It Comes in Threes
Early this week, I heard from a friend that his mother, who’d been suffering from cancer, had passed.  The next day I got an email that another friend’s sister had passed.  These things usually come in threes I thought.  I wonder who the third will be?  I wonder if it might be me.  (I think these sorts of things.)  I decided I’d better stop that train of thought and sent a prayer to God that I didn’t want to be # 3.  Not yet. 

Then I called two friends who are struggling with cancer to see how they were doing.  It had been a couple of weeks since I’d checked in with them.  These are friends from my “girlish” days who have just returned to my life. 

Later that evening my husband told me that his good friend’s mother had passed.  There was # 3. Three deaths in three days.  Death is the real deal.  An ending of one phase and a beginning of another – at least that’s what a lot of us believe and hope.  (Another friend/former staff member announced that he and his wife are having a baby.  Lives end and one begins...as it should be.)

Deadlines Converge
No matter when projects start, their deadlines have a way of clumping together.  This week I finished three assignments.  One was an edit of a business plan and presentation for an acquaintance who’s applying for an important new job. It was a last minute gig but it did spread over five days, squeezed in between other work. (Hey, this is the reality of working for oneself means that anything that brings in cash flow will get worked in if it can.)

The second was a bunch of research for Discover Roxbury.  My eyes have been swimming looking through microfilm copies of the Banner, Globe and Herald for info on the riots of 1967 in Grove Hall, the free schools in Roxbury, the founding of Lower Roxbury Community Corporation, etc.  I also prowled a private archive (thanks Kay) for material and read a few books.  Doing this research made me so grateful that we have the Bay State Banner, which gave angles on these events that were not covered it in the mainstream press. 

I think everyone who works in an inner-city community and all high school kids in the Boston area, ought to be required to read about the most recent history of Boston  (the last 40 years).  They will learn about the importance of collaboration to achieving social justice. They will learn about living and passed activists/organizers/agitators (like Byron Rushing, Mel King, Chuck Turner, Ralph Smith, Syvalia Hyman, Pat Raynor, “Vinny Haynes,” Alex Rodriguez and Gloria Fox – to name but a few), and residents (Shirley Smolinky, Beryl Roach, Ralph Smith, Vinny Haynes, Ruth Batson) etc. who just got fed up with racism and the status quo.  They will learn what it took to create Madison Park Village housing, why the Orange Line runs where it does and what might have happened in Roxbury, the South End, etc., had not residents, activists, and some academics joined together.

The third deadline was for a members meeting I facilitated at the Boston Athenaeum for a new initiative they are undertaking.  As usually happens with me, I couldn’t sleep the night before and was nervous going into it.  It went very well.  Once, again, I learned that wherever I land I am supposed to be.  I realized that I can “hang” (er…facilitate).  (Regular readers of this blog know that I have wealth issues.)

Knowing that my last three assignments were ending this week, there was an undercurrent of worry threaded throughout my week.  But then – I got called to facilitate four parenting workshops this summer; I got an invite to speak to a graduate class (for an honorarium) about my work at ACT Roxbury;  I was asked to do additional research; and I met with a former arts sector colleague who may have some work in the fall (there’s a negative part to this story that will come up in a future blog).  So, some paying gigs have come forward.  This means that more work will follow.  (I will continue to be able to hold up my part of the expenses for a little while longer.)

Close, but no Banana
This week brought two rejections of my writing.  These coupled with another from a week ago knocked me down for a brief pity party moment or two. The last one was especially hard because the letter said, and I quote, “We came very close to using your poem, "You Just Stopped" but ultimately decided it didn't fit with what we envisioned for Issue 3. Please understand our decision is solely based on the content and constraints of this issue.”

Close but no banana is the story of my quest to get published.  No-okay- few bananas yet.  After I squashed my disappointment and watched my instant movie with me setting my manuscripts on fire and giving up writing forever (except this blog – the blog is cool), locking in myself in my room condemned to only read the books of others (not that there's anything wrong with that) I realized that:  the rejection was personalized (a positive indicator) and that I had to keep trying until I read my goal.  I wrote back to the editor with a thank you, an inquiry on more details about why my piece was ultimately rejected,  and a question asking if they would welcome additional submissions.

