Good & Plenty - Candelaria Silva's Blog

Love in Action

Candelaria — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 15:52:00 GMT

Expressing love, feeling love, writing love, drawing love and are things done frequently but none of them show love. This came to mind while I was scrolling through some blog posts and saw the iconic graphic design of the word love on a post (I haven't been able to find it to link). Anyhoo, I thought, this design, like the I Heart NY graphic design by Milton Glaser, is an often duplicated image but it in no way communicates what love is. That got me to thinking - how do we show love?

Here are two recent small love actions in my continuing love story with my husband.

#1 - The phone rang during a powerful thunderstorm this morning. I didn’t pick it up. I was on the bed, surrounded by pillows with a cover over my head. I hate thunderstorms! Growing up in St. Louis which has frequent, notorious, and damaging thunder storms, I don’t “play” with storms. I won’t talk on the phone, use the computer or turn on the faucet during T-storms. I find lightning, frightening.

After the storm passed, I went to the phone to see who’d called. It was my husband who’d called to say that he was checking to see if I was okay, that he knows I hate thunderstorms and that he loved me. This is love in action.

#2 - A week or so ago, during a period where we were roiled with uncertainty about husband’s livelihood and just feeling low, I noticed my husband going to work in clothes that were rumpled and to me, broadcast loudly, “I don’t care.”

I got him to pick another shirt, asked him to strip, and ironed the shirt and pants. “You’re too handsome a guy to look like you don’t care,” I said. He thanked me (a little grumpily because I’d delayed his departure). When he returned from work, he said he’d gotten a compliment on how “crisply put together” he looked. He then thanked me for real.

This is love in action.

Sometimes done because times are good,
sometimes because it's just how you do things,
sometimes to break the ice in a cool time,
sometimes done to make up after an argument,
sometimes to find love again,
sometimes because love has been renewed...

Small loving things we do for our loved ones are important. In one of the self-help books I read a long time ago during a period of drought when I was hoping for love, Dr. Wayne Dyer wrote that the way to renew a love is by being loving. He recounted a man asking him, how do you find love again with a wife who you've stopped loving. Dr. Dyer said, "Love her." I never forgot that (and I apologize that I can't find the direct quote) But I'm sure you get it.

You find love, renew love, generate love, by loving.

Love in action.

Falling Asleep at the wheel of your life

Candelaria — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 17:30:00 GMT

Have you ever had that feeling when you wonder, what the hell have I been doing?

When did I falter? Where was the fork in the road that didn’t notice? How did I fall asleep at the wheel of my life?

I mean I was driving - right?

Actually, I was coasting. I was waiting. Waiting for it to find me.
The “it” being life, not realizing that each day I lived was my life.

I should have carpayed the effin’ diem.

How could I have made choices so obviously wrong or, more to the point, how could I not have pursued choices so much wiser for me?

Warning: Pity party ahead or maybe not. Maybe we’ll just call it some clear-eyed observations at this point-in-my life cycle. I realized the other day that I should have pursued my desire to be a librarian. It was something I wanted to do when I was a kid. Who loves books, reading, talking about books, sharing books more than me? I’m in fact, a pusher of books that’s how much they thrill me.

I did sell books for a while and was a multicultural literature specialist in the early 80s but I didn’t have good business skills and my marriage was going down the toilet. If I’d had better focus perhaps I would have pursued and made something out of it. I wouldn’t have made a lot of money but the satisfaction factor I think would have been huge. (I also reviewed books but never was able to make a living doing it. At the time, receiving free books was all the payment I wanted.)
My sister and I toy with the idea of having a children’s book and cupcake store or some other kind of hybrid business that links our loves together.

Another goal that I’ve pursued in fits and starts is to be a published writer. I have two picture book manuscripts under consideration currently and have a middle school novel on the way out the door (again). I’ve had small publishing successes but…the ones that almost happened are legendary. (What if Essence had published the story they accepted lo those many years ago? What if Ms. magazine had published my piece instead of having a deep debate about it and decided it wasn’t right but offering me encouragement. What if Little, Brown had selected a version of the manuscript we went back and forth about?) I've gotten close...

What if I hadn’t let life issues, like having to work and being a single parent delay my commitment? What if I wasn’t able to get satisfaction from the jobs I had and had been unrelenting in pursuing the goal of being a published writer?

Looking back things seem so clear but while going through my life, the opportunities and choices were out-of-focus and sometimes not noticed at all. All I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other and pursue my goals with all t he resources I can muster. Still, some days it is easy to look back and wonder, “What the hell happened? How did those years and dreams get away?

Proper Farewells

Candelaria — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 16:26:00 GMT

Whenever I am traveling away from my husband or he is traveling away from me, after we’ve said our goodbyes, and are on our way into the airport or bus or train terminal, there comes a long moment when I want to turn around and get yet another hug or deeper kiss and tell him once again how much I love him. Really tell him.

The same thing happens when I bid adieu to my daughter, son, Mom, sister or brother. In that long moment when they have dropped me at the airport, I realize that I don’t know when I’ll see them again. I try not to let my mind wander further to wondering if I’ll see them again. I have faith that I will. Yet I feel a deep loneliness and wrenching detachment in those minutes after departure.

The first few trips my husband went away when we were first living together and then married, were difficult for me. The sounds the house made and those that came in from outside were magnified and twisted. I slept with lights blazing on each floor. I piled all the pillows, including the decorative ones, like a fort around me. I put the phone next to me under one of those pillows within easy reach.

Gradually, as our love has matured and the hormonal imbalance of new love subsided, I’ve gotten better during our times apart. I’ve been able to relax and sleep better as opposed to tossing and turning or watching TV into the wee hours. I only light the first floor but not all three floors.

Still, there remains those minutes of panic: “Don’t go,” I want to say, but I don’t. “I’ll miss you. Take care of yourself, be careful.” I do say. It always seems that the last kiss and hug is too short and shallow especially with him going into the sky in that metal contraption to fly away, no matter the reason. I want to ignore the horn beeps and rush of traffic at Logan Airport and give him a kiss from my toenails through my heart…a kiss straight from a Hollywood movie.

(This even though I have projects I’m waiting to do while he is gone. This even though couples need a break from each other every now and again to refresh. This even though our families live in other cities and so we have reasons other than business or vacations to travel.)

I remember reading a quote from Toni Morrison who talked about having “the sheer good fortune of missing somebody even before they were gone” (or some approximation of those words). My husband hasn’t even booked his ticket yet and I already miss him. I Am I being a baby or what?

Gifts do not equal love and other observations about holidays

Candelaria — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 16:23:00 GMT

It is awfully nice to get a card on your birthday, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas, Easter, etc. Likewise, it feels good to be the woman in the office on Valentine’s Day, birthday, an anniversary that gets the big bouquet of flowers from your husband or boyfriend and have the other women “ooohhh and aaaahhhh” over them. (Men may notice the flowers but they don’t comment much.)

Cards, flowers, gifts don’t indicate a person’s love or how you are held in someone’s esteem.

The daily actions and interactions of your loved ones are the real indicators of their love for you.

