I’m your mother, your aunty, your teacher, your friend.
I wish nothing but the best for you.
When have I done anything but try to elevate you?
And yet your resist – my advice, my contacts, my experience, my help
(but rarely, if ever, my money).
Believe it or not, I know more than you think I do.
Believe it or not, I can make connections for you.
I know people and know how to get to people that you can’t even imagine.
And why shouldn't I? You deserve a boost, a little extra assistance, now and again.
Why do you resist?
What we resist, persists.
So persist, I will,
Because I love you, I want the best for you. But you have to do your part. You have to make an effort.
Why is filling out an application so difficult to you?
Why is making a follow-up call a chore that you avoid?
Why are you so afraid of hearing the word No that you also prevent hearing the word Yes?
I don’t understand this fear, especially when you’ve heard a bunch of yes-ses, because of the labor and sacrifice of a lot of people who came before you. They paved the way so that your path would be easier...less daunting and yet you find it difficult to push through the unlocked door (it may be closed but it is no longer locked).
These thoughts came to me as a friend shared that her nephew didn’t follow up on a lead to get into a summer program where he would have made a substantial amount of money and significant connections this summer - his first working after his freshman year in college. Instead, he’s at the GAP making $10 per hour and some of his classmates, who did follow up on the program, are making $10,000 this summer. He told his aunt that “they must have known somebody.” Well, guess what, he knew somebody. His aunt had the hook-up. She knew somebody in the program who would have made sure his application was reviewed. It wasn’t like she was referring him to something for which he wasn’t qualified. Experience is not always the best teacher, only the most painful. He feels that there’ll always be next summer. To that I can only respond – bird in hand, worth two in bush. All any of us has is the present. Programs can (and have) disappeared in a year’s time – or are severely cut back. Carpe diem – seize the day.
I remember having to cajole, push, and threaten my children into filling out applications so they could have certain experiences (most often in their areas of interest), that taught them useful skills, brought them friends and fond memories, and connected them with people who turned out to be important and useful to them.
To teens and young adults every where, I suggest that you know who your champions and cheerleaders are. They are usually the people who have boosted you, nurtured you, looked out for you from day one, i.e. your parents, your family (birth or found). Listen to us – why don’t you? We often know what we’re talking 'bout. You can build on our foundation and go further down the road to achieving your dreams/goals rather than having to break a new path or travel backwards.
When I’ve walked away from some of these gatherings, I’ve felt knee-high to a grasshopper because the findings cut me low. I’m only able to walk away at all because I’ve learned in my mature years not to absorb statistics or anecdotes or stay stuck in the historical, and have my armour up.
I want to yell at the top of my lungs, what am I supposed to do with all this information? Should I throw in the towel? Develop a drinking or drug habit to anesthetize myself against the pain? Believe what is reported is absolute, irrevocable truth? I once, naively, wrote a follow-up letter to a funder of conference on disparities asking what the point was. I say, naively, because I actually thought I would get a response. I got nothing; zip.
In recent weeks, I've been getting lots of emails urging me to watch the CNN special series, "Black in America" with Soledad O'Brien. The series will air on the 7/23 and 7/24. The most recent email says, "A sorority sister had the privilege of meeting with Soledad O'Brien and actually SEEING this premier, and what she saw brought tears to her eyes and anguish, frustration, and a sense of helplessness to her soul." The email writer also said "I personally challenge you to watch it WITH your children, especially your sons, if you have any, uninterrupted." The series will focus on Women and Families on Wednesday and the plight of the Black Man in America on Thursday.
People are actually urging each other to watch something that will bring a feeling of helplessness to our souls? Why? Why would anybody voluntarily want to watch information that is going to cut them that low. And why would anyone want to watch this with children? Are we saying to them and each other - this is our fate? Are we urging that we stay in the realm of probabilities and ignore the possibilities? Are we so willing to continually have our noses rubbed in what we aren't rather than what we are?
How about a new paradigm? How about looking at the percentage of Black men who aren’t incarcerated? How about looking at the Black octogenarians and centernarians and determining how they managed to live long and healthy lives despite an inhospitable climate, continuing discrimination, and a racist society? Let's look at the Black couples who do marry. Let's look at the Black fathers who are responsible - and there are many. Let's look at those who achieve against the odds and figure out how they do it and how to multiply these triumphs!
Instead of talking about slavery let's talk about African-captivity and resistance.
I am up-in-arms about staying stuck in one part of our reality and holding it up like it is an unavoidable pattern and a complete portrait of what being Black in America means. I must have hope, I must cope, I must look at those of us who are as much as I work for those of us who aren't. I refuse to stay in a victim place. Otherwise, I will just give up.
I felt, for many years, that I’d escaped the family calling – at least in terms of being a classroom teacher. Upon closer examination, I realized that, except for my sojourn as an arts administrator, I was a facilitator, trainer and an administrator of programs serving children and families, in other words - a teacher. This leaf didn’t fall too far from the family tree.
Since the beginning of July, I have taught in three settings. I’ve led a series of parenting workshops for a group of women at the Suffolk County of Corrections (SCHC). It is the second series I’ve led at that facility as a freelance parenting educator for Families First Parenting Programs. I’ve also led creative writing workshops for two wonderful groups of teens – participants in the Workforce Development Program at Cambridge Public Housing and participants in the Community Voices Program at CCHERS at Northeastern University.
What a privilege it is to share knowledge with people who are open to learning (if not always enthusiastic – a few of the teens hadn’t gotten enough shut-eye the night before)! Whether they are full of wisdom and reflection like the women from SCHC or brimming with energy and ideas like the teens, the workshops have been illuminating. I’ve had to work hard to engage both groups by:
I’ve been using all of my facilitation tricks...I mean tools.
I’ve had both groups engage in solo-reflection and share in pairs. I had the teens write a power statement about themselves as well as work in duos and small groups to come up with a set of instructions they hear from adults in their lives. Teens have lots of people expecting them to do things and giving them instructions and orders. I asked them to create brainstorms and word-maps about the various people who tell them what to do and then make a list of those instructions on newsprint, making sure to capture the voice of the adult. Having the teens stand up while creating and presenting their prose or poetry using Mr. Scent watercolor markers and newsprint, proved very effective with the teens, some of whom will slump and zone-out if they’re not moving.
In both groups, I worked over-time to get the quiet participants to talk, the participants who had angry body language to join in the conversation, and the boys – be they silly, charming or withdrawn, to join in. I observed that adults and other leaders, will often jump in to give answers to a question whether than waiting for teens to figure it out. I’ve learned to count to 10 before jumping with an answer to a question I’ve posed and to rephrase and re-ask it before answering. Most people are uncomfortable with silence and somebody will almost always say something to break the ice.
Mother felt that teaching was a profession that would always need workers because people would always have children that needed teaching. I believe she would be proud that I am a participant in “the family profession.” While I do not have the “chops” of family members who have taught in the classroom for decades, I do have renewed respect for just how rigorous it is to impart information and knowledge to others. Hats off to teachers!
And thank you to the students in my recent workshops.
Actually, I’ve been singing the wrong lyrics for a long time. When I was a little girl, my family and I went to church every time the door opened. One of the choirs, I don’t know if it was Vocal # 1 or Vocal #2, sang a song, “I Thank you, Lord.” I can hear the singers in my mind and heart even today.
