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.)