. Each summer, however, they hold the Iowa Writing Festival for anyone willing to pay for a weekend, or week-long class of their choice from the hundreds of selection. I’ve wanted to go for years. Finally, enough of my life got out of the way for me to register last winter for a week’s class this summer. So of course the skies opened up and flooded Cedar Rapids (where I was to fly in) and Iowa City (where IU resided).
Each day the month of June witnessed me logging on to IU’s website with anxious fingers. I sympathized with their fears, frustration, and loss; and rooted their efforts and go-to spirit to hold back the floods with a million-plus sandbags. At the same time, I whined and groaned to my empathetic friends that I’d miss my class.
But the rains finally halted, and the flood receded. I got the good news that classes were to restart the very week my class began.
I enjoyed a full week of total immersion in writers’ geekdom. What bliss: readings, critiquing, moment-to-moment discussions on varying writer’s choices, dilemmas, and flights of fancies in poem and prose. I had a one-on-one interview with my professor on the merits of a segment of my book.
My professor, who happens to be black, is an acknowledged author of several books. Since I’m a black woman writing a book who has as its main character a white male, she advised that it would be a good idea to make it clear from the beginning that he is white.
My reaction -- bold, because after all, she is published -- was to ask “Why?” If a white author writes a story, it’s tacitly accepted that, unless specifically written otherwise, the characters are white. People read the story on its merits, not whether or not the ethnicity of the characters matches the author’s. I put forth, what if I sent my manuscript to agents/publishers, and never make the issue of my race or gender? What if the agents/publishers actually read the story for its literary and/or commercial value?
So I’m going with the premise that people will pick up my book, read it for its fictional and creative value, and not make assumptions about its quality or worth juxtaposed against my race or gender.
Real world lemons: a white man of questionable character can be hired before a black man of proven moral qualities and of equal skills; a blonde nitwit of a bimbo is desired over and above a/any black woman of outstanding characteristics by men (and some women) of any race; and, unless a black woman is writing a black chick-lit book, she won’t get read.
I’m dealing with that possibility, but refuse to be typed. I just want my book read and enjoyed by tons of people no matter the race, creed, religion, etc., etc. Read the damn book!
I’m signing my book with my first initial and last name – and no picture. You see: lemonade from lemons.
The infamous study comes to mind that, given a choice to hire a drug-addicted, ex-felon white man or a college-educated, never-arrested black man of equal employment skills, the employer would more likely than not hire the white man.
(And people question why Affirmative Action is still needed.)
But I’m not complaining. I’m rolling with the reality. Going to make lemonade from lemons. And, in my long-about way, I’m going to tell you why and how.
The Iowa Writing Workshop at Iowa University is the premier workshop in the country. Only the best are accepted into its writing program. Each summer, however, they hold the Iowa Writing Festival for anyone willing to pay for a weekend, or week-long class of their choice from the hundreds of selection. I’ve wanted to go for years. Finally, enough of my life got out of the way for me to register last winter for a week’s class this summer. So of course the skies opened up and flooded Cedar Rapids (where I was to fly in) and Iowa City (where IU resided).
Each day the month of June witnessed me logging on to IU’s website with anxious fingers. I sympathized with their fears, frustration, and loss; and rooted their efforts and go-to spirit to hold back the floods with a million-plus sandbags. At the same time, I whined and groaned to my empathetic friends that I’d miss my class.
But the rains finally halted, and the flood receded. I got the good news that classes were to restart the very week my class began.
I enjoyed a full week of total immersion in writers’ geekdom. What bliss: readings, critiquing, moment-to-moment discussions on varying writer’s choices, dilemmas, and flights of fancies in poem and prose. I had a one-on-one interview with my professor on the merits of a segment of my book.
My professor, who happens to be black, is an acknowledged author of several books. Since I’m a black woman writing a book who has as its main character a white male, she advised that it would be a good idea to make it clear from the beginning that he is white.
My reaction -- bold, because after all, she is published -- was to ask “Why?” If a white author writes a story, it’s tacitly accepted that, unless specifically written otherwise, the characters are white. People read the story on its merits, not whether or not the ethnicity of the characters matches the author’s. I put forth, what if I sent my manuscript to agents/publishers, and never make the issue of my race or gender? What if the agents/publishers actually read the story for its literary and/or commercial value?