Disagreements come in multiples, too
* A brief flare-up with the hubby (thankfully these are few and far between.)
* A painful dialogue begun with one of my children about a relationship choice. (Actually, I lobbed one out and I’m expecting this to get funky.)
* A sit-on-the-sidelines-and-just-be-a-sympathetic-ear  for the other child’s break-up.  (All goodbye ain’t gone.)

The Point?  This has been a week of ups and downs, deadlines and disappointments, sorrow and joy. - I’m happy to still be in the game – of writing, of finding paid gigs, and, most importantly, of life.

 

        

Sometimes I feel like a queen in the country of myself.  I am large and comfortably in charge there. I have vivid daydreams  about hitting the lottery big-time.  Oh, what I would do with my winnings! I would start a scholarship fund specifically for young men of color between the ages of 18-28 to fund post-secondary education or training.  I would donate books to libraries in the Boston Pubic Schools and see if I could endow a librarian position.  I would provide down payment money for a few friends to own their own condo or house.  I would provide a fund for summer enrichment programs for middle school kids.  I can go on and on and do, until reality hits and I am reminded that I am not in fact queen and I am not in a country of myself.

Still, I visit the imaginary world often.  Since I was a child I’ve made up stories, poems and lyrics.  I've entered the fictional world created by writers of the numerous novels and short stories I’ve read.  I’ve projected myself into stories and explanations I make up about neighbors and colleagues I do not know, strangers I see once, and semi-known people who regularly appear in my life.  I wonder - what is the story with the twins who work at the local corner grocery/ liquor store?  What does my hair dresser’s home look like?  What is it like to have a chipper personality like a former co-worker who was always happy?  Does that house hold joy or secrets?

I walk around with all these on-going conversations in my head, stilled only when I pray or meditate or walk or cook or make love.

I’ve been known to have imaginary arguments, where I get so and so told (whether they are a remote foe/threat or known itch/irritation).  Sometimes I wear myself out drawing an imaginary line in the sand.  I have private battles and challenges with myself.  The next time that she does this…the very next time he says that…I’m gonna…  Oh, I get people righteously told in my imaginary conversations.  In the real world, I rarely tell people off because I have a mind that quickly thinks venomous thoughts.  If put into words, these thoughts would not be forgotten.  So I bite my tongue and create a character to say in a story what I will not say in the real world.

That imaginary world is calling me now.  They know me there.  They miss me.  I worked so hard today they didn’t get much of my attention until now.  Here comes the Queen…All rise!

 

        

Cuddah, Wuddah, Shuddah, Didn't, Done!

Translation:

Could have, Would Have, Should Have, Did Not, Done!

        

I wrote a piece a couple of days ago in which I apologized to myself.  I would be remiss if I didn't also apologize to others - some friends, some family, some acquaintances or colleagues, and some people that I only had a brief encounter with and blew the experience. 

I apologize:

For being impatient,
For being shy and slow-to-warm-up,
For blocking opportunities to know your goodness,
For being impolite,
For half-listening instead of focusing on what you were saying,
For interrupting you because I had something to say,
For introducing you to the one who turned out to be the very wrong one for you,
For being pushy,
For wanting more for you than you sometimes wanted for yourself,
For being perturbed when you did not do what I thought you should do,
For waiting for an apology or connection instead of apologizing or connecting myself,
For avoiding your pain,
For not sharing enough with some and for sharing too much with others,
For lying no matter the intention,
For letting some relationships lapse and others disappear,
For not being more helpful,
For not being more forthcoming,
For being critical instead of being kind,
For being kind instead of being critical,
For letting money come between us,
For going where we should not have gone and doing what we should not have done,
For making comparisons and succumbing to envy,
For missed opportunities to hang-out, celebrate, and break bread together,
For not being more and better.

For all of my efforts to be a good woman, a good friend, a useful worker, a strong leader, a sharer of information and resources, I have often fallen short of achieving these goals.

Please accept my apology.

