I miss the careless sleep of childhood
arms flung across the softest sheets ever to touch dusky skin
cheeks flushed with violent health
guiltless, guileless
timeless dreams of gazelles leaping across an endless tundra
and pink panda pets who live under magic sofas
"I'm not sleepy, mommy!" I exclaimed with all of my tiny might just before collapsing, boneless, against her fragrant shoulder
I don't remember being borne aloft up the stairs
placed gentle in a soft sheet sandwich
soothed
smoothed
cooed
slumber.
Stuff--what?
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
passed
I saw you again on the bus today. I sat right behind you. I've seen you three times in as many months, now. I suspect you live in the same town. You're going gray and you have a cough. I heard from someone we once knew that you are still at the university. I saw you about a year ago playing your instrument at a street fair. Today I walked behind you into the train station but got tangled up in my earphone leads and lost sight of you.
It was 13 years ago that we were in a wedding together, plump girls stuffed into yards of green velvet and long satin gloves that were so tight at the top that our upper arm flesh bulged over like muffin tops. The Bridezilla wanted each of us to dye our hair, but we put up a collective front and were victoriously graying even then. You, an avowed atheist, were slightly afraid you would be struck by lightening at the altar and I was afraid my rheumy knees wouldn't allow me to rise from the kneeler--we trembled like leaves as the half-familiar Anglican phrases floated over us. We were later chased by the geese that lived in the lake outside of the reception hall and snuck out to MacDonalds when all the food ran out. That night I discovered that my new pajamas were too small and your snoring sounding like geese mating. Ahhhh, good times.
And then I got sick. I don't remember if that's what drove us apart or if it was like the casual drifting so many of the people I knew back then and I did as my life began to radically change. A few harsh remarks, and it was done. Poof. No returned calls, mutual friends calmly notified that we shouldn't be invited to the same outings. Maybe I needed too much, or maybe you were too scared of what I became. It ceased to matter long ago and I examined the back of your head this morning with just a fleeting sadness.
Should I have patted your shoulder, said hello, inquired, in the brief time it took to get to the train station, about the intervening years? No. Why? I couldn't dreg up the interest, frankly, and that's the saddest thing.
It was 13 years ago that we were in a wedding together, plump girls stuffed into yards of green velvet and long satin gloves that were so tight at the top that our upper arm flesh bulged over like muffin tops. The Bridezilla wanted each of us to dye our hair, but we put up a collective front and were victoriously graying even then. You, an avowed atheist, were slightly afraid you would be struck by lightening at the altar and I was afraid my rheumy knees wouldn't allow me to rise from the kneeler--we trembled like leaves as the half-familiar Anglican phrases floated over us. We were later chased by the geese that lived in the lake outside of the reception hall and snuck out to MacDonalds when all the food ran out. That night I discovered that my new pajamas were too small and your snoring sounding like geese mating. Ahhhh, good times.
And then I got sick. I don't remember if that's what drove us apart or if it was like the casual drifting so many of the people I knew back then and I did as my life began to radically change. A few harsh remarks, and it was done. Poof. No returned calls, mutual friends calmly notified that we shouldn't be invited to the same outings. Maybe I needed too much, or maybe you were too scared of what I became. It ceased to matter long ago and I examined the back of your head this morning with just a fleeting sadness.
Should I have patted your shoulder, said hello, inquired, in the brief time it took to get to the train station, about the intervening years? No. Why? I couldn't dreg up the interest, frankly, and that's the saddest thing.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Perspective
My mom sent me this letter to the editor, below. I don't agree with all of it, but I think it explains why I don't like singing "This Land is Made for You and Me." The kind of overt racism this man outlines is not as present in this country, but the attitudes and the institutionalized philosophies are still just as active, hence the bro-ha-ha over Obama.
We've got a lot to learn, all of us. And we've got a lot to be proud of this election season.
xxoo
To The Editor: As a 78 year old American of African descent, I feel compelled to respond to all this "much ado about nothing." when it comes to the statement that Michelle Obama made about the fact that this is the first time in her adult life that she has been proud to be an American.
We've got a lot to learn, all of us. And we've got a lot to be proud of this election season.
xxoo
To The Editor: As a 78 year old American of African descent, I feel compelled to respond to all this "much ado about nothing." when it comes to the statement that Michelle Obama made about the fact that this is the first time in her adult life that she has been proud to be an American.