Here are my feelings about most holidays:

They were made-up by businesses to sell stuff.
Sometimes the biggest gifts are given to assuage guilt. (In one office I worked in, the woman who received the largest bouquets and the knock-your-socks-off diamond ring had a husband that we all knew was cheating on her!)
Holidays are not important to everyone!
Holidays are not celebrated by all families and so may not be part of a person’s tradition!
Sometimes the holidays fall when cash is low.
Sometimes the gift one expects is not the gift one receives even though one might appreciate the thought behind the gift.
Children especially of the young adult variety often fail to remember or observe holidays. (They may be grown but they are still egocentric enough that they miss certain deadlines.)
Comparing the gifts you receive to the gifts your friends neighbors, or colleagues receives is sure folly and will hurt your feelings if you let it.
Many of the best gifts don’t require a lot of money and some are free.

The best gifts:

Time equals love – this is true of children and parents and husbands and wives.
Cooking a meal and serving it to your lover is a time = love gift. (You get bonus points if the meal you prepare is actually something the recipient likes. I mention this because my first husband used to take me out for lobster on my birthday. He liked lobster; me, not so much.)
Having a date night with your mate where you go to the movies or dancing or a walk is another time = love gift.
A handwritten card or letter pledging your love and admiration in your own words is better than any purchased card will ever be.

We can decide to bemoan what we don’t get versus celebrate what we do have.
You have to figure out if the presentation is more important to you than the thought behind it.

Judge not

When having a pity-party about what you didn’t get, try to remember if there was ever a time when you didn’t come through for a loved one:

Did you ever forget to send your mother or father or other close loved-one a card?
Were you ever so low on funds that you couldn’t send a gift at the appropriate time?
Have you ignored requests or hints for gifts?
Have you given gifts that were clearly last-minute or an after-thought?
Have you blanked on what to give someone who seemingly has everything or whose tastes were so expensive that you felt anything you gave would not even register?
Have you ever given a gift just to keep the peace?

Having been brought up female in this consumer-driven US society, I can let myself get caught up in the holiday/gift game or I can notice the gifts of love and consideration I am so blessed to get from my family and friends in dozens of ways over the years. And that is my choice most of the time, when I'm being my best Candelaria, even though, I love to get and give gifts, especially when they are unexpected.

You Can't Take Black Away from Me

Candelaria — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 03:09:00 GMT

I wrote the following post in 2007 but decided to post it after reading a post on This So-Called Post-Post-Racial Life titled Working With Back Women, Part 2: The Movie.

You Can’t Take Black Away From Me

Copyright 2007 by Candelaria N. Silva

Have you ever been challenged about how Black you are/act/behave by other Black people – friends or strangers? These challenges will piss you off, hurt your feelings and lay you low. Among the worse words a Black person can say to another Black person are “You ain’t black” or “You act white.” These are fighting words.

These insults are easily lobbed by Black people again other Black people who they perceive to be acting outside of the racial guidelines. (I’ve been looking for my How to Be Black Guidebook – haven’t found it yet.) I’ve uttered them once or twice (okay – maybe ten times) myself. But when the words are said about your own behavior, when someone has accused you of not being Black, they are hard to take and difficult to challenge.

Having been a thrower, a receiver, and a witness to the impact of this judgment on others, I have come to this conclusion: the only thing any of us who are Black has to do to be Black is to be born Black. This is my final answer to the test questions on what makes one Black enough.

To quote the great poet, Langston Hughes, “You got to take me like I am Black and don’t give a damn.”
You, whoever you are, don’t get to decide :

if I’m Black enough,
woman enough,
down enough,
anything enough.

Black is my birthright. I was born Black. I have walked Black through the world. I wasn’t given a set of instructions at birth about how to be Black. My ancestors fought so that I could try to live a life without limits and strictures on what, where and how I could blackly be.

I have even written lyrics about this – sing it to the tune of They Can’t Take That Away from Me.*

You Can’t Take Black Away from Me - by Candelaria Silva

There are many crazy things
that I might do
And with your permission,
I’ll list a few.
The way I wear my hair…
(curly, kinky, straight, locked, braided or blonde – I’ll wear it any damn way I want to)

The way I sip my tea…
(I’ll drink tea, coffee, water or wine – my choice)
The memory of my past…
(Whether I’m haunted by it or celebratory of it)
You can’t take Black away from me.

The way I smile or frown.
The way I talk so free…
(King’s English or Ebonics)
The way I pursue my dreams
No, no you can’t take Black away from me.

We may never agree what I should be on this journey of life
But I’ll always be who I am, however I am.
No, no you can’t take Black away from me
No, you can’t take Black away from me-ee!

So stop the nonsense, people. Stop trying to box me and other folks of the black-brown persuasion. Stop making pronouncements about my racial integrity based on snap judgments and your ever-shifting criteria. Nuff said?

No?! Well, let me make it plain: You can’t take Black away from me –

Not even if I like Seinfeld or Ace of Cakes( or whatever other all-white show is happening at the moment.)
Or if I prefer Timberlake to Timbaland.
Not even if I like flip-flops, have freckles and dye my hair blonde.
Or even if I know all the lyrics to songs by Stevie Nicks (or Coldplay, etcera, etcetera).
Doesn’t matter if I can’t dance, wear Birkenstocks and eat tofu.
Not even if I date, love or marry a white guy or girl.
No matter my shade – chocolate, cream, or caramel.
Doesn’t matter where I live – city, country or suburb.

I’m Buh-lack and I’m going to be Buh-lack in whatever way I choose. I may be boisterously Black, the only Black, a champion Black or passing through Black. The Black in my DNA will show up and, living in America, it’s likely to blow up at some point or another.

Just because I don’t "act Black" according to your standards or I hang out with non-Black folks…none of this means that I don’t love being Black.

(Side notes to White folks – you can’t take Black away from me by saying you don’t think of me as Black or by saying I’m not like “the other Blacks.”)

No, no you can’t take Black away from me. No you can’t take Black away fr-om me-ee.

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*Original lyrics to They Can't Take That Away From Me were written by George and Ira Gershwin

Bathrobe as symbol of love

Candelaria — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 01:42:00 GMT

I’ve bought bathrobes for two men in my life. The second man became my husband (and still is). I thought the first man was going to be my husband but it didn’t work out that way. We got close but no further.

Buying a bathrobe meant to me that he was going to be a long-term part of my life. I shopped for it carefully, trying to find just the right color and texture.

The signal I got from my husband that I was going to be a lasting part of his life was when he gave me space for my things at his place.

Other signals and sign-posts along the way that indicate longevity were:

Being introduced to his family. (In general, women open up our lives to men much quicker than they open their lives to us.)

Accompanying him to special events.

Making plans for New Year’s Eve well in advance of the date. (My sister told me, “If you spend New Year’s with him, that’s your man.” She was right.)

Exchanging keys.

For me, buying the bathrobe was significant because I don’t tend to buy gifts for boyfriends. Buying a robe, a not inexpensive purchase, meant that I intended this man to be around a long time. He is and he still has that bathrobe. Whenever he puts it on it reminds me of our courtship.

