Good & Plenty - Candelaria Silva's Blog

The Ups and Downs of A Week

Candelaria — Thu, 08 May 2008 20:31:18 GMT

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.

A Queen in the Country of Myself - Imagine

Candelaria — Tue, 06 May 2008 21:11:43 GMT

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!

Done!

Candelaria — Sun, 04 May 2008 18:16:31 GMT

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

Translation:

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

I Apologize to Others

Candelaria — Fri, 02 May 2008 06:06:17 GMT

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

Candelaria — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 08:50:35 GMT

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.

Oprah - Envy, Criticism & Rumors

Candelaria — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 23:04:37 GMT

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!

There has to be life

Candelaria — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 23:38:15 GMT

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.

Celebrate Mother's Day and Help Other Women

Candelaria — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 08:31:22 GMT

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.

What's Up with Feeling Guilty about Food?

Candelaria — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 14:29:32 GMT

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 was away but now I'm back

Candelaria — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 21:26:15 GMT

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.)

Pleasurable and free

Candelaria — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 18:55:38 GMT

There are a lot of things that are pleasurable and free but today I’m talking about the pleasure of taking a walk.

It has been my joy recently to take walks with a couple of new friends in Dorchester as well as to continue on solo jaunts while doing errands across Boston. I have walked through Cedar Grove Cemetery (how tranquil) and along the Neponset River (how calming). I have walked down Dorchester Avenue from Ashmont Station beyond Field’s Corner (I plan to make it all the way to Columbia Road). I’ve walked by the Boston Convention & Exhibition Center and made my way to South Station. I have walked through the Boston Commons, the Public Garden and up Newbury Street. I plan to walk along the path around the golf course in Franklin Park again – a walk I did daily for some years.

Walking has many benefits besides boosting fitness. Walking:

o Allows me to know my neighborhood and other neighborhoods in a more intimate way than public transportation or auto travel allow;
o Sweeps stresses and concerns away;
o Brings solutions to writing problems and ideas for new stories and essays;
o Takes me back to childhood as I hear the laughter of children and have re-memories of my own childhood;
o Gives me freedom to meander aimlessly or stride with purpose;
o Makes me sweat (especially going up hills) and cools me down (with breezes coming off water or from the canopy of trees);
o Is a prayer of gratitude as I count my blessing while walking in solitude;
o Is the joy of companionship and unexpected conversations;
o Is the beauty of flowers and architecture and other people;
Is a wonderful way to spend time with my granddaughter and point out things along the way;
o Allows me to catch up to myself and what’s going on with me while listening to my thoughts;
o Massages my tired feet especially when I walk on grass or sand;
o Limbers me up.

What is sweeter than feeling the sun on my face, working up a thirst, and sipping or gulping water to quench it? How refreshing to take a cleansing shower or soak in a tub after walk. Best of all - it’s free and always available! When I get a slicker, I may even walk in the rain (hair be damned!). When I can corral my husband, I plan to walk with him hand-in-hand just because he's my guy.

If you don’t already, I urge you to take a walk. It’ll do your body and soul good.

All-American

Candelaria — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 09:23:19 GMT

“He lives in an ordinary, all-American sort of place…” begins an article by David Mehegan in the Boston Globe on April 8. I’ve seen that phrase used loads of times. Whenever I see it, I know that the story is about someone white who is usually middle-class. “All-American” is a way of saying white without having to actually spell it out.

In this particular article, “Story of the Weak” about Jeff Kinney’s bestselling book for children, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Mehegan goes on to say that the book is about “the every day life of a regular boy in the sort of school situation that readers of any age might recognize.” When’s the last time, if ever, you’ve seen or heard descriptions like “all American” or “regular boy” used to describe a boy who was Black, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Native America, etc.? I can’t recall ever seeing these words used in the context of a Black or Brown boy’s experience.

I’m not complaining about the book – haven’t read it. It seems funny and something kids would like and me, too, probably. I did notice that the illustration shown in the article shows only white boys. The reporter goes on to note that "the girls are always drawn exactly the same, except for their hair, but the boys all look grossly different from one another. It's a message to the reader that Greg 'gets' boys, but doesn't 'get' girls so he draws them all the same." (This could be the topic of another blog.) Let's get back to my point.

I’ve been encouraging my husband to write a memoir of his boyhood since a year after we started dating. By then I’d learned enough about him to know that his childhood and teenage hood warranted a book because of how filled it was with joy, activities, and love. He did so many things that were unavailable and/or unknowable to me growing up. I’ve always told him that he should call the book, “All American Black Boy.” Now I think I'll tell him to eliminate the word, "Black" from that title. His book should be called "All American Boy" period.