The country needs to hear this from the Black perspective.
Long before I was born, my grandfather Joseph Burleson, owned a considerable amount of land in oil rich Texas. Because during that era, Blacks could not vote, nor could they contest anything in the courts of the United States, my grandfather's land was STOLEN by his White neighbor. My grandfather, who was literate and better educated than my grandmother, drove to town. Seeing my grandfather leave, the covetous neighbor asked my grandmother to show him the deed to the property. He snatched it. She could not insist that he give it back, nor could she have reported this THEFT to the sheriff because of the fact that Blacks had no rights in the 1800s. The prevailing law at that time was he who held the deed owned the land. Do you think that is something that I am PROUD OF? Right now I should be living off the oil and gas royalties.
In 1934 when my dad drove us to Texas to meet his family, when he stopped to purchase gasoline, his daughters and wife were not allowed to use the washroom. As a man it was easier for him to relieve himself in the bushes, but not for the females. We were, however, reduced to having to go in the bushes, also. Do you think I am PROUD OF THAT?
In 1938 when my oldest sister went to enroll in Hyde Park High School, she was told by the counselor that she did not want to take college preparatory courses, she wanted to study domestic science. Do you think I'm PROUD OF THAT? Of course, when Beatrice Lillian Hurley-Burleson went to school the next day, that was the last time anyone thought that the Burleson girls wanted to study domestic science.
When in 1943 my parents attempted to buy the 2 flat at 5338 South Kenwood, where we had lived since 1933, in Hyde Park, Chicago, IL, we were told that we could not buy it because there was a restrictive covenant that said that the property was never to be sold to Negroes. Do you think I am PROUD OF THAT?
In 1950 when I graduated from college, I was unable to get a job because I was considered overqualified. the code word for they would not hire me because of my race. All of the want ads called for Japanese Americans or Neisis ( the word given to Japanese Americans at that time). Do you think that was something that I should have been PROUD OF? I understood that America was trying to make up for the interring of innocent and patriotic Americans who were our enemy by association.
My cousin's barbershop was bombed in Mississippi in the 50s because he was encouraging Black people to register to vote. His wife who had earned a Masters Degree from Northwestern University lost her position as the principal of the local school because of the voter registration activities. Is that something I should be PROUD OF?
Now we get to Rev. Jeremiah Wright, the pastor of the Obama family. Rev. Wright like so many religious zealots overstates many things, that many of his members do not agree with. To suggest that Senator Obama should leave the church of his choice is not only a double standard, but it is absurd. Would any of the talking heads who are so alarmed by Rev. Wright's thoughts and speeches suggest that Catholics should abandon their faith or denounce and reject the Pope because so many priests have molested children. These children were exploited and taken advantage of and they had no choice to even know they could resist, reject and denounce. To me the situations are parallel, except for the fact that the priests behavior is a physical violation of the innocence of children who are marred for life; and the priests behavior is a crime. Rev. Wright's speeches are just words, that one can listen to or not, the members have a choice. Should Governor Romney denounce and reject the Mormon Church because some of their members practice polygamy?
As Senator Obama has previously stated, we have entered the silly season.
Barack Obama is an adult, and most importantly, he is an exceptionally intelligent adult. Like most of us adults, fortunately, we do not accept all we hear or see. If we did, the world would be more amoral, debased and perverted than the world of today is.
I see all these so called ponderings an attempt to marginalize the candidacy of Senator Barack Obama. I cannot truly call this racism because some ignorant Blacks have also spoken disparagingly about him.
I accept this as the darker side of mankind who because of their own inadequacies, they project their deficiencies on others. Barack Obama is a very rare individual, the likes of whom the world seldom sees. Like most geniuses, they are often misunderstood. They are objects of envy and jealousy. They are suspect because they soar above the average man who does not have the intellectual ability to understand the greatness of special people. They are also targets to be pulled down to the level of the mediocre who cannot stand to see an individual with deep convictions and high standards.
We have not seen a phenomena like Barack Obama in many years and many generations. Like Ghanda, like Jesus, like Einstein, like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., like Mother Theresa, genetically, intellectually and spiritually, these people offer the world so much, but they are often maligned and misunderstood.