I was so shy when I gave it to him - not wanting to act like it was as big a deal as it was for me yet not wanting him to think it was something I did frequently or casually either.

What signals do you look for or give to feel that your relationship has become serious and will go the distance?

Happy Birthday to Me

Candelaria — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 16:23:00 GMT

Today is my 10th birthday. Ten years worth of living (if you add the two digits of my birthday together they equal ten. I’ll leave it to you to decide which two digits they really are.)

It’s good to be ten.

“I’m so two thousand and ten you’re so two thousand and when…?” (For those who don’t know, that’s a take-off of a line sung by Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas in their current hit song Boom Boom Pow on their album “The E.N.D.” (Thanks, hub, for downloading the song on my iPod. It has an infectious beat and is perfect for dancing.)

Music, especially music to dance to, just makes me feel fantastic. I am instantly transported back to the girlish days of my teens and the womanish days of my 30s and 40s when I danced basically every weekend.

These days when I’m walking or riding the T plugged in to the music on the iPod, I have to remember I’m in public because the music “sweets me so”* and before you know it, I’m dancing.

I wish we had a world where you could just stop in the middle of everything and take a dance break, with your dance partners being the people around you! I can envision a vending machine – where you select a song and have an instant party in a designated dance zone. You'd get your dance on then you continue on your merry way.

Anyhow, I am so happy to have another birthday to celebrate. I would like to treat all of my friends and acquaintances out for food and drink and dancing but alas cannot afford it right now. I’ll figure out something soon to scratch that itch.

Giving Thanks!

I must thank my mother and father for conceiving me and my mother for loving me, nurturing me, bringing me up to adulthood and continuing the love to this day. I am so blessed to have you, Mom.

There’s a lot to be grateful for (I’m saying those prayers privately every day).

lots to look forward to,
challenges to meet,
goals to achieve,
desires to experience.

I am blessed to be able to distinguish between wants and needs and to occasionally get a few of the things I want. (Thanks for the gifts - family.)

Thank you to everyone who has sent or phoned a birthday greeting

Happy birthday, to me.
Happy birthday, to me.
Happy birthday dear Me-ee-ee,
Happy birthday to me.
And many more.

*(”This quote is from a children’s book, The Dancing Granny, an Anansi story retold and illustrated by Ashley Bryant. It’s no longer in print but copies are for sale on Amazon.com.)

My Feets Are Big

Candelaria — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 15:00:00 GMT

My feet are pretty big - note I didn’t say too big. Too big is a judgment call. Real big is the reality.

I’m writing this piece because I saw a young woman look at my newly pedicured feet and notice how big they were. When she saw me see her looking, she gave me an embarrassed smile. “That’s alright, sweetheart,” I said. “I know I have big feet.” And I chuckled to myself.

My feet grew each time I had children – from size 9 before children to size 11 after. That wouldn’t be so bad if I had thin, elegant feet or even medium, regular feet. My feet are w i d e. I have big, wide, sturdy peasant feet (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

I keep them groomed and don’t have corns or bunions (you can’t make a “salad” with my feet)! I started getting pedicures about 15 years ago when nail shops began opening up in neighborhoods all across Boston and pedicures suddenly became available at affordable rates. Before then, going to a salon for a manicure and pedicure was more of a luxury, special occasion kind of thing

My feet are harky-sharky or is it harnky-sharnky? I don’t know what that phrase means but it’s been used to describe my feet.

My brother says I have feet like Minnie Mouse. (In my family, teasing is an act of love.)

A few years back, my sister found a rare photo of us when we were under 5. We’re sitting on a couch next to my aunt and uncle, and, well…you see the soles of my big shoes before you notice me. My brother, who also got a copy of the photo, teased me. “You had Minnie Mouse feet even then,” he laughed. I love my brother. He's a tease!

Having big feet has saved me from having the shoe addiction that most of the women I know enjoy. I don’t get excited when I see a shoe warehouse because I know at most they’ll have maybe 5 pairs of shoes that will fit my “dogs” and they won’t be the most fashionable.

My shoe choices have widened in recent years because of the internet but I’m a person who likes to try on shoes. I miss the Designer Shoes showroom that used to be on Newbury Street (the website just doesn’t do it for me). .

The only stores I can go to get shoes off the rack are The Avenue (the few branches that carry a small selection of shoes) and Payless. At least their affordable.

Sounds like I’m lamenting but I’m not. I love my big feet because:

They're the only feet I've ever known.
They carry this lush, voluptuous body of mine every where I want to go.
They helped me play a mean game of kick-ball in my girlish days.
They have saved me untold thousands of dollars because I can’t partake in the craziness of buying shoes…I will never know the pleasure or expense of designer shoes by the likes of Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo.
They can play a mean game of footsies – more feet means more pleasure spots.
If I wanted to have a decorative design painted on my big toe, I’d have plenty of room.

Now, don’t y’all go looking at my feet first when you meet me! Okay?
Hey, If I were a man, big feet would be considered an asset (y’all know you know what I mean although that myth isn’t always true).

Fats Waller* sang the most well-known version of the song, “Your Feet’s Too Bit.” It was written by Ada Benson and Fred Fisher and recorded by in 1939. Chubby Checker, The Beatles, and Mos Def among others, have recorded it as well, but the Fats Waller original is my favorite!

(If this link doesn't work, go to YouTube and you can find a video of him singing this song.)

Love you but not absorbing your pain

Candelaria — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 17:10:00 GMT

How do you keep from absorbing the pain of your loved ones?

If your mate is ”having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day”* or week or month, how can you keep from having one, too?

If someone you love is struggling with an issue that is making them question their standing/status/future in the world (like yet another lay-off) does it make you begin to question your standing/status/future in the world?

Let’s say you have a close friend or relative who is depressed; in loving them, having empathy for them – do you begin to experience their pain?

Are you allowed to still feel joy about your life when you are surrounded by others who are feeling pain? Can you still want to do the things you enjoy – a long walk, dancing to old school and new cool music, or organizing your photos – to name but a few?

Should you keep your joys and small daily accomplishments to yourself? How can you even have pleasure when some of the closest people to you feel doom and gloom?

It’s not that I don’t feel pain or that I don’t worry – I do, I do. But I have a point below which I don’t sink…at least not for very long. I’ll have a brief pity-party (often with myself) and then I’m on to what to do next. Instead of focusing on all the things I can’t do or don’t have – I do the thing(s) that I can. There's always something one can do. This attitude and ability has worked for me for most of my life.

I learned early to lean on myself. I learned early that forces larger than me - namely my parents, a mate, an employer, the weather – could change my life in an instant. Instead of thinking, “why me,’ I most often think, “why not you, bruthuh?” (This is a quote from a film Richard Pryor was in; I wrote a blog about it some months ago.)

Hear ye, hear ye:

I love you. I feel for you. But, as Barbara Streisand sang in the movie, Funny Girl, don’t rain on my parade.**

I’m working diligently not to let my joy be stolen by the pain of others. My turn for pain will come soon enough. Until then – I plumb for satisfaction.

*Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst (Author), Ray Cruz (Illustrator)
**"Don't Rain On My Parade" (Music by Jule Styne, Lyrics by Bob Merrill, Performed by Barbra Streisand)

Mama Clarsie's biscuits - a memory

Candelaria — Sat, 30 May 2009 02:30:00 GMT

Mama Clarsie would let me eat as many of her delicious biscuits as I wanted and never tease me about being greedy or say that I was fat. I was ten years old and "pleasingly plump," mostly because I loved her food and would go upstairs to visit her and eat whenever my Mom and my dad, her son, let me. We shared a two-family house in St. Louis.

A favorite memory was when Mama Clarsie taught me how to make biscuits. She didn’t use measuring cups but had an old china tea cup that she used to scoop the flour. She instructed me to fill the cups twice and showed me how to level the flour with the swipe of a butter knife. Then she taught me to add the other dry ingredients. She used Old Clabber Girl baking powder and measured it with a soup spoon. She poured a small amount of salt into the middle of my palm. She had me sift these ingredients together in the hand-sifter with the red wooden knob at the end of the handle. I loved cranking it.

She then had me scoop the lard, for that was what we used then, into a tin metal cup that she used solely for this purpose. She showed me how to cut the lard into the flour . She used her fingers but taught me to use two forks.   After the flour and lard were blended together, she told me to make a well in the center of the mixture.

I can hear her saying, "now slowly, slowly, pour the buttermilk into the well – just enough until you fill it. You can always add more later if the dough is too dry.” The buttermilk was in a glass bottle. It had been delivered to our front porch that morning by the milk man, who came twice a week to our street. Mama Clarsie drank buttermilk with most of her meals – especially neckbones and navy beans with collard greens on the side. I didn’t like the taste of buttermilk straight out of a glass but I loved the flavor they added to biscuits.

I sprinkled flour on a piece of wax paper on the kitchen counter and then I dusted the big wooden rolling pin with flour. First, I had to roll the dough around in the flour making sure it wasn’t too sticky to roll out. Then I ran the rolling pin over the dough a couple of times. Next I did my second most favorite thing to do - dipped a glass into flour and cut the biscuits with it.

"Put the glass straight down," she instructed with a smile. “You’re doing it just right – you’re going to take my spot as the biscuit maker in this family,” she laughed.

We set the oven to 425.   (Mama Clarsie lit the pilot light in the gas oven with a match, something I was thrilled to see but scared to try to learn to do.) While the biscuits were in the oven, she told me to grab the pan of butter that she kept in the refrigerator and set it on the gas burner to melt. She turned the fire down real low so the butter would melt without burning.

After about ten minutes, I grabbed the oven mitts and opened the door to see if the biscuits were brown. They were!

Mama Clarsie put the pan of hot biscuits on a cloth kitchen towel and took a small paint brush used just for this purpose to brush the melted butter over the top of them. We didn’t invite anyone else to eat my first batch of biscuits. The two of us sat down and drank hot cocoa and had biscuits with syrup – the name of the syrup we used was Sho-Is-Fine. It came in a tin can. We also had apple butter and grape jelly. My favorite topping was apple butter, but I also liked to dip the biscuits in syrup.

Mama Clarsie passed away at the age of 94 a few years ago. I am now the head biscuit maker in my family although I use butter or vegetable shortening (or a combination) instead of lard and real maple syrup instead of imitation. Whenever I make biscuits, I am transported to her kitchen and the love and patience she had for me. I felt warm and safe eating those biscuits. I have taught my daughter how to make them and in a few years will teach my granddaughter, too. Recently I helped a friend’s daughter, who is 10, make her first batch of biscuits, continuing the tradition of love and sustenance begun more than forty years ago.

The First Wrong

Candelaria — Tue, 26 May 2009 00:06:00 GMT

I often read and hear about crimes and situations that have gone terribly awry. A person intended to do one small thing but, instead, something bigger and worse happens. “The law doesn’t recognize intent.” (I remember a judge saying this in a domestic violence situation I was involved in – many years ago.)

The 1st misstep, the 1st time you throw caution to the wind, the 1st time you decide to just try "it " (especially big ITS) can multply into a cascade of casualties.

In the Boston news recently, a young manwas murdered while visiting a student at Harvard University. Turned out he was selling marijuana. His first wrong in this situation was dropping out of Salem State College after his sophomore year and deciding to deal marijuana. As of this writing, the young man arrested for the murder was one of three young men who were planning to rob the marijuana guy. He was an emerging rap star with a contract and had graduated from a performing arts high school but decided to pursue music. (The two other men who were with him have evaded capture). One of the two female students they were visiting at Harvard was a few weeks shy of graduation. She has been kicked off campus and barred from graduating. (Her lawyer is working to get her reinstated).

There are other “first wrongs” in this story:

Stealing is wrong.
Robbing is wrong.
Buying illegal drugs and/or helping your friends score is wrong – I don’t care how many people do it on college campuses and in our neighborhoods do it and get away with it.
Selling drugs is wrong.
Giving your electronic access pass to folks you don’t know is wrong.
Etcetera.

(The young man who may not have pulled the trigger but went with his friends to rob someone, who knew there was a gun around.)

We have all been guilty of “first wrongs.” Most of us get away with them and are often sufficiently scared so as not to take the chance again. Others of us keep taking chances until we are caught.

I remember years ago when Marion Barry, then mayor of Washington, D.C., was arrested for smoking crack cocaine. There was a lot of hue and cry about his having been set up by the FBI. He was set up but he walked willingly into the arms of the feds. His first wrong was cheating on his wife, which led him to be in the hotel room getting set up by the woman with whom he was committing adultery act, to try out crack. If he hadn’t been tippin’ he wouldn’t have gotten in this particular situation. Ditto for all of the politicians and ministers in the news more recently whose political and ministerial careers have been derailed because of their affairs. We do live in a society where you don't have to be married when you'd really prefer to be single you know!

I ‘Fess Up:

In my last two years of high school, I moved from an inner-city predominantly Black high school to a suburban high school. There, I fancied myself a radical and began to “liberate” (as we called it at the time) books. The first book I ever “liberated” was The Quotations of Chairman Mao. It was a tiny book with a red cover and onion-skin pages. I was scared to death at first and then I felt thrilled after I got a way with it. I began to steal…I mean…liberate books on a regular basis. I then graduated to stealing tights for my best friend at the time who was a dancer. Then I stole Dr. Scholl’s sandals for both of us. (They’d just come out and we wanted them but couldn’t afford them.) After about a half-dozen thefts, I started feeling invincible, got greedy, upped the ante and attempted to steal an album. I got busted. I was so scared that I hyperventilated, threw up, and cried my eyes out begging the security guard not to arrest me. He didn’t but he scared me so that I didn’t go back in that store for more than a decade. It was the end of my shoplifting ended. Thank goodness.