 

        

I apologize to myself:

• for the opportunities I’ve squandered along the way,
• for challenges I avoided,
• for not doggedly pursuing my biggest dream,
• for not being a better steward of my money,
• for thinking small,
• for being mean when it was unnecessary,
• for not asking for help, which meant that I felt alone when I did not have to,
• for not seeking advice, which meant I struggled far longer than I had to with problems,
• for sharing the special Vee with people who were unworthy,
• for believing I was not worth more,
• for wasting my talents,
• for telling off people who didn’t deserve it and being mealy-mouthed with people who should have been told off,
• for wasting time because I thought I had forever,
• for giving into my fears too often and therefore missing once-in-a-lifetime (as it turns out) adventures,
• for not traveling when it was easier to do so,
• for believing the hype,
• for not becoming the librarian or scholar I was meant to be,
• for disappointing my Mom,
• for not being a better mother (I think I was pretty good but I could have been better),
• for saying yes when I wanted to say no,
• for sitting in sorrow longer than necessary,
• for not dancing more,
• for not realizing the power I had when I was young and beautiful,
• for being ashamed of what little I felt I had to offer and not sharing it with two of my beautiful, now deceased friends,
• for hiding out and shirking,
• for trying to impress people who are not (and will never be) impressed by me,
• for avoiding the word “no” and avoiding failing (it meant I missed some yeses and some successes),
• for not demanding more out of life and for not achieving more.

I’m trying to be better these days.  I’m aiming to be my best self because I was given all the tools I needed to be better, to be more – I just didn’t understand that I  was the magic in my life…that my desires and my efforts were what would make the difference in things achieved versus those unattained.

Apology accepted.

 

 

        

Seems that a lot of people I’ve run into recently have strong opinions about Oprah.  In the space of two weeks, I had several conversations with other people about Oprah.  Only one of these conversations was initiated by me.  That was when I was at the hairdresser, reading O magazine and I commented that I found the magazine “uplifting and inspiring.”  I do.  I read it cover-to-cover every month and have found it chock-full of information that I actually use, like books to read and websites to visit.  (O mentioned shelfari.com, a website to which I’ve become slightly addicted.  It allows one to build a virtual bookshelf.  I also find it useful to keep a list of books I’m planning to read.  It’s much easier than the scraps of paper I used to have.)

The first conversation was more like an interview.  I was what I thought of Oprah by a colleague/friend.  The question was delivered a bit like an inquisition.  I had a fleeting thought that I’d better get the answer right or else.  “I, I like what she does,” I stammered.  I mean I couldn’t say that I like her because I don’t know her – only her products and her work. “Good,” the questioner said and smiled.  I passed the test.  “She’s done important work.”“Yes,” I agreed.  “Important work – she’s very generous and inspires others to give.”

The next conversation showed me that Oprah envy and bashing is a sport for some people.  One woman mentioned Oprah at least three separate times in as many days.  The comments were delivered in a throw-away fashion, as though they were meant casually but they weren’t.  A clerk at an expensive store had pushed a scent for men on her.  When the woman didn’t like it, the clerk said, “But it’s one of Oprah’s favorites.”  “So,” my friend exclaimed.  She went on to talk about how Oprah wasn’t the standard bearer of taste and just because Oprah liked something didn’t mean it was good and how tired she was of Oprah. 

A tremendous Oprah fatigue was evidenced in her remark.  But her fatigue didn’t stop her from mentioning Oprah again.  Somehow the conversation came up that Oprah was gay and Stedman was a cover.  It was said matter-of-factly with a smidge of smugness thrown in.  Also noted was the fact that Oprah’s friend, Gayle, was not the lover.

I couldn’t help but turn this idea over in my mind.  If Oprah is gay, why wouldn’t she be open about it?  If she is gay and undercover, that would truly be sad because what is sadder than not being able to acknowledge someone you love in everyday ordinary ways?  Oprah used to be so public about her relationship with Stedman, something I’ve noticed she’s toned down quite a bit. I cannot imagine her being circumspect about a new love nor can I imagine her not being caught by the paparazzi.

Finally she mentioned – at least a couple of times that Oprah was fat and struggling with her weight.  (I always find it annoying when a person who has never struggled with weight is judgmental of people who do.)  I think Oprah looks good except for the eye makeup which I have always found a bit thick to my taste. oh, oh - that was an unnecessary critical comment - even I am not immune.)