Barack Obama is a Christian in the true sense of the word. A true Christian loves his fellow man unconditionally. A true Christian wants the best and tries to bring out the best in his fellow man. A true Christian wants to unite and bring the world together in peace and harmony. This is what Senator Obama stands for; but, unfortunately, he has had to get off point to answer these false charges, innuendoes, and just plain lies.
We are in the presence of an angel unaware in Senator Barack Obama; and this country needs him, more than he needs us. He is the only person at this time in history who can restore respect for America with the world's people. Because of his family background, the influence of his beloved mother who instilled great values in him, the influence of his absent father who vicariously inspired a son to go to Harvard as the father had done, the influence of a minister who brought him to an understanding of the value and meaning of Christianity, the influence of a brilliant Harvard educated wife who inspires him and keeps him grounded; he is the epitome of a citizen of the world. He is of the world because the world is in him; and this is what America needs to bring us out of the abyss to which we have sunk in the eyes of the world.
Like, Michelle Obama, after living in this country all of my 78 years, loving my country and not understanding why my country has not loved me, I now for the first time in my adult life feel PROUD OF MY COUNTRY because I sense a maturing, a recognition of talent and character, and not color, and a field of candidates aspiring to lead this nation coming from very diverse backgrounds of gender, religious beliefs, national origin, ethnicity, age and experiences. This to me is the HOPE that America is coming into her own and will begin to CHANGE and will embrace the philosophy upon which this country was founded, where all men are created equal and are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Now I truly believe, YES WE CAN!
"Never allow someone to be your Priority while allowing yourself to be their Option."
Thursday, April 24, 2008
shadow rage
How do you fight the shadows? How do you rise above all of the things that make no sense, have no reason? What do you do with the anger that arises after you've exhausted every resource, taken as much responsibility as you possibly can, rolled with the punches, tried 13 ways to Sunday to make things work?
I was on the bus today and the local wacko lady asked if anyone on the bus had a stamp. I had a stamp but I got so pissed that she asked, that she had the nerve to ask hard-working people for something they'd spent 42 honestly-earned cents on, that I just stared at her, I'm sure, malevolently, when she looked at me inquiringly. When the old man sitting in the front gave her $.42 and directions to the post office, she asked for an additional quarter for the bus ride home. Smoke issued from my ears. Now, I know, my rage has it's basis in the fact that I'm afraid I'll end up like her, and is rooted in my own not wanting to ask anyone for help, but I couldn't eke up one mote of compassion for this unfortunate lady, who wanders the streets of my town mumbling to herself and shouting at people across the street from her. I wanted to shake her and say, "BUY YOUR OWN FUCKIN' STAMP."
There but for generous family and friends...
I am furious with Mr. E. at the disability office. Mr. E. is a caustic civil servant whom I've never seen in the flesh, who is handling my disability cessation case--they are saying I made too much money in 2006 and that, therefore, means I'm no longer disabled. This guy must eat coal for breakfast. He is mean, abrupt, rude, nasty, sarcastic and humorless. He represents our mean, abrupt, rude, nasty, sarcastic, humorless government, who's abiding belief is that everyone is out to screw everyone else, and that, unless you're on the brink of death, you couldn't possibly be disabled. I know that Mr. E. hasn't experienced so much as a hangnail in his life. Gawd forbid the man gets a bad cold (or the plague); I've wished on him pubescent menstrual cramps, a scourge of armpit fleas, chronic, undiagnosable halitosis, and just one month of disability. He'd be on the street asking for a stamp in a heartbeat.
I cannot stand my anger. It's so victimy. I shake my hand at God, or whoever the heck is up there--why? Why are these things going on? Why are so many good people suffering? Why can't I have one day of simple health? One day when I can work and not have to take nausea medicine on the bus, come home, and go to sleep? I want to send my nieces to college, I want my family and friends to be able to stop worrying, I want to thrive financially, and physically, send my mom on an Alaskan cruise, buy my dad a piece of art, stay awake long enough to call my brother when he's in China, drum with my girls, dance with my boys, not take one more pill (the toxicity of which no one knows--better to swallow them now for the short term benefit or take them forever and have them kill you?), eat a green bean without making sure there's a bathroom nearby, arrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhh...