My first wrong was stealing the first book. I was lucky in that I wasn’t caught by a security guard who forced me to do him a favor in return for not contacting my mother. I was extremely lucky that my Mom didn’t find out because she would have whopped my ass for sure and still might if she finds out. (So, please don’t drop a dime on me.)

While I grew up in church and knew right from wrong, I still took the chance to impress my new suburban friends, trying to act the part of the worldly city kid (when in fact I was a nerd).

Drinking and Driving
Two people close to me have been arrested for drunk driving in separate states. In both instances, they were lucky that they ran into the police before harm came to them or someone else. One was stopped driving on the wrong side of the road! The one-year sentences suspending their licenses were sobering for them.- one has literally stopped drinking. Having the DWI on their record turned out to have consequences farther than they’d thought about, as in – impacting their car insurance and their homeowners’ insurance rates and being part of their permanet record. The original wrong in both of these cases was drinking and driving as was the fact that neither case were their keys confiscated by their friends or the bartenders.

Drinking and driving has tragic consequences frequently – the statistics are alarming. Yet, many people I know who drink swear that they can handle their liquor and will proudly cite that they’ve never been in an accident as proof. When they tell me this, I always think “yet” - and pray for them. (Just like lots of people think they can answer their cell phones and text and still drive safely. They are accidents waiting to happen.)

A final example
A guy I knew was a heroin addict. He introduced his younger brother to the drug. Older brother got clean, went into a training program and got a good job. His younger brother never was able to escape heroin’s grip and died addicted to heroin and alcohol at a fairly young age. His brother felt tremendous guilt about this for the rest of his life. He used to always admonish us to “keep our bad habits to ourselves.” While it’s possible that his brother might have gotten into drugs without his help, he always blamed himself. He wasn’t his brother’s keeper.

The first mistake, the first wrong…figuring out to avoid the mistakes and wrongs that have the potential for such serious consequences for yourself and how to help your kids avoid it is crucial. Any ideas?

(P.S. – I hope I don’t sound like a moralistic, holier than thou asshole. I don’t mean to be. I’ve just been thinking and noticing the “first wrongs..”)

Local Action equals satisfaction

Candelaria — Wed, 20 May 2009 20:52:00 GMT

Last weekend was full of local activities and fabulous fun. (This weekend, Memorial Day Weekend, looks to be quiet and that’s okay. I tend not to like to travel on holiday weekends – the exceptions being the fall and winter holidays when I must be around my family and Labor Day in NYC, which is my son’s birthday and a great time to hang with him when he’s open to have Mom visit for his birthday.)

Last weekend showed that you don’t have to go far to have a good time.

Friday morning I had my first acupuncture appointment at a satellite program of the New England School of Acupuncture located at Dimock Community Health Center in Roxbury. I relaxed, enjoyed it and am hopeful about it being good for what ails me.

Friday evening found me at Haley House in Roxbury for a “Dinner and A Movie” sponsored by The Color of Film Collaborative. The featured film was “Who Does She think She Is?” directed by Pamela Tanner Boll. It is about living women artists who are mothers and how they manage the responsibilities of being artists and mothers. I strongly recommend it for emerging women artists and any one interested in following their passion. (The pizzas were nutricious, delicious, and fresh and everyone at my table enjoyed the rhubarb-peach crumble dessert. None of us had ever tasted rhubarb before and were pleasantly surprised.)

Saturday morning I walked over to the Ashmont Hill Yard Sale featuring more than 40 homes. There were 100s of people of all hues walking the hilly streets of the Ashmont Hill Neighborhood in Dorchester with its gorgeous Victorian homes and gardens. Refreshments were provided by a trio of enterprising young men selling lemonade; a resident who fired up ribs on her grill (judging from the number of people waiting in line to order, they were delicious and even came with a choice of side dishes, including potato salad - yum): and the Ashmont Nursery School that sold hotdogs, hamburgers, etc.)

I usually miss this yard sale because I find out about it after the fact, but this year I found out the day before and got there. I walked around for 2 ½ hours and am proud that I only spent $20 (for four separate purchases). This is definitely going on the list for next spring.

Saturday afternoon I watched the last three episodes in Season 1 of the No ! Ladies Detective Agency Series with a friend on pay-per-view. We also enjoyed the 20-minute film about Botswana (the setting of the series) and the 4-minute “author’s notes” with the writer, Alexander McCall Smith. If you haven’t read the 10 novels in the series or watched the show, get thee to it now. The books are some of the most affirming novels featuring a lady sleuth who solves problems and mysteries in a direct, wise and gentle manner. I love the novels and the books equally. Jill Scott embodies the lead character, Precious Ramotswe. She and the rest of the cast are wonderful!

Sunday afternoon found me attending a salsa social with friends and hubby. Denise Matthews-Turner, founder of My Salsa Thing, gives private and small group salsa lessons. Every 4-6 weeks, they have a social and it’s great fun for beginners to more experienced dancers. It was fun-fun even if my legs ached the next day.

Monday morning me and my two walking buddies walked in another gorgeous Dorchester neighborhood, the Melville Park area. You don’t have to go far or spend a lot of $ to have fun.

Local action = satisfaction.

One is the Magic Number*

Candelaria — Mon, 18 May 2009 02:58:00 GMT

My most important and on-going relationship is the one I have with myself. I’ve learned to take care of myself, to pay attention to myself, to like myself and to do for myself.

One of the most important things I’ve learned thus far in my life is to be comfortable being alone.

My home is a universe to me, and, especially during cold, dreary winter days, I can stay comfortably ensconced in it. I fill my time by:

Reading
Writing
Blogging
Internet Surfing
Dancing
Watching movies and various how to and reality shows. (One I love is “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” because Guy Fieri, the host, is just so outrageously enthusiastic)
Cooking
Listening to music
Hanging out with my husband
Talking to friends on the phone
Meditating
Day dreaming

(Not listed in order of importance!)

I am also comfortable being out in the world alone. I

Go for long walks – sometimes including errands, sometime just walking.
People watch (and make shameless running commentary in my head about the people I see).
Go to the movies (I never have arguments with myself about what movie to see.).
Pack a lunch or go to a restaurant for lunch (I always get to eat what I want to eat).
Meander.
Shop.
Etcetera

I think being comfortable by myself has made me better able to be with others.
I am comfortable with myself, I like myself, in fact – I dig me some Candelaria. (It’s quite a blessing to like and accept oneself!)

*Jill Scott, the phenomenal lyricist, poet, singer and actor, wrote this song that says this more eloquently than me.

One is the Magic Number

If I multiply 2 times 2 is it really, really 4 me
La [x6]
And if I add 5 to get 9 minus 8 that just leaves me
Me [x8]
So many times I define my pride
Through somebody else's eyes (La da da, la da)
Then I looked inside and found my own stride,
I found the lasting love for me
If I'm searching for my spirituality
Passionately I must begin with me

There's just me...
One is the magic number [x2]

If I add myself unto myself multiplied times
You and yours and you again
There's just me
And if I divide 8 billion, 48 trillion, 98 zillion
There is, there is just me
If I subtract one plus me to the 5th degree,
Use any theorem
There's just me

There's just me...
One is the magic number [x2]

Me, me, me, me...
[Ad lib to end]
###

One is a magic number – although it is not the only magic number. But before you can get to any of the other numbers, you’ve got to start with ONE...meaning You..