Back to the point – I thought the lyrics said, “He made the blind to see and the lame to walk, he even made the donkey talk…” When I got older, I realized that they said, “He even made the dumb to talk” (as mute people were referred to then) to talk. Knowing that Jesus performed miracles, my child self didn’t question that he’d made the donkey talk.
For every song whose lyrics I know by heart, there are many more that I have jacked up, so much so that I ought to keep my singing to myself or just hum like people do when they don’t know the second verse of the hymn or the National Anthem or Lift Ev’ry Voice & Sing.
I thought Joni Mitchell was saying “help me I think I’m falling in love again” when she was singing “in love too fast.” Totally changes the meaning of the song. Some lyrics don't make sense 'cause you can't decipher them and some are just too deep to reveal their meaning without thoughtful analysis. Some were purposely obtuse and some came about because they were produced while large amounts of drugs and alcohol were being consumed. ("In a Gadda Da Vida" was supposed to be "In the Garden of Eden.") I thought Rick James was really singing about a girl when he sang, "I love you Mary Jane." And, I've heard rumors about that "first snow in Kokomo." Some songs have double entendres that we like - "I want a little sugar in my bowl," and some we loathe - (I won't repeat here.)
Often times it's the singers' fault because some singers mumble, like Janet Jackson; and some utter, and some just grunt nonsensically, like James Brown did a lot – but at least he always had a funky good time. “When I get down I got to get indeed” that’s what I thought James was singing, but he was saying, “I got to get in deep, down deep, funky deep.” Hell, I was too busy shaking a tail feather to really care about the Godfather of Soul’s lyrics – the point of his songs were to dance until you sweated and your troubles washed away.
I know I should clean my ears and get my hearing checked, perhaps, but I know I’m not alone.
Now, come on, confess, you’ve been singing the wrong lyrics, too, haven’t you?
Note: I'm looking forward to singing lyrics of the Abba songs, some right, some wrong, in the Mama Mia movie. Those songs stick in your brain. (You can dance, you can fly-iii...turns out they sang you can "ji-ii-ve." Oh, well.)
Walking does not make demands like my house – whose floors could use sweeping and dishes need washing. It is not a shirt that requires ironing (yes…I still iron, Cheryl). It is not a phone to be answered for a conversation that will take some time and, if nothing else, interrupts what was going on before it started ringing (unless I leave it to the answering machine where it will still wait and call out to me until I’ve listened).
It is not a plant that needs pruning or a stomach growling for sustenance (”feed me!”)
It is not a husband desiring attention or a friend needing someone to listen for just a little bit.
It is not the computer tempting with a vortex of words, ideas, information, ads, jokes, prayers, chain letters, cards, e letters, emails or solicitations.
It is not bills looking for payment or projects requiring memos, reports, or organizing.
The path is simply this: put one foot in front of the other and traverse for minutes or hours. up hills or on flat terrain, around the bend or in a straight line, on grass or dirt or sand or asphalt or concrete, with companions or in solitude shared with the fellowship of strangers similarly occupied.
Walking makes me feel better. Walking keeps me able to walk. Walking subdues aches and pain. Walking is action.
Walking the path brings peace.
I want to meet "the they” and “them” that have so much influence over our lives. The they of “you know they say…” The those of “those people…”
Who are “the they”? Where are “the they” that we compare ourselves to?
You know who I mean - the ones that know better than we do what should be done and that do better than us. The ones that have the information and the inside track. Or the ones who are “the they” and “the those” because they differ from us, our way of thinking, our way of being.
After I meet the they and the them, I want to meet somebody. You know, the somebody who... really should do...something about...so and so.
I guess I need to meet the something and the so and so, too.
While I’m at it, I wonder if I can meet, “not me” and her cousin, “it wasn’t me.”
Perhaps “don’t know” will show up with them. And maybe, just maybe, the utterance said with a shrug of the shoulders will come along and be visible – “uh-uh.”
Oh, I also want to meet “the average,” “the ordinary,” and “the normal” – those usual suspects who I can never put a face to believing as I do that we are each so unique there couldn’t be an average ordinary one among us.
Help me out, please, somebody, anybody. Introductions are welcome.
Signing off – the me who is sometimes them.
()()()()()()()()()()
*Not to be confused with the marvelous and important novel, What is the What? By Dave Eggers.
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Does it depend on how long you dated?
or
How long ago you dated?
or
How deep the relationship went?
Back in my dating days, one friend introduced me to a former boyfriend and knew we’d exchanged numbers but then got upset when we began to date. “I didn’t expect you to actually go out,” she lamented. Across from the spectrum, another friend had quite a serious relationship with my husband many years before I knew either of them yet she doesn’t seem to have minded a bit because he was released from her heart years before.
I have a couple of friends who have married or had serious relationships with former beaus of mine. Just because they didn’t work out for me doesn’t mean they might not work out for them or someone else.
I’ve tried to pass along a couple of former boyfriends, who were really good guys but just weren’t right for me, to people I’ve thought they’d be more compatible with. (Reading this, I am struck by how possessive this sounds. I have to get over myself!) One friend rejected the offer to be introduced outright because she couldn’t date someone another friend had been intimate with – no matter that 15 years had passed since the relationship existed.
Hey, especially as concerns U.S. Blacks and women over a certain age, I don’t believe in hoarding the supply of available good guys. Release them, sisters. Let ‘em go forth because there’s a whole lot of good women waiting for the too few good men.
“The marriage rate for African Americans has been dropping since the 1960s, and today, we have the lowest marriage rate of any racial group in the United States. In 2001, according to the U.S. Census, 43.3 percent of black men and 41.9 percent of black women in America had never been married, in contrast to 27.4 percent and 20.7 percent respectively for whites. African American women are the least likely in our society to marry. In the period between 1970 and 2001, the overall marriage rate in the United States declined by 17 percent; but for blacks, it fell by 34 percent. Such statistics have caused Howard University relationship therapist Audrey Chapman to point out that African Americans are the most uncoupled people in the country.” From 'Marriage Is for White People' by Joy Jones, published in Washington Post, 3/26/06.
I have many friends who don’t want to be married, but for every one who doesn’t want marriage, there are a number who do even though they’ve given up on it as a remote possibility for their lives.
So, if a relationship has ended…truly ended…release that ex into the realm of possibility for someone else - like one of your friends. The more happiness there is in the world, the more there can be.
Although I could purchase prepared tea – some brand named Turkey Hill has been running a lot of commescials recently about how good and convenient their bottled tea is – I’ll be making my own. To make ice tea I brew a few tea bags in boiling water, add sugar (no Splenda or other sugar substitutes for me), add cold water, stir, chill or pour over ice cubes. (I dig the sound of the ice crackling as hot liquid and cold cube meet.) It costs pennies to make per serving. Why buy bottled?
Now, you can fancy tea up with mint or garnish with lemon or mix in fruit juice or berries or whatever your pleasure. Some people make solar tea by leaving water and tea bags in a special jar in the sun thereby using no-cost energy. Again, whatever your pleasure, go for it.
This whole tea thing got me to thinking about convenience foods. I mean how lazy can we be? One of my biggest pet-peeves in the “convenience” foods category is the pre-packaged, prepared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I just don’t believe they taste as good as a freshly-prepared sandwich and I further don’t believe that anyone is that busy that they can’t prepare this simplest of sandwiches themselves…or, better yet, teach their children to prepare it. PB&J is one of the first sandwiches children learn to make on their own giving them an incredible feeling of independence.