Another set of conversations had to do with Oprah’s funding of the Leadership Academy in South Africa.  The complaints were that it was too extravagant, that is should have been built here in the U.S. for Black girls who need leadership academies as well, that many more basic schools could have been opened with the same amount of money, and what about some assistance for Black boys who are suffering mightily and need a helping hand as well. 

People talk about Oprah with an intimacy that is uncanny, among her supporters, and with a dismissive criticism that is biting among her detractors.  I’m sure that Oprah doesn’t give a hoot about the detractors except to hope that they’re “living their best lives.”

Wait I minute – I’m not going to get caught up in the Oprah orb.  Although:

• I admit that I subscribe to the magazine and enjoy it.
• I occasionally go to the website to see the themes of upcoming shows to see if they might match stuff going on in my life.
• I’ll confess that I tried to get one or two Oprah hook-ups and that I submitted photos of my attic to get a redo. 
• And, yes, I have read one or two…okay more than a few books she’s recommended.

But, I’m not a groupie or anything.

Marianne Williamson whose work I discovered before I knew that she was an Oprah favorite, wrote in one of her books that “you gets more sh** for success than you will ever get for failure.”  I think that sums up the bottom line of the Oprah envy that I’ve witnessed lately.  Go on, Oprah, with yo’ bad self!

 

        

I was planning to write on something else today – Oprah envy and rumors - but something else keeps popping into my mind so I’ll get to Oprah another time.

There has to be life for there to be quality of life. The most pressing issue for the world right now, in my humble opinion, is the environment.  We have to slow the damage, reverse the trends, and learn to do with less.  The human race will have to come together around the environment despite our differences or we will perish. 

It is as simple and as complicated as that.

It will require sacrifice, boldness, simplicity, new ideas and old ways.  It will require love and faith and work.  It may be the one thing that unites us.  Either good will triumph over the evil of our excess and destruction or we will perish together.

        

Hi, a reader asked me to share this information and so I am.

She writes:  Your readers may be interested in knowing that there is an easy (yet thoughtful!) way to celebrate the special women in their lives this Mother’s Day.  The Women’s Lunch Place – an organization that served a record number of women in need in Boston just last month – is sending out beautiful, handwritten Mother’s Day Cards in exchange for a $25 donation that helps support and provide hope for Boston’s most underserved women. (The deadline to purchase a card is May 6.)

 The cards feature a bright watercolor painting by an anonymous artist who was served by The Women’s Lunch Place and can be purchased online through the end of April – see the link below for more details.  Volunteers from all over Boston donate hours of their time to handwrite personal notes scripted by those who purchase.

 

http://www.womenslunchplace.org/store-womens-lunch-place

 

Each year, The Women’s Lunch Place hosts a special Mother’s Day celebration where all of the guests are greeted with a fresh flower and escorted to a room where they celebrate with a sumptuous meal, live entertainment and personal gifts.  The Mother’s Day Card program gives the Boston community a way to help ensure that The Women’s Lunch Place can continue to provide nourishment and hope for hundreds of poor and homeless women on Mother’s Day and throughout the year, especially during these difficult financial times.

 

        

I actually think that I am going to implode one day and it won't be because of the seriously meaningful or tragic stuff that could set me off.  It'll be because once again for the umpteenth time I'm around one or more women talking about how guilty they feel when when they eat whatever food - be it a sliver of steak at a barbecue, a dessert helping, or a plate full of stir fried veggies and fish. Honestly!  (This reminds me of when me and several friends went out to see a male stripper and one friend, who knew were we were going, kept her head down basically for the entire time!  Don't go to a strip club if you don't plan to look!)

It doesn't matter if the woman works out every day and has a personal trainer and has weight proportionate to her height (according to U.S. standards), women talk about their guilt while eating whatever they're eating and even on to the next day after the food has been digested.  "I shouldn't have had  _____ (fill-in the blank), now I'm going to have to do ___# of sit-ups, or run an extra ___miles to make up for it.    Gr-rr-rr-hh.

Now, if the exercise devotees who walk an hour (or more) per day, in addition to working out on their exercise equipment, etc., can't have half-a cup-cake or a scoop of ice cream in peace - then who can?  What have we come to that having food, other than rice cakes, makes us feel guilty?  You can't even have salads in peace because the food police caution you about cheese, croûtons, and other additives that take salad away from being a good food to being a dangerous food. 

