I see Black people

I have tried to ignore it or rather ignore my feeling about it. I watched a dear friend shed tears when Teddy Kennedy's senate seat went to a dim-witted, blowhard who appealed to rage filled people who say they don't want big government but sure want government to fix everything and NOW. I had a glass of wine and a bite of chocolate as if that would make it go away, even though I knew as soon as Obama was elected that it would happen. Maybe that's why the honeymoon period was so sweet because we got lightheaded from holding our breath.

But it's here now, and, like a hemorrhoid, like the loud, drunken ass on the bus, like the blood bloated fly knocking itself silly between window and screen, it can't be ignored anymore, at least not by me. This is a backlash against the fact that Obama is Black.

And I'll tell you why.

My parents would tell me, from time to time, that I would always have to work harder, accomplish more, be better than my white peers simply because of the color of my skin. To achieve the same results as everyone else, I'd have to be roughly twice as good. I don't know if I ever completely bought into this idea, and certainly, my road has been much easier than the previous generations in terms of what I've had to face in terms of discrimination. However, the sense I have and the proof I have of the insidiously institutionalized racism in our systems, but more importantly, in our hearts is honed to a fine edge. Call it the resurgence of hate, if you will. It's the same bitter brew from which terrorism arises. Take some folks who feel victimized. Maybe they are victimized. Maybe they've had some loses, maybe their lives have gotten harder. Maybe their lives were never easy. They decide--they make a choice--to choose to blame someone else, someone they can discern as different from themselves in some way as being the cause for their perceived misfortunes. This is kind of a double whammy in the Obama situation--it would be hard, I think, for anyone with an even slightly clear mind to deny the fact that we're in the mess that we're in because of Bush/Cheney/greedy men/and our own greed and blindness. But let's not face this, oh no, let's not try to change what we can change within ourselves, or help our neighbors, let's blame that Nigra in the White House because we knew he couldn't do it in the first place, being a Nigra and all. Sure, the congress is in a log jam, sure he's generated more potentially life-changing legislation in his first few months in office than many, many other leaders, sure he's changed the way the U.S. is viewed around the world, sure he and his team have engineered some unpopular but ultimately successful bailouts that have kept us from falling farther down an economic cesspool, but, damnit, we're mad at a fundamental level, we're bitter, and we're deeply in touch with our ugliest attitudes, and this makes us more than willing to be swept along in a tide of ignorance and bullshit that will cost us even more of our prosperity in the long run.

I know President Obama has a lot to learn; I know that he has had failures during this first year; there are areas where he seems to have been short-sighted, stubborn, naive. His team doesn't seem to have learned how to deal with Congress productively. The back room deal making that people are complaining about has been going on since before politics was an evil gleam in a prehistoric man's eye.

But we owe ourselves that thing, that attitude that seems to serve Americans best which comes out of times when things are at their worst--that sense of pulling together for a common good. Those few days after 9/11, when we were letting each other into traffic, and helping each other up the steep bus steps. The collective rush, the palpable sense of having elevated ourselves once civil rights legislation was passed. Those few brief months of happiness after Obama was elected, that whiff of having at the least elected someone who was bright enough for the job. The surge of support for the earthquake victims in Haiti. The glow that comes from living in a place where speech is free and all shades are tolerated.

So, I'm taking note. I have my ugly feelings, I've shouted at the TV, but I'm going to commit to be involved and I'm going to act out of my faith that human beings have the potential to see beyond the superficial, even that idiot Palin. I'll try to give this new Blowhard the benefit of the doubt. And I'll pray like mad that the birthers, tea baggers, militiamen and die hard bigots and that Ken doll Mitt Romney have some kind of epiphany about what it truly is to be American.

And I'll try to remember that I have a sense of humor.

Purple Dinosaurs

My favorite Christmas present this past Christmas was the gathering of all my family, and especially my babies--baby bro, and baby nieces, aged 12 and 17. We danced, we sang, we ate and ate, and laughed like banshees. And Erica, my 17 year old baby who has Down Syndrome and a little autism, we sing. Barney songs.