Mr. Poetry Man

Candelaria — Tue, 12 May 2009 02:18:00 GMT

He's "the poetry man, you make things alright." sings Phoebe Snow in her song from 1989,

One of my favorite poets is a man better known for being a restaurant owner for more than twenty years in a number of locations in Boston.

I was a patron at his various locations before I came to have any personal interaction with him. He was a friend waiting to be discovered. I was attracted to his restaurant's healthy, delicious and affordable food. I noticed that his restaurant had a diverse and joyous staff. For many years I thought he was a Southerner because of the name of his restaurant (Mississippi’s) and because of his middle name. I assumed he was a ragin’ Cajun because of that middle name.

I learned he was a man of deep convictions, strong opinions, and very community-oriented. Mississippi's (now closed but not forgotten), was a part of the economic and social development of Roxbury. He was a strong supporter of the Roxbury Film Festival for a number of years. We had a natural affinity that deepened when he shared his poetry blog and read and supported my writing on my blog.

We have been admirers of each other for a couple of years now. So, without his permission or knowledge, I invite you to read a couple of Jim LaFond Lewis’s poems that I’ve included in this post. I hope that they touch you in some way. I also encourage you to be a regular visitor to his blog. (He also writes great essays but hasn't kept that blog post.)

Jim's poetry is sometimes crushingly deep, often displays a wry humor, and at other times is as light as a feather. I am often struck by the precision of his words. When he goes through brief periods of no poems coming forth, I miss them. Here are two of poems, very different creations, from my friend, Jim, the poetry man, yeah-eah-eah.

DMZ

On some nights she draws a line down the center of the bed
and if I cross it, she threatens to machine gun me dead,
it's dangerous, but I love her anyway,
so I forget, then I move my toe across, and my neck,
and before you know it, the DMZ has shrunk to just a theory,
she's all elbows and nails, and even though
I haven't woken, I'm leery she might start poking me
with determination and the finger which she keeps for just that purpose
like a fixed bayonet,
but I love her anyway and figure that she means me no real harm
so I roll to the center
(I ask you, who can remember the rules when he's dreaming?)
and that's when the swearing starts,
or the whole thing breaks down into touching and caring,
okay it happened once when I was thirty and it was my birthday,
but like our dog, whose memory in these transactions I admire,
I go on believing that this time,
there just might be a ceasefire.
- Jim LaFond-Lewis
(10/31/08)

Sam

Sam.

Sam is in the living room
Sam is in the den
Sam is in the dining room
Sam is in his bed.

Sam is on the sofa
Sam is drinking long
Sam is in the cellar
Sam is on the lawn.

Sam is eating evening's meal
Sam is often bad
Sam is keeping my life real
Sam is feeling sad.

Sam has never left me
Sam can hardly walk
Sam thinks he protects me
Sam can barely bark.

Sam

- Jim LaFond Lewis
(9/20/08)

Misleading headline

Candelaria — Sun, 10 May 2009 00:18:00 GMT

I have had a problem with headlines in the newspaper for some time now because they are frequently misleading, confusing, and sensational. I understand that headlines are designed to grab the reader’s attention and get them to read the article. It seems to me that over the past ten years or so, headlines often contradict the content of the article.

A headline in the Boston Globe on April 24th caught my attention and bothered me so much that I decided to blog about it. What disturbs me about it is that it deliberately puts a negative spin on something positive.

The headline:

Colleges bewildered by anonymous major gifts.

The subtitle (subline?): One caveat: Don’t try to identify donor.

The reporter was Justin Pope of Associated Press. I’m sure he didn’t write the headline because that’s generally another person’s job at the newspaper. The article describes a “mysterious donor” who is giving away millions of dollars to at least a dozen colleges across the country all of which are headed by women.

He goes on to write that the colleges themselves don’t know who the donor is. The gifts have ranged from $1 million to $10 million so far and all have been given through a third party. “College officials had to promise – in writing, in some cases – not to try to find out the donor’s identity.”

My problem with the headline is this – why are the colleges bewildered? Why couldn’t the headline have read:

College delighted by anonymous major gifts?
or
Colleges headed by women receiving anonymous major gifts?
or
Who is the mystery donor giving to colleges headed by women?
or
(Make up one yourself.)

According to the article, “in most cases, the donor specified that the money be used for financial aid.”
Nothing I read in the article indicates bewilderment. In fact, there are no quotes from any of the colleges that received the money! Of the three people quoted, only one is a woman. There is one comment laced with envy from a male administrator whose college did not receive one of the gifts.

These gifts are a good thing for any # of reasons:

Times are hard.
Financial aid is imperiled.
The gifts were unexpected.
They fill a need.
The donor doesn’t want to be identified!

A very good thing, indeed!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I continue to be bothered and bewildered by headlines.
How 'bout you?

Happy Mother's Day to my children

Candelaria — Wed, 06 May 2009 00:45:00 GMT

Happy Mother’s Day, Amber & Cy.

Without you, there would be no Mother’s Day for me.
You are the biggest accomplishments of my life.

I am so proud of the woman and man you’ve grown to be.
I have had such fun being your mother. I was ages 23 and 25 when I had you; this turns out to have been the right time in my life to be a mother. We grew up together.

As a young mother, I had the energy and time to:

chase you around,
build snowmen, and sandcastles,
plant flowers,
play dress-up,
make tents under the dining room table,
go apple picking

and so many other fun things.

My #1 responsibility at that time was to be your mother.

Do you remember my reading books to you during our commute home on the train and our weekly visits to the Children’s Museum on Friday nights? Remember the Middle Passage Program at The Commonwealth School where I worked on Saturdays? Not only did you participate in that program (before you were old enough), we used to go to the movies at Copley nearly every week after the program ended. The matinee was perfect for my budget and perfectly timed for us to slip in a lunch (usually “brown-bagged”) before the afternoon movie started. We schlepped through rain and snow to Back Bay as Middle Passage ran from fall into spring.

Do you remember: The Puppet Showplace and Children’s Book Shop in Brookline? Wheelock Family Theater productions? Kite Day in Franklin Park? The Mapparium at The First Church of Christ Scientist and the John Hancock Observatory? How about Houghton’s Pond and the Black Picnic at Salem Willows? (Although these last two were mostly shared with you and your Dad.)

Do you remember that I always fixed you a hot breakfast and that you never had cold cereal until you got to be teenagers and wanted it?

Do you remember the time as a teenager (Amber) or young man (Cy) when you “weren’t feeling me?” Well, guess what, I wasn’t feeling you either, but I loved you and parented you strong, holding on through your ups and downs. I prayed a lot that you stay safe through your foibles, growing pains, mistakes and misadventures.

You truly have completed me. Now that you are fully launched and firmly independent, positive adults, I find so much to admire about you. I learn from you about culture, technology, news, the importance of volunteering, info about the family tree, about how to pursue dreams, and handle money. (Although I'm fully expecting you to take care of me in my old age,.lol.)