That brings me to “luncheables.” What-ables? Why? They are much more expensive than packing, or, once again, having your children pack some crackers, some cheese and some lunch meat in a container and take to school. What about the additional packaging wasted on such single-serve products?
I was buying feta cheese to have on hand for the numerous salads we eat in the summer when I saw pre-crumbled feta cheese packages. I read the ingredient list on the side of the package and saw that there was something (I don’t remember what) added to keep the cheese crumbles separate. The crumbles didn’t look like the crumbles I create when I break off a hunk of feta and crumble over my salad or other dish.
I could go on and on about these types of conveniences and their costs. Another that doesn’t make sense to me is shredded carrots. It takes but a few seconds to shred a carrot or peel lacy strips of it with a peeler.
A few years back, I saw a woman who’d lost a lot of weight. She said that she realized she’d become too lazy to peel an orange or grapefruit; that it was easier to rip open a package of chips. Hearing her say that was like a slap in my face, for I, too, would pass on fruit sometimes because of the perceived effort involved to prepare some to eat.
Many of the things we’ve come to rely on as short-cuts in fact have long-term impact in terms of money, environmental impact, usurping of independence, energy costs, etc. On my short walk this morning (1 hour versus the 2 hour walk yesterday), I realized that unlike exercise machines there is no way to cheat when walking. Your feet will walk every step on however many miles/minutes you walk. The hills do not recede and you cannot lessen the effort. Nor do you have to pay anyone else for the privilege.
So many food commercials keep blasting the message "too busy to cook" and "easy convienience." We have been sold this concept relentlessly. I don’t think I’m being curmudgeonly with these comments. I just think we have to get a grip and learn/return to doing certain things from beginning to end. Who deserves a special glass of iced tea prepared lovingly by you for you more than…You!?
How I Got Here - copyright 2001 by Candelaria Silva
I’m standing here off-stage waiting to go on, and I’m checking out the faces in the audience like I always do before I read. Checking to see who’s there. How many black, how many white and if there are any ones other – Asian, Latino, Native, hell, even Italian or Greek are “other” for some audiences. I get weary of the world always being pegged as simply Black or merely White. Black ain't simple - it's a whole lot of things. White ain't mere - it's a whole lot of somethin', too.
Anyhow, I check out the audience to see how they look, what they expect from me. Can often tell by how they’re dressed. How they’re sitting. How many have my books. Their ages. I hate it when they look young and too earnest or hopeful. Not that the two are one and the same, but they often are.
What I really want to do instead of just reading my stuff, is tell them how I got here, but I resist the impulse because I’ve been in dozens of audiences myself, waiting and expecting something like manna from above to be delivered by whomever I went to hear. There were years when hearing another writer was as close as I got to being one.
How I got here. Now that would be a story. That, and who I really am, how ordinary I am, except for what even I have come to admit, admire and accept – my skill with words.
Tonight I’m on the second day of my period, which is always my heaviest day, and in the back of my mind I’m thinking, “I hope I’ve packed myself well enough so I don’t leak on the floor.” There’s no pain, just the discomfort of emptying blood from one’s womb. I don’t have cramps any more since the births of my children and I miss them -- not the pain but the warning they provided. Now my period always catches me by surprise. I haven’t had an accident in years but the fear of one and the utter embarrassment it would cause me has made me never want to do a public reading on its first two days and almost made me cut white out of my wardrobe…
It was a long road to here.
I started writing because I had all these thoughts and all these things I wanted to say but my family contained too many children and too much noise to hear my single voice. I had been pegged as the quiet child who liked to read, so nobody had room for me to open my mouth and start talking. Instead, I wrote and read and wrote. My high school English teacher was so overwhelmed that this poor, and therefore it followed to her, backward black child could write that she encouraged me to send my work to publishers. I would be a find, she felt: that oddity that happens ever so often in the publishing world. I did send stories out immediately after graduating from high school – she was my sophomore English teacher I believe – because I didn’t like her enough to want to give her the pleasure of knowing that she’d opened up a world for me, another possibility of something to do with my life besides teach, which seemed inevitable then.
I read a lot of books; some were even, unusual for those days, by black writers besides Hughes or Wright (both of whom are wonderful but who were held up to me so often that I got sick of reading their same few stories and poems over and over again). To be a writer full-time simply never occurred to me. I read and I wrote. To get from there to being published was a quantum leap.
Wish there were a mirror someplace around here. Need to make sure that this blue-like-the-Caribbean-is-blue belt is straight, not curling up around my more-ample-than-it-used-to-be waist. Got to look good for my audience. Both out of respect and to dazzle them. And being a little bit of a show-off, which you have to be to go public with anything, I want them to be properly struck by me.
Give the people their money’s worth. Make ‘em just have to buy my books. Maybe some of them might actually hear the words. Some of them might understand. And some just might feel some recognition that the very ordinary things I write about in my unique way are literature too, which, in turn, might get them to set down their own words. Not enough women’s words in the world, to say nothing of the black, the brown, the poor.
My readings are good. I read a lot, read a little something from one of my three books. Always do something new, never before heard or seen. Sign everybody’s book that’s not too awestruck to ask, like I have been. I am a little bit awestruck in the face of fame, which in my world translates to being known by some few thousand people. And just a tiny bit haughty because, after all, I have been distinguished by getting into print and I make my living from my royalties and the three properties I bought with them. Not an unimportant feat at all if you’re black and a woman and a mother and not rich and without connections.
I answer everybody’s questions. When nobody’s willing to break the ice and ask the first question, I ask myself a question, something like, “Do you know there ain’t a universal thing in your books yet cause you don’t write about white people?” That usually gets them going, both my defenders and my detractors.
If the truth were to be told, I’d have to talk about all the words I didn’t’ write, about the ideas that popped into my head so whole and finely tuned that if they’d come at the right time and place, I could have delivered a book complete. But there wasn’t time – the kids, the jobs, the men, the fatigue.
I’d try to squeeze my brain shut around the images and words. Secure them in some tight space to which only I held the key. Or I’d repeat the first few phrases over and over in my mind, like water to prime the pump. But it was always the same: no matter how I primed, the well was dry, the lock had been changed, the room I’d finally managed to steal into had been burglarized and was empty. Oh, I’d write something down when finally I could let go of the obligations and sit down with a pad of paper and quiet, blessed quietness, but it was never the same something it could have been, only a dull brass that had before been gleaming gold.
Finally, but not eternally after all, I surrendered to the fact that there was no time, wouldn’t be no time that I could write. Became the most dedicated, most involved, most committed mother, worker, lover, anything but writer I could be. And there was no challenge to any of it. I tried to ignore the fact that to do all those other things required only a small part of my brain and that other part -- that woman who insisted on writing, on throwing ideas like so many lit matches to burn the oh-so-dry timber of my mind, that woman was watching my life. And making comments on it, besides.
I have been accused, from many sources, of being aloof. I don’t deny it anymore because whether it’s true or not, a lot of people have believed this to be a fact about me. I think, now, that I know where it came from: from living a life on automatic pilot, from not being fully there, not out of condescension or elitism, not out of being half-baked as my mama and some friends mislabeled the source, but from not living my life with my whole self. I started to write again, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here listening to a local poet open for me. I started to write again because I had to. To bind these fragments I’d become into one whole, if not entirely wholesome and never will be finished self.