Now I have the natural hatred any adult would have for Barney and his simplistic songs and amazingly annoying giggle. Baby Bop, the other little costumed character on the show is EXTREMELY annoying, with a nails-on-chalkboard screech, and who talks baby talk until you want to rip off his costume head and set it on fire. Or at least that's how I felt when Erica was 5 and a regular Barney watcher. Her sister, Halle, had just been born, underweight, and I was in Tomball Texas with the family helping look after Erica. Every morning we watched Barney, Gulla gulla Island, and The Big Comfy Couch. Gulla Gulla was a Nickelodean show about a family living on one of the Carolina Islands who sang African songs and practiced the Gulla traditions. There was also a pollywog named Benya Benya who had a really cool theme song. ("Benya Benya pollywog, he's my very favorite frog".) And the Big Comfy Couch was about a doll named Molly Dolly, her Anti Macasser and the mailman, Major Bedhead. There was also a cat named Snicklefritz--to this day I love to hear Erica say that word. Now that's some cool stuff and Erica and I sang and danced and did all the activities from these shows.

But of course Erica's favorite was Barney, insipid, and cloying and very very basic. And now every time we are together, we sing Barney songs. "I love you, you love me," with attendant hugging and kissing, "The Wheels on the Bus," "Clean up, Clean up, Everybody Everywhere," and "Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me." There's also one about different kinds of sandwich bread but neither of us can remember all of the words. Sure, we sing other things, too--her "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is adorable and should be recorded for posterity and she and Halle and I still break up when we do the name game with my brother's name: "Banana fanna fo Farlton..." But those Barney songs are what binds Erica and I. Sometimes when we are first together she doesn't quite recognize me because I've changed 'do colors, or am wearing contacts, but once we start singing, she remembers. Every word, every step, every gesture. Warms my cynical cockles every time.

Now, Erica, like many teenagers is into boy bands and also sings in a gospel choir. She doesn't talk much but can sing anything.

I learned many things while I was with my family over the holidays. Halle taught us the "Soulja Boy" Dance from the video (see Youtube), Mom gave me a great ginger cookie recipe, and my brother and former sister-in-law always teach me a lot about laughter and grace whenever I am with them. And my girrrrlll Erica always, always teaches me about love and joy.

So in the new year, I wish you all singing babies, people in your life who you connect with in special ways, who let you know how precious you are. I hope I'm one of them for you.

Covet

I saw her again today at the bus stop. We commiserated about the face shearing cold. Her voice has a Spanish lilt. I sat behind her on the bus and stared so hard I got dizzy. She is the woman with

THE HAIR I COVET.

It's a kinky, curly mane, like mine, with a few different textures. She has a few blond highlights among deeper honey tones. She wears it all one length and it reaches the bottom of her shoulder blades. She never wears a hat. It's long enough that the weight of it elongates the kinks but there are shorter, curlier bits around her face. It has life. It lifts. It moves. It is a crowning glory.

I don't covet the color. Been there, bleached that. I want the length, the weight, the feel of it brushing my back and shoulders. I want the "mane-y-ness" of it. Derek, my rock-n-roll hair dude has similar hair that he wears in a plaited rope down his back. When released, it crackles with life. Boing. I want the boing.

It's like a diet, ain't it, growing out your hair? Fits and starts. Those horrible "Krusty the Clown" periods. The lure of gorgeous short cuts. The Freedom of the Bald--how I loved being closely cropped. I'm currently struggling with wicked hat head--the longer curly hair needs to be watered-down each morning, a miniscule bit of product applied, and then the battle between keeping the ears and head warm and the hair style intact begins. The headband and the right wind produce an instant mohawk. A full hat, a kind of Lucy Ricardo roll, like a shubbery around the head.

I can't actually believe I have had the patience, or perhaps it's just bone idleness, to let it grow so that I can have a little afro-tail when necessary and it does seem like a bit of a pipe dream to have the mane I covet. Maybe I'll tie it in with my new food plan--become a Samson(ia), losing weight, gaining strength, growing healthy hair, knocking down temple columns. Grrrr.

(Then botox, a few bits and pieces lifted, some foot scraping and I'll be good as new.)