(Now I'm about to open a can of whoop ass on the neighbor boy playing his music so loud the wall is shaking. GET SOME DAMN EARPLUGS, YOU CRETIN!)
Who's got the bail money?
If anger was directly translatable into energy, I'd have run the marathon last Monday and smoked that smug Lance Armstrong like he was an old man on a Rascal scooter.
Grrrrrrrrr.....RUFFF!
I was on the bus today and the local wacko lady asked if anyone on the bus had a stamp. I had a stamp but I got so pissed that she asked, that she had the nerve to ask hard-working people for something they'd spent 42 honestly-earned cents on, that I just stared at her, I'm sure, malevolently, when she looked at me inquiringly. When the old man sitting in the front gave her $.42 and directions to the post office, she asked for an additional quarter for the bus ride home. Smoke issued from my ears. Now, I know, my rage has it's basis in the fact that I'm afraid I'll end up like her, and is rooted in my own not wanting to ask anyone for help, but I couldn't eke up one mote of compassion for this unfortunate lady, who wanders the streets of my town mumbling to herself and shouting at people across the street from her. I wanted to shake her and say, "BUY YOUR OWN FUCKIN' STAMP."
There but for generous family and friends...
I am furious with Mr. E. at the disability office. Mr. E. is a caustic civil servant whom I've never seen in the flesh, who is handling my disability cessation case--they are saying I made too much money in 2006 and that, therefore, means I'm no longer disabled. This guy must eat coal for breakfast. He is mean, abrupt, rude, nasty, sarcastic and humorless. He represents our mean, abrupt, rude, nasty, sarcastic, humorless government, who's abiding belief is that everyone is out to screw everyone else, and that, unless you're on the brink of death, you couldn't possibly be disabled. I know that Mr. E. hasn't experienced so much as a hangnail in his life. Gawd forbid the man gets a bad cold (or the plague); I've wished on him pubescent menstrual cramps, a scourge of armpit fleas, chronic, undiagnosable halitosis, and just one month of disability. He'd be on the street asking for a stamp in a heartbeat.
I cannot stand my anger. It's so victimy. I shake my hand at God, or whoever the heck is up there--why? Why are these things going on? Why are so many good people suffering? Why can't I have one day of simple health? One day when I can work and not have to take nausea medicine on the bus, come home, and go to sleep? I want to send my nieces to college, I want my family and friends to be able to stop worrying, I want to thrive financially, and physically, send my mom on an Alaskan cruise, buy my dad a piece of art, stay awake long enough to call my brother when he's in China, drum with my girls, dance with my boys, not take one more pill (the toxicity of which no one knows--better to swallow them now for the short term benefit or take them forever and have them kill you?), eat a green bean without making sure there's a bathroom nearby, arrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhh...
(Now I'm about to open a can of whoop ass on the neighbor boy playing his music so loud the wall is shaking. GET SOME DAMN EARPLUGS, YOU CRETIN!)
Who's got the bail money?
If anger was directly translatable into energy, I'd have run the marathon last Monday and smoked that smug Lance Armstrong like he was an old man on a Rascal scooter.
Grrrrrrrrr.....RUFFF!
Friday, March 7, 2008
Obama, mama
I voted for the first time in 1982 and then and every time since I could feel the breath of my Black ancestors on my neck, those that fought and died for the right. I could also feel the warmth of all of the men and women who fought for the right for women to vote, and all of the multi-colored South Africans who had recently gained this liberty, and all the folks who got a chance because of sacrifice, determination, and absolute belief in equality and freedom, to pull the lever or blacken the dot.
I think of my parents who gained the right to vote in their lifetime--something we take for granted, now, they weren't able to do for the first 1/3 of their lives. Can you imagine? I think of all of the powerful women I know who's grandmothers couldn't do it--didn't have the right to choose what they wanted and believed in. And I think of the disaffected youth and the rest of those that have the ability but don't think it's worth it. How can it not be worth it when so many people gave their lives for it?
A few years ago on the day I had pneumonia but I went and did it anyway. I'm no hero or martyr--I bought a bar of chocolate that day, too, risking more illness by going to the grocery store--and it was during "hanging chad" time, an extraordinarily scary time all around, but damn if it wasn't worth it--someone was elected that day whom I still believe in who's gone on to higher office and made a world of difference to the community in which I lived at the time.