It occurred to me, life is not going to get any easier. There never will be any free time. The words of the song “Trouble Don’t Last Always,” became my anchor. The kids won’t always be in diapers; I won’t always have to work a 9-to-5; I’ll get married to some man who is generous with his money to me (I have always been precise in my fantasies).
Then I set the tiniest goal I could think of - writing one page a day. Before I went to bed, I had to write one page. I managed to do this five out of seven days and, lo and behold, the pages mounted. I got to the point where I could write more than one page .at a sitting. I found that whenever I faced the paper, there was something to say. I wrote about my life. I wrote about my dreams. I wrote about my disappointments. I wrote about the kids. I wrote about wanting to find and slap the face of the driver who’d cut me off that morning. I wrote about the weather. I wrote. By writing, I became what I wanted to be – a writer. By publishing, after years of rejection letters and notes, all of which I’ve saved in my “You can reject my writing but you can’t reject me notebook.” I became an author.
That’s what I really want to go out and tell this audience - about how you have to make the time to do what you want to do. Not the thing you could do or the thing you should do or the thing you have always done, but the thing you want to do – the thing that burns in your blood and won’t let you rest.
Ahhh…I hear them calling my name, so I sashay these hips on out to the stage, clear my throat, step up to the lectern, readjust the mike and say, “Before I start, I’d like to tell you a little something ‘bout how I got here.”
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I’m not watching the fireworks this year - been there, done that – both up close at the Esplanade with the hordes of July 4th revelers and from a distance out in Milton on a high bluff. (I’ve even watched them on TV.) I don’t like large crowds, especially hordes of people who think celebrating means being drunk-as-a-skunk while loudly proclaiming their patriotism. People will behave in crowds in ways they will not behave alone.
Instead, I hear the sounds of fire crackers and missiles popping in the neighborhood and the occasional shrieks of little kids. One reassuring thing about the 4th is that I can be fairly certain that the pops I hear are fire works and not the occasional gunfire we hear in this neighborhood.
I don’t like the sound of fire crackers. Sparklers have lost their fascination since I was a kid. The sound of firecrackers without the splendor of a fireworks display makes no sense to me. I didn’t even like it when I was a kid. Now, the pops sound like warfare and make me imagine what it must be like to live in a war-torn area and hear gunfire and bomb explosions all the time. I would be a bundle of nerves.
I would also be a bundle of nerves if I lived in an area where guns could be carried openly, brazenly in a holster on one’s hip. I can see myself walking out of restaurants, movies, stores and other places I currently frequent. It’s bad enough that shootings from which one used to be safe if one avoided certain spots at night, have crept into happening in the most innocuous and heavily populated day-time hours and places. One cannot avoid violence. All I can do is:
Why are the pops of firecrackers thrilling for some people when they are chilling for others (like me)? Am I really just a big chicken, nervous Nellie, square-from-no-where, party-pooper? Peace, tranquility, laughter, music, dancing – that’s how I like to celebrate.
What if they had lived? Parade magazine had a cover story with this headline many years ago about victims. The truth of the headlines resonated for me then and stays with me now. When someone is murdered their intelligence, creativity, contribution to and participation in our world is ended. Families and neighborhoods are left to mourn. The victims belonged to somebody, as do the shooters. The negativity of the incident reverberates - sinks down into the soil of our souls and of the earth.
An acquaintance once said, facetiously, that he felt that all teens should be given shooting lessons so that they would learn how to shoot their intended victims instead of shooting wildly and hurting innocent bystanders. He makes wry comments to help himself cope with violence that doesn’t seem end. Another friend, whose house was hit by three bullets that narrowly missed her 10 year old daughter, and one of whose daughters has witnessed shooting twice just making her way home, advocates the round-up, send them somewhere else. And yet another suggests sending the young men who are so bent on violence to the War, any war, to put their propensity for violence to use. I’ve read somewhere that the armed services do not want these angry young men because they are undisciplined and therefore do not make good soldiers. Yet another friend remembers a time when judges would give “juvenile delinquents” an option – jail or the armed forces. He swears that the armed forces grew wild-boys into disciplined, productive men.
I posit education - that if a parent has an adolescent (between the ages of 13-21) who is not attending school or gainfully employed they should be sent to a program out in a rural area, where they will be taught academics, exposed to arts and cultural activities, do sweat-producing work that requires them to build, plant, and/or care for animals, and be required to participate in a gamut of physical activities. In addition to that, there should be courses in values taught. The adolescents would have to win return to their families and their families would have to win their return. Such a program would require administrators with the wisdom of Solomon.
Such programs would cost. But not having these programs cost us so much more – the loss of individual lives of brilliance or normalcy, and the impact of fear. We fear for our personal and our families' safety, we fear people who look a certain way, are a certain gender, and are a certain age. Parents, educators, law-enforcement and social service agencies often know who the kids-in-danger of perpetuating in violence are. The indicators show up early in their lives. Let’s stop ignoring the signs and jump into action as a society.
I remember reading of a long-terms study of juvenile delinquents that said if the boys (this was who was studied) were trained, given jobs, formed a positive personal relationship with a coach, a girl, a teacher, and aged out of their hormone-crazy adolescence, they usually became productive members of society. Family and church were the conduits for much of this rehabilitation. Now that so many families are broken and church is not a factor in many of these young men’s lives – we will have to figure out another way to save our boys! But save them we must for they are a critical part of society, we need their contributions. We are less than we would be if the victims had lived and the perpetrators had found another, positive way to make their mark in the world.
Renae was there to hear the impact she’s had on so many people. She witnessed what her friends, her daughter and current and former colleagues love about her. It is rare that many of us able to get feted while we are living.
As with all such tributes, many of us learned things we didn’t know about Renae – like the fact that she has a serious "thing" for Denzel Washington, that she was one of the international monitors for the first presidential election after apartheid's end in South African, and that she once worked at Sears in the very building this celebration was held. (The tribute was held in beautiful space donated by the Blue Cross/Blue Shield Foundation in the Landmark Building in the Fenway area of Boston. Long-time Bostonians remember this as the Sears Building. I still have folding wooden chairs purchased from the outlet store there.)
The photo montage that played throughout the evening paid tribute to the various tributaries that feed the river that is Renae – her mothering, her philanthropy, her work on behalf of domestic violence, her love of travelling, and the importance of friends and family in her life. One woman spoke of meeting Renae when she was a young mother with no family support and how Renae became her family!
Almost everyone remarked on her near-constant smile, her caring attitude, her encouragement of others, and her strength. Boston City Councilor Chuck Turner said she was a warrior with a smile.
Renae has end-stage kidney disease. Luckily a donor has been identified. Tonight’s event was to collect funds to help her with all the expenses that getting a transplant entails. Checks can be made out to the National Transplant Assistance Fund (please note “in honor of Renae Gray” in the memo line. Mail to: NTAF
150 N. Radnor Chester Road, Suite F-120
Radnor, PA 19087
Donations can also be made online (www.transplantfund.org). Donations are tax deductible.