Here's to our lovely, vain dreams.

crankypants

I know this will be hard for you to believe, but I'm a little moody at the best of times. For the past two days I've been taking what will be a 10-day regimen of progesterone to jump start my menstrual cycle. I've happily not had a period in 6 months which is damn fine with me. But the endocrinologist (you know, that one) tells me that I'm not in perimenopause, even after all the steroids and chemotherapy, and that it's wise to stimulate a period to get all that stuff out of there. So I'm taking the damn medicine.

For the past ten years or so I've had a couple of days of PMS where I'd swing from weeping on the bus to coming close to homicide. Girls, you got to know what I mean. So it was with some trepidation that I began this drug regimen.

And today, PMS Jo appeared. Headachy, nauseous, and ready for bear. Grrrrr. But because I'm so well trained, I cover this monster with a veneer of politeness, sometimes icy, but never rude.

So a woman pushed past me to get on the bus. I gave her back my peel back the eyeballs glare (which is based on my mother's "horse eyes" expression which has been known to intimidate the most thuggish urban teenager). Then the impossibly jaunty pharmacist told me my anti-depressants are going to cost $97. "You don't want to pay $97, do you?" he said, jauntily, as he checked the price on the computer.

"Not today!" I responded jauntily, as the ogress inside roared, "I will tear your jaunty head from your jaunty neck, tie your jaunty Santa tie around it and use it like a yo-yo, you jaunty S-O-B!"

"Oh, it's a mistake. It's just $10!" jaunty boy skipped happily back to the counter. "Aren't you glad?"

Ogress: "I'm glad I don't have to make your jaunty wife a widow!"

Me. "Good news! Early Christmas present!" I reply.

Girrrrrrlllllll...

It was snow-raining at the bus stop and some teenage boys were acting up, spitting and talking loud. One of them spit particularly close to my boot. I let a little ogress out and he blushed to the roots of his hair. Why all the spitting? Do they have all have emphysema? Grrrrrr!

As I got on the bus, the same lady pushed tried to push past me again. "Oh, excuse me," I said, "You go ahead..."

Ogress: "...since you in such a damn hurry to get on an empty bus that you have to push me out the way, Witch!"

"Oh, sorry, sorry," she replied and coughed, a wet one, full in my face.

"Oh, sorry, sorry."

"That's okay," I said, wiping my face with my scarf.

Ogress: "...disgusting swine-flu spreadin', halitosis havin', guttersnipe!"

It's the duality that many of us live with, isn't it? The calm, cool, happening, stylish exterior, can handle anything, is calmer as pressure mounts, smiles at the most callous behavior, gives to charities, counsels friends VS.

FASTER PUSSY CAT KILL KILL!!

I hate hormones.

What I learned about love

Love ain't got nothin' to do with money. Is that why you give me money? To insure that I'll stay engaged? To buy my compliance with your bad behavior? To make sure I'll call? Is it payment for my services as a therapist as you trash the rest of the family? (Then it ain't enough. I'll send you an invoice). Is it a stipend for enduring your cruelty, viciousness, passive-aggressiveness, your terrible insistence that I don't love you, that nobody does? Are you paying me to be your punching bag? (If so, I need a raise).

Poor, poor bastard.

I am blessed with help from many people and their help comes with no strings. Just sayin'.

It took me a while to realize it but I love you. It doesn't matter what you do or say, money or no, cruelty or not, silly, silly bullshit or no, I love you. I can see through all of that crusty old crap. I understand that you hate yourself, that you can't feel the love that flows toward you from many friends and your children. I'm afraid and pretty certain that you will be this way until you die which will be relatively soon and I am and will be very, very sad about that but I won't be guilty. Because I am and will always be the loving daughter I know I should be. And there really isn't any "should" about it. I love you. I admire your achievements, I adore your sense of humor (which I see less and less of, but no matter) and I hate your behavior. And I love and understand the caring impulse underneath all of that fear and horror that sends the check every month that helps me stay as independent as possible despite ill health. You love me, too.