I am proud that you are both college graduates but I am more proud that you are wonderful human beings who are giving the world a bit of wonderfulness every day by the way you live. I stand in awe of the small…okay…large part I played in bringing you into being. I apologize for mistakes I made along the way. I hope I said and showed you love every single day.

Thank you, thank you, thank you or making me the proud mother of a daughter and a son.

Happy Mother’s Day to you. Happy Mother’s Day, you two.

African-American Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators Conference

Candelaria — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 03:49:00 GMT

I had one of the best experiences of my life on April 25 when I attended the first conference sponsored by the African-American Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators (AACBWI). Held at the Hilton-Charlotte University Place, the one day conference was inspiring, informative, well-organized, useful and full of warm people. Oh, and the food was delicious, too.

The morning keynote speaker was award-winning author, Eleanora E. Tate, whose books include the recently published Celeste’s Harlem Renaissance (which I’m thoroughly enjoying and nearly finished reading). The afternoon keynote speaker was award-wining illustrator, Don Tate, who’s illustrated more than 25 trade and educational books for children. Don recently wrote his first children’s picture book and has illustrated a book by his aunt, Eleanora.

There were spotlight sessions featuring an editor from Candlewick Press and a former Editor with Scholastic and Harcourt, Eileen Robinson, who has started her own editorial service, F1srt Pages. Workshop choices were:

Editing Your Manuscript (Christine Taylor Butler)
Mine Your Life for Story Gold (Kelly Starling Lyons)
Picture Books: from Idea to Text (Christine Young Robinson)
How to Land an Agent: Step by Step (Karen Strong)

I learned a lot from the spotlight sessions and workshops. I now know:

how to improve my query letters to agents,
how to develop a list of potential agents,
how to organize the list of agents into groups for soliciting, and
criteria/characteristics to consider when deciding upon an agent.

This is important because most publishing houses will no longer accept unsolicited manuscripts and require that manuscripts be submitted by agent before they’ll be considered.

I learned how to improve a couple of picture book manuscripts that I’ve been wrestling with. As a result of the editing workshop taught by Christine Young Robinson, I will work on draft # 7 of my middle-school novel with renewed vigor and improve it before I send it out to that agent I’m going to get soon. (Positive thinking and concrete action will make this happen.).

An added bonus at the conference was formal critiques by the aforementioned editors. Unfortunately, I could not take advantage of them because by the time I learned about the conference and sent in my registration, they were closed.

I also appreciated the opportunity to purchase books from a local bookstore.

Attendees came from across the country, As people shared what they were working on, I was once again struck by how many wonderful and creative ideas there are in the world – from someone writing about social justice issues for children, to someone planning to write about firefighters to people who’ve already self-published who are trying to break into “mainstream” publishing. The attendees were overwhelmingly female. There were only two men besides the keynote in attendance, they were welcome.

It was a privilege to attend a first conference with numbers that were small enough to make it manageable and large enough to give it variety and depth. I’ll keep you posted about the next conference and about my progress in getting my children’s work published in book form.

A round of applause and deepest appreciation to Sabra Robinso the founder of AACBWI and to all of the organizers for taking their labor of love to the next level with this conference.

This was one of the best conferences I've ever attended and I will be back next year, God-willing.

Follow-up to Boston's Black on Black Crime

Candelaria — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 03:00:00 GMT

I wrote this sentence:

Our Black newspaper could be owned, upon its owner’s death, by his white wife (who has toiled there and improved its marketing and advertising) but who, lovely though she is, is not Black.

in a blog post I wrote on March 3 called "Boston's Black-on-Black Crime.".

On the surface, there’s nothing wrong with the desire to keep Black-owned businesses in the hands of Black owners. Except, that’s not the way things necessarily work Iinthe world.

If a Black business owner decides to sell his business to a non-Black owner it is his right to do so. Who am I to judge? I can mourn the loss of Black ownership but not being in the position to buy anybody’s business myself, just who am I to judge?

Ditto for the inheritance of a Black business by a White or other person of color \who ain’t Black. If I were a White woman, married to a Black man who owned a business, including one that caters to the interests of Black people,
who dares suggest I shouldn’t own it? (Let me go on record that I didn’t say she shouldn’t own it, I just said it would no longer be Black-owned and that this would be a loss to the Black community.)

Upon reflection, I find my words simplistic, arrogant, and prejudiced.

Simplistic: White ownership doesn’t automatically change the mission or clients of the business.

Arrogant: Who am I to make such pronoucements when I really stop to think about it except that I’m blogging on a personal blog that bears my name so it clearly features my opinions, ideas, insights, rants, etc.

Prejudiced: Vestiges of the way I was raised to always recognize any assault on the Black community as an irreversible loss still exist in my consciousness and in my reality. It doesn’t matter if I like White people, interact positively with White people, if some of my best friends are …” (this is meant to be tongue-in-cheek, people), I still define a lot of issues by race (and, running a close second, by class).

I am not post-racial and don’t think I ever will be although I do mostly practice “des-racial”, i.e., despite racial and try to work “roun-racial” (i.e. around race).

The words I wrote have been running through my mind again and again. If I was the Black wife of a White business owner and someone wrote about what a shame it would be if the business were to fall in my hands because it would no longer be White-owned, there would be a hew and cry. The difference would be that in this case some people might assume that as a Black wife I wasn’t qualified to run whatever White business. In the case of the Bay State Banner, the competency of the White wife would never be a question, or at least not in my mind.

So, I apologize for making a statement that I feel could be hurtful and that certainly doesn’t stand up to scrutiny when I think about it more deeply. One of my measures of my integrity is that if something bothers me, if something doesn’t sit right, then it ain’t right! The afore-mentioned statement was one of those times.

Note: It’ll be interesting to see how many hits this piece gets and how fast it gets back to the Banner. The original post, while not my most- read entry, is up there on the list of top hits.

Singers Showcase at Berklee College of Music

Candelaria — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 21:33:00 GMT

Last night, it was my great pleasure to attend, at the behest of my hubby, the 25th Anniversary Singer’s Showcase at Berklee College of Music.

It had been a very long work day and I was feeling badly that I missed a meeting I wanted to attend a couple of hours before the concert. I also was having serious pain in my left leg (an old injury that flares up time to time). So, I was not in the best mood going into the showcase. My mood lifted within a few within a few minutes of the start of the concert.

My first impressions:

Lights! Cameras! Action!
Talent! Glitter!
Emerging and Seasoned Singers!
Phenomenal Students and Alumnae!
Stellar Production Values!
Scholarships

It was all there!

The Singers Showcase featured current Berklee students as well as Special Guest Lead Vocalists who were alumnae of the school. The alumnae were Paula Cole and Lalah Hathaway (Class of 1990) and Darcel Wilson (1986) who is also a member of the faculty and had a very, very loud coterie of fans who kept interrupting her singing with their catcalls and whistles. (I mention this because they were close to where I was sitting Iand interrupted my ability to hear some of Darcel's tremendous flights of singing! Jennifer Hudson has nothing on her!)