In it, he could share that he was reared by two loving parents with help from an extended loving family, that he was in the church choir, that he attended the Cooper Community Center, that he participated in the Debate Club and was on student government in high school (Latin School by the way). He could share that he was a frequent escort at high school proms, that he was part of an “integrated” (throw-back word) singing group at Boston Latin. He could talk about the numerous jobs he held, among them selling TV Guide, working at Skippy White's Record Store near Dudley Station, selling popsicles on an ice cream truck, working at the MDC pool, and working at the oil company in Everett. He could talk about being an acolyte at St. Cyprian's Church. He remembers being able to ride his bike without fear of being accosted from his family’s home on Columbus Avenue all the way to Dorchester. My husband recalls his love for radio being nurtured in the Junior Achievement Club in high school when they worked in collaboration with WILD radio station in Roxbury. (He is now in hot pursuit of owning a station…or two.) And this is only a short list of things I can call forth right now.

Perhaps in sharing his story as an all-American, "regular" boy, he could underscore the point that a whole lot of Black and Brown boys had “normal” childhoods and act as a counterpoint to the media that spews a limited, one dimensional portrait of Black boys and their families.

This wasn't the point of Mr. Mehegan's story. I know that. His story was not about us in any way. It was about an author and his portrait of an “all-American boy.” And that got me started.

Don’t say no to yourself

Candelaria — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 22:16:58 GMT

So many of us limit ourselves. It is easy to do. It is difficult to counter the negative messages that explicitly and implicitly specify limits on what one can achieve. It is hard to break out of the box that your parents and teachers and extended family and community and the media have set for you. They often do it from care and concern. Some do it from envy. Others do it from ignorance or to uphold the status quo. It is hard to ignore the rules and other shouldn’ts.

Yet everyday, one learns about people who do just that and go on to achieve marvelous things. People who didn't buy into what they weren't supposed to do. Who continued to work and struggle until they achieved what they wanted.

The biggest naysayer in our lives is often that voice in our own head. The voice that fears that you do not have what it takes and so discourages you. The voice that puts up a laundry list of obstacles that seem insurmountable. The voice that looks around and compares itself to others who have accomplished what you want to do and judges you to not be of the same caliber.

Truth is, I have denied myself as many opportunities as have ever been denied me. I often didn’t try because I was afraid of two letters – "N" and "O." Sometimes I was afraid of walking into new terrain where I wasn't sure that I belonged or could hang. One day an internal voice said to me, "You belong wherever you land. Whether you were invited or you found an opening you belong." I decided to listen to that voice. Plus, I remember that a lot of people struggled and died so that I could go through closed doors, so that I wouldn't be restricted as a Black person or as a woman or as a person from a low-income background. Despite persistent divisions and segregation in the U.S. there is also abundant opportunity if I, if we don't say no to ourselves. If we can have the internal esteem, fortitude, chutzpah, and persistence to believe in the world's bounty and that we should benefit from it (as well as participate in creating more).

Through the distance of years, I can look back and see opportunities that I totally blew because I didn't believe in myself or was afraid. Luckily, other opportunities have happened that I did take advantage of but I must say, there were a few that have not come back this way again. I am admiring of people whose sense of self determination is so strong and whose focus is so acute that they pursue their dreams no matter how wild or unlikely they seem to others of us.

Don't say no to yourself and ignore most of the nays you hear from others. It is only then that you will succeed. Success is not always about accomplishing a goal, it is also about making the effort to reach a goal. My sister, who has struggled with and triumphed through lupus for three decades has as one of her mottoes that she's "going to wear out not rust out." And so, she doesn't say no to herself or to life. She says, "Yes, bring it," ignoring the cautions of her well-meaning siblings, mother and others. I'm still learning and I'm determined to say yes to myself even if others tell me no. Nothing will succeed but a try.

Not going out with y'all no more

Candelaria — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 11:16:03 GMT

There are folks that I won’t go out to dinner with any more. They like to complain, compare and send things back. They do this every single time we go out. I can be an awfully dense woman sometimes. It took me a while to recognize their dining behavior patterns and so, I have only recently removed them from my list of folks to go dining with. I eat out rarely these days. Part of the reason is that the times require me to be economically frugal . I’ve also found that I tend to eat better at home then I do when I dine out (when I find it difficult to resist certain temptations – oink, oink). I also enjoy cooking. Since dining out has become more of a special occasion, I don’t want to waste it on negative Nellies.