So I’m going with the premise that people will pick up my book, read it for its fictional and creative value, and not make assumptions about its quality or worth juxtaposed against my race or gender.
Real world lemons: a white man of questionable character can be hired before a black man of proven moral qualities and of equal skills; a blonde nitwit of a bimbo is desired over and above a/any black woman of outstanding characteristics by men (and some women) of any race; and, unless a black woman is writing a black chick-lit book, she won’t get read.
I’m dealing with that possibility, but refuse to be typed. I just want my book read and enjoyed by tons of people no matter the race, creed, religion, etc., etc. Read the damn book!
I’m signing my book with my first initial and last name – and no picture. You see: lemonade from lemons.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Someone like me
I’ll be honest. When Obama came on the presidential candidate scene, Hillary was my choice. I had no idea who this guy was, and didn’t feel an overriding need to choose him just because of his skin color. In my opinion, Hillary had made her bones, proven herself. But to be fair, I didn’t close my mind, and discovered a thing or two about this senator from another country: Illinois (spoken like a true New Yorker, right?). He began to pique my interest.
It became clear this man had run the political fast track. It became clear he knew how to get out the vote, and overfill the campaign chest. It became clear the man had a message of change to impart – and people across the national spectrum were actively listening.
One day I glimpsed a frontpage primary victory pose of Obama with his wife, Michelle. My jaw dropped. Michelle looks like me! No she’s not my twin, not my doppelganger. Michelle Obama is a brown-skinned woman showing the African heritage in her features. She is beautiful.
As a young girl, I, too, had fantasies of marrying a successful, and loving black Prince Charming. But looking through the pages of such periodicals as Ebony magazine, my hopes were dashed every time. Successful black men did not choose us. The sign of their success, much as my father’s, my maternal and paternal grandfathers’, and every other cousin’s paternal kin, was to marry a woman very close to white – if not actually white.
What happens to a little black girl’s psyche when she knows she’s not valued by the larger society? If she’s lucky, she’ll have nurturing parents to make her believe in herself despite the dismissal by man-kind. I didn’t. If she’s very lucky, she’ll live during the Civil Rights and Black Power movements, and teach herself to love herself because she does have value. I did.
Now along comes the actuality of a vision of a strong black man who did not choose an Asian, a Scandinavian, a Norwegian, a Polynesian, or a Latina. He chose as his helpmate, his equal, his love a beautiful, elegant, well-bred, highly educated, and intelligent native-born Black American of slave heritage. She’ll make a most excellent First Lady.
I am so proud.
It became clear this man had run the political fast track. It became clear he knew how to get out the vote, and overfill the campaign chest. It became clear the man had a message of change to impart – and people across the national spectrum were actively listening.
One day I glimpsed a frontpage primary victory pose of Obama with his wife, Michelle. My jaw dropped. Michelle looks like me! No she’s not my twin, not my doppelganger. Michelle Obama is a brown-skinned woman showing the African heritage in her features. She is beautiful.
As a young girl, I, too, had fantasies of marrying a successful, and loving black Prince Charming. But looking through the pages of such periodicals as Ebony magazine, my hopes were dashed every time. Successful black men did not choose us. The sign of their success, much as my father’s, my maternal and paternal grandfathers’, and every other cousin’s paternal kin, was to marry a woman very close to white – if not actually white.
What happens to a little black girl’s psyche when she knows she’s not valued by the larger society? If she’s lucky, she’ll have nurturing parents to make her believe in herself despite the dismissal by man-kind. I didn’t. If she’s very lucky, she’ll live during the Civil Rights and Black Power movements, and teach herself to love herself because she does have value. I did.
Now along comes the actuality of a vision of a strong black man who did not choose an Asian, a Scandinavian, a Norwegian, a Polynesian, or a Latina. He chose as his helpmate, his equal, his love a beautiful, elegant, well-bred, highly educated, and intelligent native-born Black American of slave heritage. She’ll make a most excellent First Lady.
I am so proud.
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!
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!
Monday, June 02, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
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!
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!
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.
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