One of her colleagues noted that Renae would always encourage people to contribute whatever they could – quarters or dollars – to the various organizations for which she worked. Renae has also done a lot of research on Black philanthropy and noted that tonight’s event was in keep with the spirit of Black philanthropy - that she had given of herself to the non-profit world and the community for 35 years and that now the community was giving back to her.
We honored her tonight and we pray for her successful transplant and that enough funds are raised that she doesn’t have to stress about money. Surely, Renae will heal to continue her incredible work in the world. We need her.
* Renae Gray is the past Executive Director of the Boston Women’s Fund. A founding member, she was involved with the fund for more than 20 years. She has more than 35 years of nonprofit experience, having worked with the Girl’s Coalition, the Haymarket Peoples Fund, the Women’s Theological Center, and the Cambridge Algebra Project.
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I’d never been to one of these presentations, although I have friends who have and my husband had “a long time ago” bc (before Candelaria). The guy who approached us was affable, with a devil-may-care attitude and the sun-tanned skin of a guy who lives in Florida and who makes his living doing things like this. He spent about 15 minutes inviting us and, when he ran into us an hour or so later, asked us yet again if we were sure we were going to make the presentation. (He wouldn’t get paid unless we showed up.)
I walked into the experience with a pretty open mind, if fairly closed wallet. I want a vacation home so that the family can have a place to gather from all the disparate cities in which we now live. However, I have an allergy to strong sales pitches. If sales people come on too glibly, talk too fast, or have a pitch that’s too rehearsed, it tends to make me armor up. The more they push, the less I’m interested.
Our sales guy for the vacation resort made several mistakes in pitching me.
Mistake #1 – He tells me he’s the top sales person at this location. (He sounded like he was convinced he could sell to anyone. And since I don’t see myself as “just anyone” that was a turn-off.)
Mistake # 2 - He lets us know that he “demised that we were intelligent” and so he wouldn’t have to do a lot of explaining about the opportunity or what an investment it would be. (Now, he may not have meant anything racial by these words but for a woman of my color and generation this phrase or the words “you’re so articulate” always raise a flag.)
Mistake #3 - He moved past friendly banter into being too casual and familiar in his approach. (I am not your friend, Mister. I don’t know you and you sure as hell don’t know me.)
Mistake #4 (or perhaps I should call it “Tactic # 4) – He didn’t give me anything to read along with the presentation. (I’m a reader). Instead he flipped papers, wrote notes and formulas based on a few opening questions like “how many days would you say you travel and stay in a hotel…” It was a dizzying dance for more than an hour of straying back and forth through information and (his) catalogs and formulas on the backs of pieces of paper.
Mistake #5 - He kept emphasizing the special price we could only get today and the retail price that we could get later if we were too stupid to close the deal today. (He didn’t use the word stupid, but that’s what he meant.)
Point in his favor - At least he wasn’t a yeller. The other salesperson in the room was a young woman who confused enthusiasm with talking loudly. She nearly gave me a headache even though she was several tables away.
Sales guy took us on a tour of the property that was bustling with families in the swimming pool. We saw the exercise room and the games room. He took us to see a video in a small screening room. I actually liked the testimonials of the people in the video although I noted that the screening room carpet was filthy. The model unit was lovely. After we finished the tour, I went to the bathroom. Later, I found out that while I was thus occupied, my husband told him that we weren’t going to make a purchase at this time. When I came out of the bathroom, my husband went in and the sales guy asked me if I had any concerns about buying. I told him that I’d never made a snap decision that was right and that I wouldn’t dream of purchasing a vacation rental home without reading, researching and thinking about it.
After a couple more attempts to change our no into a yes and trying to get names and contact information for friends who might be interested, he took us to the Closer, who offered us another opportunity to join the ** vacation family. (Interestingly enough, we were told by sales guy that if we walked away we would essentially blow the opportunity.) Closer told us it would take us five minutes to answer her questions about what we’d thought of the pitch and that we would then get the gifts we’d been promised - $50 gift certificates to use at a myriad of stores and restaurants in Newport and a three-day, two-night free vacation.
She said that because we’d been solicited on the street and had been interrupted on our visit to Newport, they understood how it might be hard to make such a decision as buying a vacation time share by the other name they used. For the small sum of around $300 we could get to stay at this resort or any of their resorts within a certain period to try it out. She also tried to get names of friends out of us. What will it take for me to get you to reconsider this incredible deal? Blah, blah, blah. Finally, she walked us down the street to the office to get the certificates and vacation forms. Lo and behold, the door was locked – it had never been locked in her experience. She knew someone was inside. We went back to her office and she called over and said someone would be waiting for us. My husband asked her if she would walk back over with us and she said, “No.” No sale, she was done. We walked over, a woman was waiting at the door for us – sour expression on her face. She gave us our paper work and we were on our way.
Do people really buy property after a 2 ½ hour pitch? I guess they must. It seems to be a lucrative business. Although their properties are available world-wide and they are a dominant force in the market I don’t understand how someone make such a meaningful purchase in such a short time. Did I mention that the prices sounded incredible for the amenities (too good to be true raises another flag for me) and that their on-the-spot financing is so convenient (although they do say you can use your own financing – provided you get it in the quick turn-around period they allot). Basically, they don’t turn anyone down which was shown by the example of what a two-bedroom unit would cost if we had lousy credit!
Note to the vacation resorts people and Mr. Top Sales Guy – not everyone’s notion of a vacation home and a vacation experience is as vacuous and homogeneous as yours. The pitch we got didn’t mention anything about local culture, cuisine or flavor making it seem artificial and not at all interesting to me. And, even if it had been something I was really interested in, I would not have made a snap decision without paper and time to mull it over.
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Tears are welling in my eyes as I think of her. They began when I said “Fare Well” as they have for the past few years whenever we take leave of each other.
How ironic that I, the child that couldn’t wait to get away, the child who went back to St. Louis once as an adult and left again, am in deep mourning that we live so far apart. Each time we see each other – twice a year most years – I come to appreciate her more and more. My mother. My foundation. My past and my future at once. She is 19 years older than me (having had me two months shy of her 20th birthday). When I look at her, I see my future. And it looks good.
My mother isa striking woman. She is physically beautiful, has a classic Black woman’s hourglass shape, cat-like hazel eyes, and style; even in her flat gold sandals (traded from the heels and wedges she once wore) she is fashionable. She had to use a cane on this trip because of a new foot condition. Her face is looking more like my grandmother’s face than it used to (another strikingly beautiful woman). And my face has taken on more of her characteristics. I’ve noticed it and my husband mentioned that he noticed it yesterday.
Yesterday, Mom gave me a pair of her gold earrings I had admired some time ago. She also thrust bank papers upon me, telling me that whatever is left when she passes, she wants her three children to split it evenly. “Awww, Ma,” I said. “You’ll be around for a long time. You have a will, don’t you?” “Yeah, I do,” she replies. “I just want to make sure you have a copy like your sister and brother do.” (They both live in St. Louis.) She’s also taken care of her headstone and burial arrangements and made clear her wishes. We’d had this conversation a few years ago and she swung into action to put her affairs in order. It was easier to talk about these things years ago. Now that time is galloping, it is more difficult.
I notice her changing. I see the change in how she talks and what she talks about. I see the change in things that she doesn’t do so much any more. She doesn’t attend as many social events. She attends more funerals than weddings. The shopping partners, reading buddies, and party friends have dwindled. I see her fragility since having to have two surgeries recently. Even the St. Louis family has changed. Since my grandmother’s death, the extended family doesn’t gather for dinner every Wednesday evening although they do see each other for holidays other special occasions.