Corny shit is often true, ain't it?
I think of my parents who gained the right to vote in their lifetime--something we take for granted, now, they weren't able to do for the first 1/3 of their lives. Can you imagine? I think of all of the powerful women I know who's grandmothers couldn't do it--didn't have the right to choose what they wanted and believed in. And I think of the disaffected youth and the rest of those that have the ability but don't think it's worth it. How can it not be worth it when so many people gave their lives for it?
A few years ago on the day I had pneumonia but I went and did it anyway. I'm no hero or martyr--I bought a bar of chocolate that day, too, risking more illness by going to the grocery store--and it was during "hanging chad" time, an extraordinarily scary time all around, but damn if it wasn't worth it--someone was elected that day whom I still believe in who's gone on to higher office and made a world of difference to the community in which I lived at the time.
Corny shit is often true, ain't it?
TODAY, I Cried
Today, I cried.....I voted for a black man and, I cried.
I cried for my father and my grandfather and all grandfathers before him.
I cried for my uncles, my four brothers, my seventeen nephews, my two sons,
my six grandsons and one great-grand son.
I cried for the black men I have loved and those that have loved me.
I cried for the millions of little black boys (not forgetting the girls)
over the centuries that did not, in their wildest dreams, imagine...that
I cried, I cried and I cried..
I know that this was 'just the primary.' But whatever the end
result may be, today I voted in the United States of America
for a black man, and .. I cried.
If I should die before the presidential election it will be OK,
Because today I voted. I voted for a black man and I cried.
Author Unknown,
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Adventures in ci home edition
When you are sick in bed over a period of time your life becomes a tiny pinprick in the volumulous sheet of life. You can't do your normal activities, you don't see your friends that often, the amount of energy required to take care of basic needs is all you can muster and sometimes not even that. This latest flare has been mostly pain and swelling and dizziness, so the little oasis around my bed has become my home with achingly difficult trips down the stairs to the bathroom as little as possible. My drugs and ungents and supplements are lined up next to a large bottle of spring water, my magazines (Vanity Fair and the New Yorker and Oprah and Nutrition Action) are piled high on the right side while books by Hening Mankel, P.D. James and Guy Paget are piled high on the left side. When it snows, I can witness it out of my little garret window under which I sleep--I especially like the swirling kind--it's like being in a snow globe. At the foot of my island is my clock radio for many hours of NPR (thankfully election obsession has replaced "All Iraq, all the time") and my groovy Apple powerbook sits on one of my pillows, it's low growl a nighttime lullaby. I can monitor work email and write procedurals for my job without moving too much and research which ream of pre-hole punch paper will cost the least, per case. There is a box of CVS wheat crackers for nausea and pill popping, some minty gum in case I meet someone to kiss in my dreams and a few chocolate kisses to quell my cacao addiction.
I can hear the Arlington Catholic high school kids in the morning as their parents drop them off--a symphony of closing car doors--and when they are dismissed for the day at 2:30p--dancing voices in all candences, all excited and bright. On Tuesdays the person who plays the bells at St. Agnes practices at noontime and I swear I can hear selections from "The Who" among the hymns that ring out over the municipal parking lot.
I have a container of shea body butter, two Glade scented candles (in fresh linen), and a picture of my mom and brother on the window sill. There's also a dead fly that Poopy must have killed a while ago laying between the window and the screen, but I don't have the heart to fish it out.
I keep the room cool and use a soft light bulb in my Walmart halogen lamp to create a cozy ambiance. On the other side of the room is a seasonal affectiveness disorder lamp that I turn on for 30-40 minutes a day aimed straight up at the ceiling for that beach effect. The white light streams into every corner of the room, often allowing me to locate stray socks and lost earrings.
I can see my cell phone across the room where I flung it after being on hold with Social Security for 30 minutes this afternoon. I can also see an old toolbox that I inherited in one of my old used cars--the friend who sold it to me gave me a toy gun to brandish in case I was ever accosted. Maybe I'll use it down at the Social Security office but it may dilute the merits of my case.