And thanks to several brilliant therapists, family and a loving, wonderful family of friends, I will not be anything like you. Thank the Goddess that none of this stuff is inherited and can be unlearned.

Lawd, growing up is hard and I wish you could do it, even at this late date. Wishin' won't make it so, but isn't it ironic how hard work, and determination, brings me back to that moment that you held me in one hand a few days after you adopted me? What an enormous act of love.

And I'll always remember that that man who held a baby in his hand who wasn't his by blood, who pledged to take care of that baby out of sheer love, is still there, in there, somewhere, and he hasn't forgotten, either.

Precious

Whoooooooaaaaaaa lawd.

I had to see "Precious." Tyler Perry, one of the executive producers, wrote a moving blog about how seeing the movie led him to face his childhood of abuse, but that's not why I knew I had to see it. I had to see it because everyone needs to see it, especially those who don't understand institutionalize racism, who say things like "let those people pull themselves up by their own bootstraps", people who don't get that so many of us are walking around with trauma histories, our bodies and our self-esteem in recovery, and that those of us who have "healed" and "moved on" cannot forget those who still suffer--we must remember to remain human.

"Precious" may not be the movie to see for someone with a trauma history. It might make those who are depressed even more so. But what is special about this movie is that it doesn't offer any easy solutions, or have some great white savior come out of the mists to save everyone or even a Black one. Despite what the extraordinarily resilient Precious has been through, she, in fits and starts, begins to save herself-but you don't even know, even at the end of the film, if she is out of trouble. And what really touched me was that she is ensconced in so much fat that it's hard for you to understand her facial expressions, much less what she is saying. Fat is a great defense against the world--I've used it to remain removed from the world, my feelings, touch, etc. Precious' first words are "I want a light skinned boyfriend with good hair." There are many such references to the aparthied that continues in this country--what we consider beautiful and valuable and how we fool ourselves into thinking otherwise at PC moments. How we judge by very narrow standards, outward appearances, silliness, greed.

Gracious...Monique as Precious' mother Mary. "Mother" isn't the word for this person. I wondered briefly what happened to her but her brutality is so horrific that you lose any compassion you might have. At least I did. A masterful performance.

There are also great performances by a makeup less Mariah Carey and Paula Patton as Precious' teacher but what is so moving and heartbreaking and reviving is Precious herself--I don't think the actress who plays her has more than 50 words of dialogue--but she manages to show us a seismic shift with baby steps through a system that is still solidly weighted against any forward movement.

And that's why we have to see Precious. To remind ourselves that the stuff still ain't working. To remember all that we are fighting for. And to remember how lucky we are.

Sometimes I feel discouraged
And think my work's in vain
But then the holy spirit
revives my soul again...

From "A Balm in Gilead"

Rockettes

Would you agree that the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is getting more canned by the year? I can see Meredith Viera's teeth rotting from reading all that treacle. I did enjoy seeing fellow Mystic Trish Schilling's daughter, Taylor, who's the star of the best show you ain't watching called "Mercy", Wednesdays at 8p on NBC. Shameless plug.

And the Rockettes--what a complete waste of time and money except for leg fetishists. Yes, there is something to be said for tradition, but what is the real entertainment value?

I do love the Sesame Street Float, especially seeing my favorite cynic, Oscar, in his trashcan. And there was a Chinese dance troupe from Delaware--pretty cool. More multiculturalism, Macys!

It's that strange juxtaposition--our tendency to homogenize to make things more "palatable", which makes them inherently less interesting, at least to me.

I do love how thrilled the high school marching bands from places like Adair, Kentucky and Missoula, Montana must be to be participating, having raised the money to come themselves.

Seeing the little kids on the parade route out of their minds with excitement (instead of sugar) is quite nice, too.

And so on this gray, New Englandy Thanksgiving, I'm feeling very blessed to be relaxing on my sofa with a warm roof over my head, delicious food to eat, family and friends to love, and a computer on which to write parade critiques.

(Alan Cumming lip synching "That's Life" on an M&M float ?? Cyndy Lauper on some kind of Disney princess float singing "Girls Just want To Have Fun"?? Bee-zar.)

Have a happy and thank goodness for you.