One heifer…(I love this word – and hear it the way my mother pronounced it all through my childhood – “heffa”.) One heifer doesn’t cook and has a limited palate but that doesn’t keep her from being incredibly critical of the service and the food every where I’ve gone with her. I think it’s a brief spot in her life when she feels powerful and so she exercises her power to mess with and manipulate waiters.

Her silverware is never clean. There’s never enough ice in her water and the waiter doesn’t fill it frequently enough. She never had an entrée that she didn’t have to change something about. There’s never enough sauce. The rolls aren’t hot. The staff kept us waiting too long. Aaarrrggghhh! Dining with her is crazy making.

After one particularly bad experience, I asked her if she wasn’t worried that the waiter hadn’t put something bad in her food the way she had carried on all evening. She looked shocked that I would even think such a thing. There is no way I would trust food that I had sent back two times in a dining experience about which I had issued complaints from the beginning. “They just need to do their jobs correctly,” she sniffed. It’s good I’ve never been a waiter because I would have done some act of sabotage that’s how much she annoys me.

Another friend takes absolutely forever to find something on the menu she wants to order. She always says something like, “We should have gone to the other place.” Never mind that it took some tussling to finally settle on this restaurant. She wishes she had ordered what I ordered because mine looks better. She has told me that when she cooks at home she does “thus and such” (which, of course, is better than what she’s been served). She also reminisces about back-in-the-day when she used to entertain all of the time. I’ve known this heifer (that word again) for ten years and she hasn’t entertained me or anyone I know in that time. To hear her tell it, she’s can throw-down in the kitchen.

Sometimes I wonder if some people have fantasy lives in which they deem themselves perfect. These two friends are clearly legends in their own minds when it comes to food and proper service. They can have at it because I won’t be going out with them again.

(And why order fish in a steak house and then complain? Hel-lo, it’s a steak house, fish probably isn’t the thing they do best.)

Okay, I've vented. I feel better now. Thank you.

Bor-ing, Bles-sing

Candelaria — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 15:19:35 GMT

There have been times in my life when nothing much was going on except the routine things of life.

Get up. Get ready for work. Get the kids up. Fix breakfast and pack lunches and a dozen other things to get them off to school. Go to work. Work. Pick the kids up. Get home. Fix dinner. Eat dinner. (What did you do today?" I'd ask. "Oh, nothing," they'd say. I'd try again, "What happened at school today that was funny?" and a series of other questions to get them to talk.) Homework. TV. Baths. Bedtime stories. Quick chores, reading, nightly call to a friend at the end of a similar routine. Goodnight and then it all began again the next day.

Even the weekends had their regularity. I’d take Amber and Cy to the Children’s Museum of Friday nights (when it was free). They’d go visit their Dad on Saturdays and I, footloose and fancy-free, would go out dancing with my friends. Most of the weekend routines were done to stage us for the next week’s activities. Special occasions would pop up – a birthday here, a recital there, apple picking, but mostly the s a m e r o u t i n e s. Day-in and Day-out. All delightful and predictable.

Everything was everything. Not much sad. Not too happy. No drama. Plenty of peace. And, I often felt a little bored. I was waiting for something to happen. Waiting for my imagined real life to begin, waiting for the one day when…not knowing I was already having it.

I now recognize the blessedness of routines, of “boredom,” of the easy times. I smile when I’m having a stretch of them. 'Cause when the routines go topsy turvy and drama starts, be it your’s, someone close to you, or at your job, it starts with a vengeance and it tries not to leave.

If you’re lucky, you'll have years of relative calm. Embrace. Be thankful. Enjoy.

Every One a Miracle

Candelaria — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 18:11:06 GMT

Every single human being is a miracle of conception and construction (and, for now at least, a miracle of uniqueness). Today, I love everyone:

o The colleagues from my LeadBoston class with whom I had a delightful dinner and conversation last night whose loveliness was still on my mind when I woke up this morning.
o My husband – you were worth the wait.
o The mailman who delivered the mail.
o The client who sent the check earlier than I expected (and I needed it so).
o The weatherman telling me it’s going to rain all day, indeed, all weekend, and get colder (April showers will bring May flowers. And I am so going to appreciate the next sunny day!)
o The Keyspan workers fixing something on the street – keeping our power going.
o The police woman watching them work.
o The clerk at the corner store who always smiles and has a kind word when ringing up my purchases.
o The owners of the houses on my daily walk whose flowers have begun to poke through the soil (thank you for planting those flowers – they are going to bloom so prettily soon).
o The teenager who looks startled when I say hello, but says hello back.
o The adult who ignores my hello. (It’s okay – my hello is all about my need to greet my fellow human, no matter whether they respond or not.)
o The beauty salon worker who waxes my eyebrows.
o The friend who surprises me with a lunch invitation (she’s even treating – yippee!).
o The pharmacist who renews my prescription.
o All the people who invented the computer and the internet allowing me to write these words and put them on my blog.
o My husband for setting my blog up and...

