tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-305347832024-03-07T19:31:25.682-05:00Not at ALL What You ThoughtGinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-89572664530049248112011-02-28T13:37:00.002-05:002011-02-28T13:50:01.650-05:00The Twelve Brothers (Part the Final)On his way to the kingdom of Talitha's family, Kamau prayed, too. "Oh, God, keep Talitha whole until I, her parents and her brothers --her brothers!" He stopped mid- sentence, suddenly remembering something. His uncle had said, "Get word to Talitha's parents, <span style="font-style:italic;">and her brothers</span> . . . ." Kamau sharply reined in Montsho, to the confusion of his escort. One assumes, he thought, that a person has parents, but does one assume that she has brothers --without asking anyone? He could not recall an instance when Minkah and Talitha might have been alone to discuss such a matter, but even if they had, Talitha had not spoken to anyone, about anything, since she had come home with him. Kamau knew that he himself had not spoken to anyone of Talitha's brothers. Not anyone. When he had come home the last time, all he could think about was Talitha –her eyes, her mouth, how his heart had quickened when she had embraced him just before he had ridden home. Not a very talkative man, Kamau had mentioned meeting “a beautiful princess on a quest in the wood,” but he had, to his shame, forgotten to mention her brothers. So how did his uncle know? Suddenly, Kamau felt troubled, not understanding at all why.<br /> <br />"We must return home," he said. Without a question, his convoy obeyed, turning their horses. <br /><br />Back at Castle Obsidian, the sun was just clearing the horizon. The guards marched to Talitha's cell and roughly snatched her awake from a deep, long-awaited sleep. Minkah, looking on, said, "Hurry! I want fires to be lit well before the sun is too high."<br />Talitha, from force of habit, reached for her sack. One guard raised his arm to strike the bag from her grasp, but Minkah, laughing, stayed his hand. <br /><br />“Her evil arts,” he sneered, “can harm no one who has seen through them. Let her have her trash!” Talitha was allowed to take her needle-grass shirts to the courtyard, although her wrists were bound. A guard lifted her up to the bier, which already had wood underneath it ready for a fire. As the guard was leaving, Talitha wordlessly caught his eye, reaching out her hands. It was plain that she wanted to be untied. Knowing that the young woman would not be able to escape the bier without help, the guard looked into her eyes, shrugged, and loosed her wrists from the ropes. Talitha pulled her bag to her lap, but sat quietly, waiting.<br /> <br />Meanwhile, Minkah had reached the center of the courtyard, which had quickly filled with spectators. He paced and prayed while the guards coaxed the fire, stubborn because of the dew that hadn't had a chance to evaporate. As the fire finally caught and began to devour the wood, Minkah was lifting his hand for the attention of the crowd. He wanted to make a stirring speech. But something else had caught everyone's attention. <br /><br />Riding with furious speed, Kamau and his convoy appeared in the courtyard. As they reined in their rearing and snorting horses, Minkah, furious himself, demanded, "What is the meaning of this? Nephew, you were to inform this woman's family--" <br />"I might well ask you the same question, Uncle," Kamau interrupted in a low, barely controlled voice. "'This woman,' as you so rudely call her, is a guest of our house and become my kinswoman. What means this fire? Extinguish it!" Kamau beckoned to his uncle's henchmen. After a moment's almost imperceptible indecision, they complied. <br />Minkah swallowed his fury and replied quietly to his nephew: "I will forbear the accomplishment of my duty long enough to explain. But I cannot allow your ignorance to become the downfall of this house. You should know that at your birth, there was a prophecy--" <br /><br />"I already know of this prophecy. It is a matter of record. When I was of age, my father the king required that I read and understand it-- or as much of it as he could understand, in the way that he understood it." At the word <span style="font-style:italic;">prophecy<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>, Talitha stopped rubbing the circulation back into her legs, which had gone to sleep as she knelt on the bier, watching the skies. <br /><br />"What do you mean, ‘in the way that he understood it’? Do you question your father's interpretation of the prophecy?" Minkah's voice rose a little in volume with this question. <br />"The prophecy, as I recall, states that after the appearance of the woman with the