The showcase was produced and all of the talent provided by Berklee students – from the band to the ushers, box office staff, sound and lighting technicians, and MCs.

All of the student singers were talented. A few STOOD out. The singers who stood out in my humble opinion were:

Mario Jose (Don’t Lead Me On) – A big poppa kind-of guy with a great voice for ballads and a personality large enough to fill the stage.
Tania Jones (I Know You Know) – Sultry, sophisticated, and ready for her close-up.
Jenna O’Gara (I Will Be) – She has such an incredible voice and stage presence that she seemed seasoned and ready to play to a stadiums full of people.
Aubrey Logan (Oh What A Beautiful Morning) – She has a sassy presence and the most unique voice of the evening. Not only did she own this song, she also played the trombone. Aubrey had the most difficult spot in the line-up because she followed Darcel Wilson, the faculty member and alumnae who brought the house down on “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”
Denise Hudson (A Night in Tunisia) – She used her rousing rendition of this standard to close the show (before the final encore brought everyone to the stage).

Lalah Hathaway is the only person besides Luther Vandross who I never want to hear sing Forever, For Always, For Love. Her voice is smoky and deeply delicious! Paula Cole sang a song she wrote, Amen. This prayer of a song was delivered in her signature style. The song's lyrics reflect on how all of us have a part in this world and deserve/need an amen. It illuminated the experience I was having in the concert with the multiracial crowd of students and audience members. It underscored what an institution like Berklee stands for in the world: the healing, uniting force of music, in many, if not all of its permutations.

The fact that scholarships were announced during the mid-point of the evening was the icing on the cake of this concert and given so quickly (with no acceptance statements from students) that they almost got short shrift. (I can't tell you who won them since I didn't take notes and they are not listed in the printed program.)

The point of the evening was music, particularly the voice. The variety of voices and musical genres brought home the message that I keep rediscovering: that the world is bountiful with talent! (Oh, would that all that talent could be nurtured!) The only thing that would have made the evening better is if a CD of the concert and a DVD of the live-footage of the singers that was projected behind them while they performed, were available for sale. (You know how at many churches you can get a DVD of the sermon as you leave church? This would have been right on time!)

Let me run with the church analogy for a minute. The concert was a kind of praise – lifting talented voices (including the background vocals of other Berklee students), singing and performing positive songs, before a crowd of believers. We did, indeed, have church.

Congratulations to everyone who made this event happen. I plan to be there next year, God willing.

Fight back, go on record or just go - What do you do after a lay-off?

Candelaria — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 03:13:00 GMT

You lose your job. Actually, you didn’t lose your job, your job was taken. Lay-off, economy, recession, poor performance evaluation, importance to the bottom line, whatever the reason. (Reasons can be spun, actions can be justified.)

Do you exit with a shrug of your shoulders, pack up your stuff, say goodbye to those co-workers who allow themselves to make eye contact? (After 11 years a guy is terminated. By the time he gets back to his office after meeting with his boss, his computer access has already been cut so he can’t say goodbye to his student-clients or get files, phone #s, etc..)

His termination allows one of his co-workers, my friend, to breathe, if only for a minute. She thought she was going to get the ax but dodged the bullet although the boss has a meeting with her scheduled next week. She knows her turn is probably coming. This is underscored by the fact that the president of the national organization for which she works, announces, in an electronic meeting on the afternoon of the morning lay-offs, that there will be more downsizing coming and that they should all "redouble their work" with their clients. His message is not likely to inspire “redoubling of work" from anyone but the most naïve. The troops are weary and demoralized.

I used to think that escorting a worker off the premises was the cruelest thing that an employer could do (no matter if severance pay was offered). Now, I’m rethinking that it may not be.

I’ve watched a couple of people be in the position of being dead-men walking. Their positions have been eliminated but they are working for the remainder of their contracts whose endings are months away. This seems the cruelest way after-all. Yes, they get to say goodbye. Yes, they get to tidy up their affairs. And, yes, they get to sit in meetings like ghosts while:

* hearing about initiatives they are not part of,
* having to decide whether to pretend to participate in/care about discussions about “the future”,
* having to interact with colleagues whose jobs weren’t cut,
* having to roll over and over in their minds the thoughts: why me, why not this person sitting next to me or across the table?
* wondering how could my years of experience count for nothing?

Being pushed into retirement or into this precarious job market is frightening.
Being fired is no joke even when the termination is justified, even when the economy is better. Sometimes there are warning signs that lay-offs or your termination is coming. A few friends started downsizing their office belongings stealthily, over a period of weeks, so that when the word came they could exit in 20 minutes flat. They also took the computer files they wanted. Sometimes the firing-shot comes out of the blue – leaving no time to prepare.

Few bosses terminate with any sensitively. It is hard to fire people, it is difficult to prepare for it. (I know, I’ve done it five times during my career. Three times justified by poor work performance, one time the budget left no choice, and another time not justified in retrospect.)

At one organization I worked for over a stretch of years, the boss never fired anyone at all; she left it for others to do (her deputy... the HR person). This allowed her to pretend her hands were clean and not have to face the impact of what she did. (A lot of her former employees are waiting to see when the chickens come home to roost for her, she’s messed over so many people, it just doesn’t seem possible that life will let her go unscathed.)

Another time, I worked at a major hospital and watched as a team came in and eliminated people casually because of a merger. I’ve seen people fire people arrogantly with cold indifference. One former colleague witnessed a woman have a heart-attack as she delivered the news.

I’ve lived long enough to know that sooner or later everyone will have a turn at being eliminated. Pick a reason:

* financial circumstances change,
* a new administration breezes in and changes people as though they were rearranging furniture,
* you get older and can be replaced by someone less experienced more cheaply,
* you didn’t suck-up or tap-dance hard enough (see me, see my work, keep me on, please),
* you worked hard but not smart (i.e., you didn't do the work that the powers that be valued),
* etcetera.

When you get the ax, should you suck it up quietly or make some noise? Going on record feels important to some of us. You want the bosses to know this is who I was, this is what I did, this is what I was planning, this is how I see that different decisions could have been made with this RIF. Does writing such a letter bring you closure or humiliation? (Sometimes writing down what you want to say clears it from your heart and mind enough that you don’t need to hand it in at all.)

Do you have a responsibility to leave a record? If you weren’t important enough to be kept, will anybody even read, let alone listen to, your thoughts and analysis?

Should you campaign to keep your job? Can you go back and work effectively as if nothing had happened if you’re able to ~~bully~~, I mean advocate your way back?

People are dropping from employment like flies in my networks. Those that haven’t loss their jobs or their businesses or seen their dreams implode are holding their collective breaths and trying to prepare for if/when their turn comes. A few, lucky ones, have jumped ship and determined their future by finding a new job, starting a business or retiring early.

None of this is easy. These are times that show us how strong and yet how weak, how resilient and yet how vulnerable we are. When I walk into places where people work (in other words, just about any where), I scan my surroundings for the disgruntled and the dazed and the angry. Such are the times.