Only in a land of abundance (for many but not fot all), can people make eating something to feel guilty about!

I refuse to feel guilty about food.  I like food.  I like:

• selecting it (always aiming for a variety of colors and trying a new veggie, fish or herb),
• planning meals (home-cooked or dining out - what shall we have tonight?)
• preparing it (slicing and dicing - I love the song of the knife and crushing herbs and sprinkling seasonings), cooking it - (combining ingredients in new and tried-and-true ways)
• plating it (at home using the various dishes and linens I have acquired from Mom, Mar-shalls, various thrift stores and as gifts)
• serving it (I enjoy serving food to husband, children, granddaughter and friends)
• the presentation of it (some chefs really go all out; I admire them even though I don't find it necessary to replicate their flair at home - no stacking veggies for me!)

(Note to hubby: the aforementioned does not let you off the hook for also learning to "love the food" when it's your night to cook.)

I like the aromas of food (pungent, savory, and sweet). I love the tastes of food - silky, robust, soft, and chewy. I dig the whole experience of eating (don't even mind cleaning up afterward).

I'm all for the Slow Foods Movement and I worship at the altars of the Food Network, the Best Recipe, Cooks Illustrated, the Wednesday Food section of the Globe, the perfectpantry blog and other food blogs, cookbooks and websites that have upped my game in cooking.

Good food makes me feel loved even when I'm cooking for myself.  I am also blessed that I grew up and have lived most of my life with modest means so I can take a few ingredients and make them safisfy.  I always give thanks before I eat because I am always grateful to have food to eat.

So, please, women - stop moaning and groaning when you eat; instead, feel blessed that you have food, feel proud if you select to nibble instead of nosh thereby limiting your intake, but don't ever, ever feel guilty about having food.  And, if you just can't help but feel guilty - keep your guilt to yourself. You're giving me indigestion!

(Note: the paranoid twin of the Gemini who writes this blog wonders if having people feel guilty about eating just might be preparing us for food shortages that will be coming but let's not go there.)

        

I have just returned from a very pleasurable five-day visit to California.  (Did you miss me?)
We visited my husband's cousin and his wife (also our friends) who moved there nearly two years ago from Boston.  They have a stunningly beautiful and comfortable home and are gracious hosts.

This is what I learned on this trip:

• That I can survive a six-hour flight with prayer, lots of interesting reading,* Jet Blue's satellite television, skillful pilots, and smooth weather.
• That there are wonderful and delightful people whom you can meet without strangeness every where
• That the diaspora is indeed a powerful connector so that each of us from various parts of the world -  USA (Boston and St. Louis), Trinidad, Ethiopia, and St. Vincents  have much in common, having shared variations of the same experiences in our various home communities.
• That I can survive without computer connection for five days. (Okay, I went online once, but only once.)
• That I can relax.
• That lemons can grow to be the size of small grapefruit!
• And that, there's no place like home especially when kind neighbors keep a look-out for you; the newspaper and postal service hold your deliveries; and technology allows timed lights and alarms to give a measure of security.  Mostly, though, it was the people who looked out for us and we are so grateful to them.

I was glad to go, glad to be gone, and am now so glad to be back home!


*I read The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz - took me a couple of chapters before the book seized me but then it did. It is witty, breezy, intricate, scholarly, irreverent and tragic all at the same time while throwing down knowledge about Dominican history and attitudes in-island and out.   The Miracle at Speedy Motors  - the latest in the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith.  Another delightful book in this series; this one gives Mma Ramotswe more "warts" and humility than previous books.  Also read the 2nd volume of the new journal Lapham's Quarterly.  It's the Money issue and has words from scholars and other thinkers including  Aristophanes, Virginia Wolf, Ralph Ellison. Henry Ford, W.E.B. DuBois, and Biggie Smalls.  "It's all about money...ain't a damn thing funny"..a song that they didn't quote in this issue but may well have.  I'm diggin' the journal and will have to get the first issue which was all about Time.  (I have to thank Richard Wendorf of The Boston Athenaeum for turning me on to this journal.)