star, my reign ‘will never be the same,’" Kamau patiently explained. "I think that my father's interpretation was precipitous and narrow. There are any manner of ways in which a reign can be changed." <br />"And what about the twelve ibis? Are there ‘any number of ways’ men --warriors-- can be changed? Is there any doubt in your mind that this woman is a sorceress whose evil purposes remain hidden to us?" Minkah's voice had now risen so that all of the spectators could hear. <br />"Of course there is doubt, and more than doubt. She is a stranger to you. But I know Princess Talitha as well as I know myself," responded Kamau. He looked at Talitha, now sitting up on the bier, reaching for her sack. "While there may be evil in her circumstance, there is no evil in her purpose or in herself." <br />"You are a bewitched, besotted young fool!" Minkah was saying with anger and sorrow, when their argument was interrupted by a sound of wonder from the crowd. Minkah and Kamau looked up. From the lake behind the courtyard flew twelve iridescent black and white ibis, safe and unharmed. Talitha sobbed with joy and began to pull cloaks from her sack. The birds flew straight for her, one by one, and as each of the twelve reached Talitha, she stretched up and draped one cloak about each of the sinuous necks. After receiving a cloak, each bird lit upon the ground --and became a man. So Jabari, Jawhar, Chinelo, Harith, Akil, Liu, Nizam, Fadil, Chijoke, Masomakali, Shawki and Adisa regained their original states as Talitha's beloved brothers. <br /><br />"Seize them!" shouted Minkah. "Destroy them!" But as Minkah's men moved to obey, Jawhar spoke. <br />"Is it the custom in this kingdom to punish where there is no crime? To defend where there has been no attack? In my father’s kingdom, even a proven criminal is given a chance to speak in his own defense." <br />"Hold!" said Kamau. "Talitha's brother is right. Although I have an idea of how the story goes myself, you, uncle, you need to hear." And alighting from Montsho, Kamau strode over to the bier, reached up for Talitha and swung her down. <br />"Now I may speak," said Talitha, and told the story of her brothers from beginning to end. Everyone in the courtyard hung on her every word. (And as she spoke, far away in the wood near her brothers' cabin, unknown to anyone but God at the time, violets bloomed --but more than twelve this time: this time, scores of violets carpeted the wood with fragrance and color.) <br /><br />At the end of Talitha's story, Minkah Chafulumisa fell to one knee and pressed his forehead to one of the Princess' ruined hands. "I beg forgiveness, Highness, although I deserve to take your place on that bier. Only speak, and I willingly offer my body to the flames." <br />"Rise to your feet, Minkah Chafulumisa," replied Talitha. Tears stood in her eyes. "A kingdom could ask for no guardian more faithful than you." <br />"Yes, Uncle," echoed Kamau. "Facing what you thought was a powerful evil, facing accusations of rebellion and treason, you valued the kingdom more than your safety. You took your life in your hands to keep a promise you made to my father the King. He is dead, but your word lives, and that is the mark of a man of integrity and honor. Still," Kamau added sternly, "You should not have hidden your heart from me --however bewitched you believed I was." <br />"And never again will I, Majesty," replied Minkah, his eyes shining also with unshed tears. "Today, I see your father in you. With joy I quit my position as your guardian. I realize that the house of Kamau is in good hands." And he knelt again --to his King.<br /><br />"Long live the King!" Minkah cried, and the people echoed his cry. <br />"I hope," said Kamau, who felt full of emotion as well, "that you will stay on as my closest advisor. You have proven yourself worthy." Then Kamau turned to Talitha. "Dearest lady," he was beginning, when Talitha sank to her knees, nearly fainting with exhaustion. Kamau ran to her side and carried her to his uncle's chambers. "Dearest lady," he quickly changed his speech, "now is the time for some much needed rest." The waiting women again bathed and ministered to Talitha, finally leaving her to rest in Minkah's bed. <br /><br />Princess Talitha slept for twenty hours. She opened her eyes to behold the face of Kamau, who had been looking in on her, off and on (along with her twelve brothers) while she had slept. <br />"Abayomi," she whispered. <br />"It's good to hear my name in your mouth again, Talitha," he answered. "How do you feel?" <br />"Much better. For a long time, I have felt so heavily burdened, so guilty, so alone--" <br />"I was here." <br />"You were," Talitha agreed, and touched his cheek. "But you