I used to cry whenever I said “au revoir” because I thought something would happen to one of us before we’d see each other again. While this is still a looming possibility, the worry is exacerbated by the craziness of the world and travel today. When the bombings happened on September 11, 2001 – there was a point when the phones didn’t work – so we couldn’t contact each other. Airplanes weren’t flying. I worried that we wouldn’t ever see each other again. Being able to travel to get to my Mom (and children) is no longer something I take for granted.
I wish I could buy back the past. That I could relive all these years I’ve been away from her, near her. I regret…my mother would stop me right now. She’d say, “Even God can’t change the past, sweetheart, so no regrets.”
I’m ready to pack up and move right now. But then I’m torn, I’d also like to live near my daughter and granddaughter and they live in North Carolina. Not to mention that my husband will probably never move from his home city. Curses to all this living in different cities, so far apart except in our hearts. I want to live around all my people. Perhaps I can figure out how to get us all in the same city…
I’ll get better. When I finally reach her tonight, I will hear her voice and feel better. In a few days, we’ll be back into our old rhythm of calls. Meanwhile, I will copy the recipes for the dishes I served her and my stepfather while they were here. I will plan my trip to St. Louis for the Christmas and Kwanzaa holidays (we celebrate both). I’ll await the kitchen curtains she’s going to make for me. (She’s an excellent seamstress. I wrote about those skills in an earlier blog entry, “I wish I could sew like my mother.”) I will pray and pray that God grants us both a lot more years together.
When I was around 30, I wrote an essay, “I Want my Mother’s Lap.” It was published in the Boston Globe as “Oh, to sit on Ma’s Lap.” I know I can’t be a baby, again. Now I wish to see my mother’s face and hold my mother’s hand and cook her favorite food and learn to make a strong cup of coffee like she likes, and rub her feet when they ache. I want to be in her presence as much as possible.
I love you, Mom.
If you want to run into people you haven’t seen in a long time – make a quick run to, say, the post office at 8:00 on a Saturday morning to mail a package. No one will be there, you think, which is weird because your ego can’t possibly believe that you’re the only person who mails packages early on a Saturday. (Hel-lo…the post office is open then to serve customers…all of them…not just yours truly.)
Why did I think I could dash in to the Stop and Shop and grab the ingredients for a cake I’d promised to bake and get out without running into an old boyfriend and a gossipy old acquaintance? I know she can’t wait to tell folks how raggedy I looked. And he’s probably wondering what happened and relieved that we didn’t work out. (He and I broke up while I was still in my putting-my-best-fashion-foot-forward stage.)
I should have cut those sweatpants up to make cleaning cloths a long time ago – they were so stretched out of shape. And the shirt, why do I persist in wearing that particular shirt? I got a stain on it the first time I wore it but loved it so, I’ve been in deep denial that the stain isn’t as large and visible as it is.
Tacky-tacky. Of course, I’d run into a program officer from a foundation with whom I’m trying to get a contract when I dash up the hill in my around-the-house clothes to pick up my husband from the train station.
In each of these instances, I looked "tore up from the floor up." Sometimes I can pull it all together so well that I look good to myself. Not these times, however.
My mother reared me better. “Don’t leave the house without looking presentable,” she always admonished. She told us to get up, take a shower, and put on your face for the day so that you’ll be ready for unexpected company or a spontaneous adventure or regular old chore. My mother plans her casual looks with the same attention that she gives her dress up clothes. (She has style and a deep fashion sensibility - two traits she didn't pass on to me.)
But did I listen to my mother? No-ooo! And that’s why I was caught taking the garbage out in my robe with my fa-la-ja-la-pas bouncing freely by a former student who just happened to be driving down my street and, of course, noticed me and jumped out of her car to hug me and catch up. At 7:00 in the friggin' morning! Oh, joy!
I’m gon’ learn or I’ll have to not give a hoot. (Who am I kidding? I’m gon’ learn to leave the house more presentable ‘cause I’ve run into and scared too many people making my mad dash(es).)
I've never had a latte or iced coffee (tried one once – yuck). Never went on a coffee run - a daily outing in most offices I've worked. Like a moth to a flame, mention you're going out for coffee and your office companions will come running with their orders.
Margaritas, pina coladas, daiquiris, merlot, chardonnay, mojito-mosquito – just not my thing.
My original dislike of coffee began with the fact that my Mom basically didn’t function until she had her morning coffee and cigarette. (I don’t smoke, either. Gave that up after one try. I tried to impress a guy at a party the night after my high school graduation. Took a puff, didn't stop coughing for 10 minutes and that was the end of smoking for me.) This dislike was cemented when I burned my arm on the electric percolator while pouring a cup of coffee. I used to walk as slow as turtle with my Mom's coffee cup , so afraid was I of spilling the precious liquid on the floor or on myself. The cup rattled in the saucer, that’s how nervous I was. (Did I ever mention I was a tad clumsy as a child?)
“I’ll never have anything I have to have in the morning before I can be civil,” I vowed to myself.
It’s true that I drink orange juice nearly every morning, but it doesn’t pack enough of a punch to influence my morning behavior.
I do drink tea – regularly though not daily – and while there are places to drink tea communally (though far less than those devoted to the cult of coffee) I’ve never felt compelled to drink tea in a setting other than home. I also don’t have a lap-top, yet, and so the allure of sitting in a coffee house sipping coffee while working or checking email doesn’t attract me.
Except, except, except – I do have a morning ritual of my own. I love drinking a cold glass of OJ or water with a twist of lemon or tea on my tiny back deck/porch/thingee and watching the leaves and branches of trees dance in the breeze. In this quiet space, I thank God, nature, the universe for my blessings – one of which is to be able to see those trees. I also give thanks that I can hear. I love hearing the birds chirping and watching the neighborhood cats in all their feline suppleness stalking across the driveway to their preferrd spots on the lawn, on the stone that covers the well, and on the side porch of the cottage out back. And I give thanks that I can feel – the sun on my skin and the breeze blowing across my face. I so enjoy reading the paper in this small, private space.
Early morning is such a lovely quiet time even in this city neighborhood. I water my few flowers (there will be more soon I vow) and sit down on a beautiful tiled metal chair that’s part of an outdoor bistro set I found at my favorite discount store for a song (and the gift certificates I’d been given for my birthday that year).
There’s a new café on Dot Ave. (Dot2Dot Café) and a coffee house on Neponset. Both are lovely places meant for lingering over coffee or tea or the computer. Orange juice is not a lingering drink. Nor is ice tea. One doesn't gather over tea at Ashmont Grill or The Blarney Stone. I mean the first question the waiters ask is, "What can I get you to drink?" And they are none too enthusiastic when you reply, "water with lemon." (Probably thinking - cheapskate, low-profit margin diner, here.)
*Don't drink don't smoke - what do you do?
Don't drink don't smoke - what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
There must be something inside-out."
These lyrics from Goody Two Shoes that Adam Ant sang (and co-wrote) could be one of my anthems, except I would say, it must be something outside-in.