I could go on and on but I won’t. Today, I woke up in my right mind as my grandmother, Mother, always said. And today I was able to see that each one of us is a miracle and deserves acknowledgment.

(A final appreciation to Eckhart Tolle for his book, A New Earth, which I am finding an absolute treasure and delaying reading the final 20 pages because I don’t want it to end.)

A touch, a touch, a touch

Candelaria — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 09:19:22 GMT

I have observed that when dogs and cats see other dogs and cats, they rub against each other and touch. As a human being, there were times in my life when I went months without being touched by anyone, not only sexually but humanely. I have also been in situations were it seemed appropriate to give a fellow/sister human a hug but because of the setting or not knowing them, I didn't.

Following is a short "thingee" I wrote called Skin Hunger (copyright 2004).

A touch. A touch. A touch.

The baby lies in its crib. Its cries have been so frequently unanswered it does not cry. The baby remembers: the warm wetness and floating motions of the watery womb. The rhythmic sounds of heartbeat and mother’s breath. The satisfaction of steady nourishment. The connection of mother and fetus, of generations, or the past to the future.

There was no loneliness there.

Loneliness, hunger, silence, separateness is new.

The baby sucks its thumb, mourning for what once was and what it wants again.
A touch. A touch. A touch.

The woman finished reading/performing the Sunday announcements, then walks regally to her pew, grabbing the respectful attention that her clothes, position and bearing command. Truth be told, she is tired of respect, she wants familiarity, she wants closeness, she wants to be touched.

Her skin is parched. It threatens to crackle into dust if it does not get moisture soon. (Back to the dust we will go). The moisture of a kiss, the dew of passion, the juices brought forth when male and female commingle. Something more than the word and the longing from afar for a more intimate role in the minister (or at least a deacon’s) life.

A touch. A touch. A touch.

The man wants to hug his daughter but she has grown and her form has changed. The new body and attitude form a chasm between their former familiarity. He remembers when she used to sit on his lap and he would wrap her arms around her...a protective circle. The daughter notices the frown on her father's face whenever he looks at her. She remembers when Daddy would laugh and play with her.  Memories of closer times will have to do, but hey are not enough.

A touch. A touch. A touch.

Crazy as a Road Lizard (with apologies to lizards)

Candelaria — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 15:03:30 GMT

In the past couple of weeks I’ve had some close encounters with some folks I know that fit the category of being “crazy as a road lizard.” My sister coined this phrase and it describes a particular type of person we’ve observed.

I’m not talking here about the people I know who genuinely have mental illness. I’m talking about people who have decided to act crazy rather than be well. They have jumped off the grid, preferring to use and wear out the people around them (most often their mothers, but not always), rather than take responsibility for themselves. The people around them support them in this foolishness.

I guess the relatives of these folks are enablers, still, I recognize that it must be difficult to turn your back on a child who is just plain trifling. Trifling – not bi-polar…laZy (with a capital Z) - not crazy. These slackers prey on their families with their non-contribution. One of these folks is pushing her mom into an early grave and sliding her marriage into oblivion. Another is jeopardizing his mother’s subsidized apartment. These folks take long naps, plays computer games, and watch TV as their past-times. They don’t take meds, don’t do chores, and don’t volunteer. They do nothing.

What would it be like if everybody in a family pulled their weight as in contributed to the bottom line and participated in the daily chores of living? Imagine what the family could accomplish and how unburdened the caretakers of these parasites would be. In looking back, there seems to be a critical time in a child, teen and young adult’s development when their parents, caretakers and friends need to call them on their lies, laziness, and inconsistencies. When this isn’t done – they embrace their nonsense and don’t self-correct and learn to stand on their own two feet.

Parents of grown-up children who could do for themselves, you are doing your children a disservice when you perpetuate their limbo thereby allowing them to remain in arrested development.