On a shelf are a giant bottle of lemon flavored cod liver oil capsules (watch out for those fish burps!), a pink marble pig I brought home from Ireland and Poopy's ashes in a cherry wood box. There's a small, brightly colored rug on the floor in front of the closet and on it is a stuffed puppy--a labrador, which some healer recommended I get.
If I lay in one spot on the bed I can see the other little garret window in the other room where the sun comes in in the morning and through which I can hear the smaller children playing in the alley in the afternoon. The lucious orders of fresh Indian food waft over from the Punjab restaurant and the lilting voices of the young waiters can be heard as they take their cigarette breaks.
Many a battle has been fought from my perch above the municipal parking lot, and the current battle with the disability people is being waged from my sealy posturpedic, which is covered in a bright white sheet with yellow circles that mom got from Ikea. My pillow cases are a deep matte red and my duvet is a hypoallergenic, psuedo down concoction in quilted fucshia. When the chills come I wrap myself in it like I'm pita filling, tucking in the edges and when the fevers rise I spread it out and lay on top of it right under the window.
There's a beautiful purple leather pouch hanging on the wall, embossed with a picture of the african continent and a strangely placed scone light fixture right next to the door.
It's an odd place in which to dwell, my cell, my comfortable chamber, my petite gaol, a place to imagine the possibilities of being fully healthy again, a place to mourn what's been lost, a place to hope for healing sleep, a place to feel safe, a place to feel apart. No mirrors to reflect the misery, no mirrors to refract the light--let it stream in fully.
I can hear the Arlington Catholic high school kids in the morning as their parents drop them off--a symphony of closing car doors--and when they are dismissed for the day at 2:30p--dancing voices in all candences, all excited and bright. On Tuesdays the person who plays the bells at St. Agnes practices at noontime and I swear I can hear selections from "The Who" among the hymns that ring out over the municipal parking lot.
I have a container of shea body butter, two Glade scented candles (in fresh linen), and a picture of my mom and brother on the window sill. There's also a dead fly that Poopy must have killed a while ago laying between the window and the screen, but I don't have the heart to fish it out.
I keep the room cool and use a soft light bulb in my Walmart halogen lamp to create a cozy ambiance. On the other side of the room is a seasonal affectiveness disorder lamp that I turn on for 30-40 minutes a day aimed straight up at the ceiling for that beach effect. The white light streams into every corner of the room, often allowing me to locate stray socks and lost earrings.
I can see my cell phone across the room where I flung it after being on hold with Social Security for 30 minutes this afternoon. I can also see an old toolbox that I inherited in one of my old used cars--the friend who sold it to me gave me a toy gun to brandish in case I was ever accosted. Maybe I'll use it down at the Social Security office but it may dilute the merits of my case.
On a shelf are a giant bottle of lemon flavored cod liver oil capsules (watch out for those fish burps!), a pink marble pig I brought home from Ireland and Poopy's ashes in a cherry wood box. There's a small, brightly colored rug on the floor in front of the closet and on it is a stuffed puppy--a labrador, which some healer recommended I get.
If I lay in one spot on the bed I can see the other little garret window in the other room where the sun comes in in the morning and through which I can hear the smaller children playing in the alley in the afternoon. The lucious orders of fresh Indian food waft over from the Punjab restaurant and the lilting voices of the young waiters can be heard as they take their cigarette breaks.
Many a battle has been fought from my perch above the municipal parking lot, and the current battle with the disability people is being waged from my sealy posturpedic, which is covered in a bright white sheet with yellow circles that mom got from Ikea. My pillow cases are a deep matte red and my duvet is a hypoallergenic, psuedo down concoction in quilted fucshia. When the chills come I wrap myself in it like I'm pita filling, tucking in the edges and when the fevers rise I spread it out and lay on top of it right under the window.
There's a beautiful purple leather pouch hanging on the wall, embossed with a picture of the african continent and a strangely placed scone light fixture right next to the door.
It's an odd place in which to dwell, my cell, my comfortable chamber, my petite gaol, a place to imagine the possibilities of being fully healthy again, a place to mourn what's been lost, a place to hope for healing sleep, a place to feel safe, a place to feel apart. No mirrors to reflect the misery, no mirrors to refract the light--let it stream in fully.
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