I Finally Believe!

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 Harlem exploded: people yelling out of windows, car horns blaring, my neighbors screaming with heartwarming delight.  The tears started flowing.  Can’t tell you how relieved I was – still am.  This morning, a brother I’ve never seen before, came to a dead halt and, with a smile, asked how I felt today. I told him, “Fabulous.”

My son can now tell his daughter, my granddaughter, with absolute truth and certainty, “You can be President of the United States.”

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.

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.

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.

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!

RIP, Sean

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

I'm back to myself. Welcome back, me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Where I'm From

I’m from the projects. A PJ girl born in the heart – the aching heart – of Brooklyn. Brownsville . . . once a middle income, kishka loving, sawdust on the deli floor, mamas and daddies living together raising children who walked to school and came home for lunches, candy stores selling penny candy next door to the Saturday matinee movies – double feature and a cartoon intermission – neighbors’ doors wide open to let in the fresh air and “Stop slamming that door,” everyone wants to move there neighborhood.
It stopped being that a long time ago.
So what! So, too bad! So, Levit said move to Levittown, own your own swing in the back yard and a white picket fence. No coloreds allowed.
So, you’re stuck.
So, there’s a hiring freeze.
So, Welfare said, “We can help . . . if you self-destruct.”
So, no more daddies, no more working families, no more know thy neighbor, no more love, no more way out.
That was fast. That was predictable. That was totally unnecessary.

Working for a Living . . . Really

Well, my work's just begun. They found me! The chief officer said he knows the Grand Jury I’m on is extended until at least the end of April, and he was going to wait for me . . . but he got tired of waiting. He said he needs me in another group. What probably really moved him was the woman I'm replacing took a transfer. She got a promotion recently, too, so he couldn't stop her transfer in any case. In other words, in my mind I just blew away the BS, and to him I "accepted" the offer of a transfer. He, just like all my bosses before him, swears he's grooming me for managerial position. (Fool me once . . .) I played the game, but I made sure they had the crazy woman that's in that group under control. I'm not going to be used to help get rid of her and I'm getting full management support. In the meantime, I'm just doing my job for what I'm paid to do and not taking on any additional responsibilities as I've had in the past. So, in actuality, they didn't need to give me a promotion, because girlfriend's only doing the job for the title I'm in, nothing more . . . except for the "working part", that is. I am now officially working for a living.

Working for a Living

My son is being recruited for a high profile, very productive position that will keep him rich and busy for several years – if he gets past interview #3. He’s worked very hard to build his career portfolio. His current employment is not fast tracking him, so, like momma like son, he’s moving on. He’s very conscientious about the details of his working responsibilities (like daily changing his voicemail greeting to assure customers of his constant attention to their financial welfare). Mortgage algorithms, amortization schedules, financial planning discussions: all routine chitchat. Just thinking about all that makes me tired. I’m simply worked out. For several years I’ve been worth far more than what I earned; for the next few years, I’ll be worth very little of what I’m earning. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a Hired Retired. Many years had gone into the workplace struggle for decent pay, merit raises, and promotions. Too many years have gone into easing the workload of my bosses who grabbed the better salaries, bonuses, and even higher privileged positions. The only work I’m willing to do now is mine. Yes, I’ll give the job its dollar’s worth – but not a cent more. The rest is for me. All my concentrated preparations go toward making my retirement a comfortable one. I have a life! I write, I sew, I dine, I travel, I entertain, I throw clay, fashion jewelry, make friends, make enemies, and any damn thing else I want. Frankly, the job is getting in my way. I’ve done my part. I’m happy my son will do his. It’s supposed to be a new day now. Different from when I was fighting my way through corporate America – somewhat. My son has a better chance of succeeding. He has one less strike against him than the four I have. He’s male. I’m an (1) over forty (2) native-born (3) African-American (4) female. Good luck. (And you’re in big trouble if you throw up the likes of Condoleeza Rice in my face.)