I Did it with my Own Two Hands

Candelaria — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 17:27:29 GMT

Sometimes I surprise myself. Sometimes I surprise others. I surprised myself and my family when I recently did two do-it-yourself projects. I have never been known for being a do-it-yourself kind of woman. I never met a check I wouldn’t write to get something I wanted doing, done. Growing up, I swept up the fabric and threads and pressed the seams when my mother sewed. I didn’t sew and still don't.

Aside from crocheting several items over the years and cooking, I don’t do things from scratch. Well, that seems to be changing. I have recently completed two projects on my own! I am so darned proud of myself I just have to share it with you. (Thank you for indulging me.)

I am a Craig’s List and Freecycle (freecycle.org) junkie. The first project was repainting a wooden art deco umbrella stand that I got from Craig’s List for $20. I painted it bronze. I took four coats to cover. Then I realized I needed to paint the inside, too, because it looked too tacky not to. (Yeah, I admit it, I was trying to take a short cut.)

The second project was painting two bookcases. Now, my being frugal in these tight economic times paid a role in this project. I bought the bookcases from an unfinished furniture store in Quincy. It was going to cost nearly as much to have them painted as it had to purchase them. “I can paint,” I thought to myself.

Let’s just say that I now have great respect for the painter’s art. I had to prime them and put two coasts to get them the antique white color I desired. Each of the five shelves has five sides inside and two outside. I worked up a sweat despite being down in the chilly basement. My goodness! But I’m so proud of myself.

I’ve done another do-it-yourself project but I can’t take credit for it because my friend, Nayo, actually did it. That project was to reupholster some dining room chairs that I purchased from Craig’s List. I was planning to help, I really was, but you know how it is when someone knows what they’re doing? They take off and get it done. She did and I’m so grateful. (Actually, I did help stretch the fabric on the chairs while she stapled it but that's really not much of a contribution after all, is it?)

I take my hats off to people who do faux-painting projects and who build furniture and sew. I will say that there is quite a bit of satisfaction to look at something you’ve transformed and made better. There is a deep satisfaction in creating something with your hands (and your heart). There is a sense of completion that doesn’t often happen with my paid jobs. Do-it-yourself projects aren’t quick or easy – at least not for me. But then, again, nothing worth while ever is. I’m scouting around for my next project now.

Dump the Experts

Candelaria — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 19:54:08 GMT

Despite my trepidation about the proliferation of make-over shows and the insidiousness of experts on TV, I would jump ahead of everyone I know to be a guest on What Not to Wear. That $5000 Visa with my name on it and a chance to overhaul my wardrobe and visit NYC would be greatly appreciated by me. I even think the hosts Stacy London and Clinton Kelly are the most accepting of their guests of the hosts on these shows. They generally strive to help the victim…er…subject, be her best self. (They had male guests when they first started but no longer.) So, if anybody wants to nominate me as a fashion misfit - go right ahead.

Still, I have noticed that one of the things the stylists do is leach the individuality of many of the contestants that made them standout. Nick, the hair stylist on What Not to Wear, rarely sees a curl he won’t straighten (including his own to judge from some of the shows). While he does often elevate people’s hair to new beauty, sometimes he has taken someone whose hair was a fantastic amalgam of uniqueness and tame it into the realm of the ordinary.

Who decides what good taste is? Who decides what the perfect proportions are? Whose bodies form the patterns? Where is it written that a specific size and shape of lips or hips is better than another size lips?

Mannering (I may have made this word up) that’s what all these experts are doing – making people mannered. (Perhaps patterning is the word. They are creating a narrow range of templates into which people are supposed to fit.) With money and personal stylists and a tailor to alter, it’s quite easy to look moneyed, attractive, and poised.

This plethora of experts contributes, in my opinion to an eroding of self-judgment, self-esteem and self-direction. How can I and other women emulate the standards they impose? (Read The Beauty Myth for more on this subject.) Why would I listen to the male fashionistas most of whom are not sexually attracted to women and often, impose a caricatured style for women that harkens back to the days when women were supposed to look good rather than think well.

I’ve also noticed that TV, magazines and other media most often talk to women from a deficit model – there is something wrong with you – your body, your size, your emotions, your relationships rather than on the asset model – all the wonderful things that women are and do. These positive messages are whispered in the media whereas negative images are screamed. Pick up any women’s magazine and you’ll see what I mean.

I’m all for freedom of choice and expressions of personal style, the more varied the better, I just think we need to figure them out for ourselves via our own observations and instincts rather than pandering to the principles of self-proclaimed experts whose major gifts seems to be shopping in pricey stores.

Each of us has one face, one body, one life and we need to rock it however we choose.