I wanna fit in, I really do. I'm tired of walking past all the coffee houses and looking with longing at the camaraderie inside. There must be something fabulous going on to justify the long lines outside of Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts, especially in the mornings. There's gold in them thar stores and bars but not, alas, for me. I just don't like the taste of coffee or wine. I feel I must make an effort to be more social - I mean I can't really enjoy being alone that much, can I? It isn't healthy, is it? I welcome suggestions, maybe a ten-step program to get me into the ranks of the coffee and wine crowd.
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Two books I read recently by Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food and The Omnivore’s Dilemma, have compelled me to write comments in the margins. These comments range from "wow" to “we’ve been hoodwinked” to “makes sense to me” and other such grumblings. Exclamation points and other punctuation marks and doodles abound.
Several pages are folded over at the corners with an arrow drawn on them. On other pages virtually all the sentences are underlined because the words struck me as so profound and I want to find the passages again easily. I plan to send several friends the section on the 36 ingredients that go into making McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets. It may not move them to stop ordering them for their kids, but at least they won’t be able to plead ignorance about what’s in this food product now.
Writing in the margins of books, underlining sentences, and highlighting passages enables me to have a dialogue with the book. I imagine my children, my husband, or a friend reading the same book and learning about what sections moved me and what I was thinking when I was reading it. It’s a way of saying hello to all future readers. Perhaps my granddaughter will read some of these books after I'm gone.
What about you? Do you keep your books pristine? Do you sign your name in your books? (I used to write the name, date and city purchased in the front of my books.) My sister gave me a wonderful embosser when I was in college that had my favorite saying from the time, “Read and be Freed.” That saying still has a potent message – reading is freeing; it produces an unshackled mind.
Do you loan books to friends? If you do, how many have you loss over the years?
Two other books I read recently and found enlightening are The Laws of Thinking: 20 Secrets to Using the Divine Power of Your Mind to Manifest Prosperity by Bishop E. Bernard Jordan and A New Earth by Eakhart Tolle. In the fiction department, I was deeply moved by What is the What by Dave Eggers and feel proud to have finished the 900+ page tome, Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follett. I'm going to find some light reading after all this heavy lifting.
A friend I ran into recently said, “I don’t read,” loudly while we were on the train speeding through Back Bay Station. I chastised her for saying it and saying it so vehemently, for two reasons. The first is that it isn't a true statement. She may not read books from cover-to-cover, but she does read articles in magazines and on-line. I asked her to please not say those words aloud again because flaunting ignorance and being anti-knowledge isn’t something we need more of. We already have a President who seems to revel in not-knowing.
I'm heading to the library, tomorrow, to grab some books for the summer. My writing in margins will be suspended for a while until I get back to reading books that I own. The librarian will recommend some titles I haven't heard of. There'll be a treasure trove of new stories, essays, and biographies to devour. Ah...the joys of reading.
]]>Some of the answers to these questions took me a long time to figure out and some I’m still working on. I do think that teens need to be allowed to ask questions and know that their questions will be answered. We also need to encourage their critical thinking skills about sex and relationships and so many other important issues. Such dialogue will go a long way in helping teens figure their way through the sexual maze. Parents should be the people who discuss this with their children.
I recently did a series of parenting workshops at the Suffolk County House of Corrections. One of the young women in the class asked me what a healthy relationship was. That got me to thinking about the sorts of questions I had as a teen and young woman and about questions I've heard other teens and young women ask in workshops and gatherings.
Here are my questions.
I don't think this list is complete by any means but I think it is a good start. Imagine having this kind of honest and direct conversation with a teen. It is a hard conversation to have but it is very necessary. There are lots of books that are helpful to have on hand as resources like What's Happening to My Body: Book for Girls; What's Happening to My Body: Book for Boys and the seminal, Our Bodies, Ourselves. Local health clinics also have informational pamphlets available for free.
Sexuality is wired in our beings and instead of so many of us keeping our heads in the sand about this important and wonderful part of life, we need to begin and continue to dialogue about it with our sons and daughters.
I have and am serving on a number of boards. I’ve always made sure in their prospecting interviews, that people know that I am not a person of financial wealth. I will and do make contributions to the extent of my financial ability but those contributions are small.
Despite this, I’ve been invited to serve on boards for two reasons: to increase their diversity profile and because of the title & reputation I had as director of a cultural economic development program that was known to get things done. When I left that job after 9 1/2 years, I quit a couple of boards because my participation on the board was clearly tied to my job. Without the title, I had no value. (Cool.)
At a recent meeting of the Board of Trustees of an organization on whose board I serve, a fellow board member announced that there were 3 members who had not made their annual contributions and that we needed to before the end of the fiscal year, June 30. “So, I’m not alone,” I thought and was surprised. In previous years I’ve always made my modest contribution early but not this year. I had been carrying around a check to make a contribution but in this new freelance world I live in, cash flow is spotty and I didn’t have the money yet to make the contribution.
After the meeting ended, in the milling around, she came up to me and said, “I really don’t like to be in the position of having to nag or police my fellow members.” (I forget what word she actually used because, of course, I was so embarrassed.) I told her that I had been out of a full-time job since August, that I was expecting some money to come in and that I would be giving my contribution when it came. “You can give a dollar,” she said. “We just need everyone to make a contribution so that the annual fund will be complete.” (She might have used another word, but that’s what she meant.)
The bad twin in this Gemini thought for a minute that I ought to whip out a dollar or ten dollars from my purse and hand it to her (out of the $50 I had budgeted for the incidentals of my trip to the board meeting). The good twin said, “Naw, that wouldn’t be right.” So I didn’t. “You’ll get the check,” I told her and walked away.
It’s all about money, I’d written earlier in the meeting as I was doodling and taking notes. Money drives boards. It's the most important way you can show your support for the organization. At this particular board and at most of the others I’ve participated in, the folks with money hang together. At this board, the folks with money generally stay in the same hotel and therefore bond and collaborate at late night gatherings in the hotel restaurant or bar or some other nearby place. The folks with money can travel to the board meetings that are far away from where they live. They can participate in an exploratory trip to a country in Africa for a potential program the organization is exploring starting there (where one of the board members has a home). Some can plan return trips to this African country even though the political situation means that starting a program there will be impossible for a while.
I ain’t mad at them. I’m not even jealous. I just know I am not one of them and so will not be in with the in crowd. This board member and a couple of others on this board and others, barely interact with me and others like me, How do I know this? We’ve talked about it. I feel like they knew quickly from our first association that I don’t bring money to the table and so their interactions with me are limited. Perhaps being around people without money makes them feel uncomfortable. (Like being around people with money is often challenging for me.) Perhaps money is the common ground that matters to them.
Another board member announces, casually, that there’s a consultant who wrote this book that he wants to bring to spend time with the board and the organization. “It’ll cost $35,000 to bring him” he says. “He’s well worth the money and I’m ready to write a check and get it going.” Good for you, I think. I also know I won’t be contributing to that fundraising effort. I don’t have it like that. I will pay for one student to attend a summer program that I’m working on with another board member but that’s all that I can do.
I also think, how do I get to be a $35k consultant? Hell, I’d settle for $15k.
Maybe I should have sat-out this board meeting, saved the $100 on the bus ticket to get to the location and the $25 for the “unsponsored” dinner. Sending a $125 contribution might have been more important than my actually coming to the meeting. (Ironically, I had the most fun and engaged more fully with more people at this board meeting than I had at previous ones. Luckily the money stuff came up towards the end of the meeting. If it had come up earlier, it would have greatly influenced my ability to “hang” because my mortification would have made me withdraw.)