were not as close as I wanted you to be. I couldn't explain to you. I felt that you were trying to understand me, that you were committed to help me, that I could depend on you, but I felt you were giving me so much, when --when I could give you so little." <br />"But I understood." Kamau stopped Talitha from interrupting by touching her lips. "I don't know how I understood. I don't know why I was not frightened or driven away by what you were doing. I only knew that you were a good woman --remember, I had met some of your brothers --and that a good woman only works to undo evil, not create it. You were beautiful and good and courageous, and I wanted to be a part of your life. I wanted to help you." <br />"God sent you to us," Talitha said fervently. "God sent you." <br />"God sent us to each other," Kamau corrected her. "So it seems only fitting --I wanted to wait until your father –until your parents --Talitha, suddenly, I can't say what I want to say." <br />"Then say what you can." <br />"I've loved you since you came out from behind that tree. When I saw your tears of joy, I felt it was my joy, too. When you wept in sorrow, I felt my heart breaking. Now --I feel like a dog to say it --your sorrow is over, and my heart is breaking again: you'll be leaving me. You don't need me any more." <br />"I don't need you, but I love you, Abayomi. How could you not know?" <br />"Then will you have me as your husband?" <br />"When my parents come, I'll tell them that I will have no other man." Kamau's face lit up from within. <br /><br />"Everyone knows that he will have no other woman," said Rachael, who was coming in. "My brother, you must leave now. This visit is on the verge of becoming very improper." <br />"I don't see why I can't stay, now that you are here, to keep things proper," Kamau protested. <br />"Well . . . for a little longer, then. But when I leave, you leave." <br />"You don't make a very impressive chaperone, Rachael," said Talitha. <br />"You're saying I should call Umm?" At Kamau and Talitha's expressions, Rachael burst out laughing. "Oh," she sighed then, "I'm so ashamed --I missed all the excitement!" <br />"Everyone knows it wasn't your fault, Rachael," reassured Talitha. <br />"And Uncle has apologized at least a thousand times since I woke up. The women believe they'll all be exiled! Now, brother, release the princess' hand!" <br />"I wonder if they'll ever be whole again," sighed Talitha. <br />"They'll always be the most beautiful hands in the world to me," said Kamau. "And I know your brothers would say the same."<br /> <br />When King Abdu and Queen Rukiya finally arrived, they were very charmed by Prince Kamau, and awed by his, Talitha’s, and their sons’ adventures. But Abdu, Talitha and her brothers were most surprised by Queen Rukiya’s revelation. <br />“I blame myself for your trouble,” she whispered. <br />“But how can you--?” began Abdu, when the queen interrupted. <br />“Let me tell you. Remember long ago, when I was carrying Adisa, Moyo, told us that I was carrying my twelfth son? Remember how disappointed I was?” <br />“I remember I made some thoughtless remark, and you ran off somewhere,” said the king. The queen related her story to the young people.<br /> <br />“You did all of that, expecting a baby?” interrupted Rachael. “You two” -–indicating Rukiya and Talitha—-“ must be the sturdiest women I know!” The queen laughed. <br />“Well, Adisa wasn’t due for months yet. Just because a woman is expecting, it doesn’t mean that she’s disabled!” Rukiya looked at her daughter and Rachael. “I want you to remember that,” she said, to the distraction of them both. “I suppose,” she continued her story, “that violet drank some of my tears that day. It was fate that you would pick those violets, Talitha.” <br />“So you think it was your fault –that ‘ridiculous fate’ you and Father told me of?” Talitha asked. <br />“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Rukiya covered her face and shook her head. <br />“And I don’t know how my brothers were linked to that plant, Mother,” said Talitha, “but I see now that my destiny was far from ‘ridiculous.’ What happened to me in that wood helped to deepen my spirit. It found me the man I love -–a man I know now to be steadfast and wise. And—-“ <br /><br />“And it bound us to our sister in love and trust. Your prayers were answered, Mother,” added Adisa. His brothers looked at each other and nodded. <br />“And what man would give up the opportunity to know the ibis from the inside out?” asked Chinelo. <br />“Imagine the poetry I will write!” exulted Jawhar. All of Talitha’s brothers could see, whether they said so or not, how going through their ordeal had richened their lives.