Take II
So, what do I bring to a board? Knowledge of programs, knowledge of communities of color, knowledge of how to diversify a funding base, knowledge and relationships with several funders, experience writing grants and planning programs, experience creating a multicultural group of multi-year volunteers, the willingness to recruit students and participants, etc. But none of this brings money to the table. Money matters.
Knowledge, ideas, and vision, while great, are just not enough, especially on non-profit boards.
I’m on another board whose work I truly believe in and love. This organization and the program I formerly directed came of age together. The board is filled with a delightful mix of people from the community it represents as well as from people outside but with great affinity for this community. We are diverse. There’s only one board member I know who is a person of wealth on this board. There are a few others who are solidly comfortable. As a board, we do not have the juice to raise the money to create a full-time position to hire a temporary worker who has turned out to be a wonderful asset to the organization. And he is young! (The rest of us are mid-lifers and we need to bring younger people in.) The visionary who started the organization is getting burnt out and is tired of drawing a small salary (although she clearly “has it like that” or wouldn’t have been able to work for years without any salary at all.) She does deserve to be paid because she's done important, community-changing work.
It’s clear that our board needs to have more members who can write personal checks. We abound in ideas, we think we know that corporations and major academic and other institutions would support the work but those connections require time to cultivate and, given the changing times, personnel and priorities of corporate sponsorship change rapidly. These maybe dollars will come when they come but we need dollars right now.
Take III
I worked for one organization once where the divide between the haves on some of the staff and board and the have-nots on the staff and clients was acute. The organization had a fundraising dinner at a board member’s home. A few staff and a client were brought in to do a “dog and pony” presentation about the important work of the organization. Then we were whisked away (by a hired limo) before dinner was served.
The donors wanted to support our work but they didn’t want to interact with us more than they had at the brief reception. While on one level I could understand it, on another level it was deeply offending and felt icky. (Especially since the Executive Director, the development professional and another staff member - all people of personal wealth who were compadres of the dinner hosts and guests - got to stay.) At the next staff meeting, it was announced that the dinner had been a resounding success because a significant amount of money had been raised.
Final Take (for now at least)
I’ve decided not to join any more boards and will probably begin to back out of the boards I now belong to except the one that touches my heart so and the one where I’m charged with helping give-away money. For the other boards, I will make whatever contribution I am able to make when I am able to without having the expectation to give hanging over my head and worrying me. (It doesn’t feel good not to have financial juice.) I give to at least a dozen organizations every year – checks ranging from $25 to $150. It's been suggested that maybe I should reduce the number of organizations to which I contribute and only give one or two more generous donations. That just doesn’t feel right to me when there are so many organizations whose work I cherish. Sending in a donation, however small, is a way of validating their work and supporting them to my way of thinking. (But, I'm not a wise money person as I've blogged about before and so most of my decisions around money are most likely not the right ones.)
At one of the former advisory groups I belonged to, one of the activists said she never gives to big organizations like the MFA or Symphony or public television because they have enough deep pocketed donors and don’t need her dollars, which she feels would be better served giving to small, neighborhood-based organizations. I had never thought of my giving in that light. Her analysis has made me go, "hmmm." It's one way to approach giving.
What I do know is that “it’s all about money” on most boards these days. Even when the discussion or idea starts with programs, ideas, vision or service, it almost always turns back to a discussion about money. Grandmaster Flash was accurate when he rapped, “It’s all about money, ain’t a damn thing funny, you got to have a con in this land of milk and honey.*" Amen to that – only I’ll just substitute the word cash for con. You need to have some cash or you really shouldn't participate.
*Song: The Message, The Sugar Hill Gang.
When I worked at Boston City Hospital, a lovely man on the maintenance staff was given an award for 35 years of perfect attendance. In the midst of my clapping for this achievement, I found myself going, “Hmmmm.” I recently read in a letter to the editors of a health magazine that a group of women had walked for more than 10 years, rain or shine, without fail. Hats off to them, I thought, and then I thought, “Hmmmm – something ain’t right.”
I can’t imagine living a life that would adhere to such unending devotion, discipline, perfection to a job - especially today, when institutions and companies, public and private, will eliminate your job in a quick minute.
Do these people not take time off to have a mental health day?
Do they never need/choose to attend a field trip with a child?
Don’t they ever decide not to struggle to work in a snow storm?
Having perfect attendance surely means they’ve come to work sick and spread their germs around to others (that would include me).
While working at Boston City Hospital, I witnessed the first round of lay-offs in a series that happened wehn BCH merged with University Hospital to become Boston Medical Center. We all know what mergers mean. Somebody’s going to lose their livelihood. During these lay-offs and others that I have witnessed, it turns out, that an employee’s attendance and performance had nothing to do with whether they would get the axe or not. People were eliminated because of “redundancy.” (I hate the sound of that word! It sounds like something that should be said of things not people!) Job categories were eliminated. Departments were seen to be doing duplicative work and so were consolidated.
For many of the people who had toiled for years with perfect and near-perfect attendance, there was an aura of incredulity about them when they received their pink slips. “But I never missed work,” lamented one housekeeper. She was laid off as swiftly as co-workers who used each and everyone of their sick days annually.
At another job, management eliminated the ability of workers to carry over unused sick and vacation time. What an uproar that caused! A lot of people didn’t know what to do with all of the vacation time they had to take before the fiscal year ended. Management giveth and management taketh away.
I’ve only had one job where I had perfect attendance for a full-year. It had to do with the date I was hired. I had to work a full year before I earned vacation days. Having two young children at that time, I saved my sick days for when they were sick. I was able to talk myself out of colds and ignored severe cramps and heavy bleeding that year. (Working from home was not an option then.) My children didn’t get sick that year. So, there I was, at work the day after-Thanksgiving. I was the newest person at the organization and no one but me was there. (Some had pre-arranged to take time off. Others called in sick.) The phone only rang once, when my supervisor called in, ostensibly to ask me to water her plants, but really to check to see if I had, indeed, come into the office like I was ‘sposed to. I had, and I went right back to reading my novel after our call was finished. (The nerve of her to check up on me!)
I see no virtue in having perfect attendance unless one is doing it as a personal challenge or goal. It seems to me that there is a cost to our denial of occasional pleasures, opportunities, and responsibilities to say nothing of the lack of imagination it shows (in my opinion).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a slacker at work and in my last job often worked long hours and always worked weekends. But I’ve learned that time is a finite resource and making time to take a vacation (even if you’re only staying and exploring the city in which you live); taking a day off to stay in your pajamas and read, watch DVDs, or make good love; surprising your children by being home with them or being there when they get home from school; or any number of other inventive, soul-lifting things you might do once-in-a-while to celebrate life and ignore the grind is something that people should do even if its but once a year. How about taking a day off for something as simple as celebrating your birthday?*
I know this sounds judgmental and it is. It’s not my business how people live their lives but this is my bloggy and I use it to say things that are on my mind – grand and small. I said it at the beginning and I’ll say it again: There’s nothing so perfect about perfect attendance in my opinion. Don’t get me started about those who show up every day and do nary a bit of actual work or only the tiniest bit to stay employed.
*Especially if your religion doesn’t denounce birthday celebrations.