<br /> <br />“It’s plain that this experience has somehow been worthwhile for everyone involved –especially me,” said Kamau. “But -–if you will indulge me, your majesty -–I must disagree with the King.” The King raised a dark eyebrow. <br />“Disagree? With what?” he asked. <br />“That a daughter -–simply because she is the thirteenth heir—-cannot gain a kingdom. I think, your majesties, that if you can grant your blessing upon our -–Talitha’s and my—- union, you will find you have two kingdoms.” <br /><br />“You are willing to give up your own for the hand of my daughter?” King Abdu asked facetiously. “Notice, my dear,” he added to Queen Rukiya, “they aren’t asking for our consent.” <br />“Did you notice her asking our consent to this quest?” exclaimed Rukiya. <br />“And, Father, Mother, I tell you now, but with love, honor and respect—-“ <br />“Well?” came from the King, whose eyes were sparkling with mirth. <br />“-—that I have chosen this man, Kamau,” finished Talitha. “I could choose no other.” <br />“I can see that you have talked this young man into going along with your choice,” said the Queen. <br />“Oh, please!” interrupted Rachael, laughing. “Do you really think she had to do much persuading?” <br />“My own heart persuaded me, your majesties, once I looked upon the face of your daughter,” said Kamau. “Please, majesties, grant us your blessing.” Abdu squeezed the hand of his wife. She met his eyes and nodded solemnly.<br /> <br />“It pleases us,” Abdu said. “May heaven bless your union -–with fourteen daughters!” <br />The union of Kamau and Talitha was the birth of one great kingdom, for King Abdu, his first son, Chinelo, and Kamau, agreed to unite the houses of Abdu and Kamau. The Kingdom of Abdu-Kamau became great and full of power in many ways, and their enemies could find no means to overthrow it. All over the world, this kingdom became renowned for its wisdom, might, and integrity. And Kamau and Talitha lived in joy to the end of their days, raising seven sons and seven daughters in the nurture and admonition of the great God who formed all things.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-27563846118713190622011-02-21T14:29:00.003-05:002011-02-21T14:38:15.631-05:00The Twelve Brothers (Part the Fourth)The man in white had been prophesying over Kamau's birth. That day, Kamau's father, the king, Minkah's brother, had spoken to Minkah: "We must be vigilant about the women my son encounters." On his deathbed, the king reminded Minkah about that vigilance: "You must promise me, brother, to protect my son from the evil woman." None of the house had ever questioned the idea that the prophecy boded ill. As he remembered the king's dying words, Minkah remembered something about the regal, silent princess. He had seen, between her dark eyebrows, a tiny, deep burnt umber star.<br /><br /> In the darkness of the bedchamber he had temporarily moved into (so that his nephew's guest would be comfortable), Minkah reached for the rope beside his bed and summoned a servant.<br /><br /> Talitha, behind the closed doors of Minkah's bedchamber, did not sleep at all. She needed to finish the cloak she had been working on and find more needle grass. She had been fortunate thus far: the nasty weed was really not that difficult to find, only difficult to work with. Talitha noticed that in her absence, the clothes she had brought with her, her traveling clothes, had been cleaned and folded neatly on Minkah’s bed. Talitha slipped out of the gorgeous robes she had been given and into one of her dark green coveralls, pulling the cowl over her braids and forehead. After she had drawn on the leather gloves that Kamau had brought her and a pair of soft soled short boots, Talitha grabbed her sack and quietly, quickly left her chambers, searching for a way out of the castle.<br /><br /> When she finally did get outside and find the royal family cemetery, she thought she had done so unseen. She was wrong. She had fallen upon her knees in a patch of needle grass and was stuffing handfuls into the sack when the whisper of her name made her feel as though she had been snatched inside out. She whirled around to meet Rachael's astonished gaze. <br /><br /> "What in time are you doing?" the young woman asked, and then waved her hand distractedly, as if trying to wipe out her question. "You won't answer that. You don't speak. Let's start over. . . . How can I help you? Can I pick some of those horrible weeds, too?" Talitha quickly threw up both hands to stop Rachael. Then she pulled off one glove, trying to remind Rachael of her own ruined skin. Rachael waved her hand at Talitha again.<br /><br /> "If you can stand it, so can I," she argued. And since she seemed determined to help, no matter the cost, Talitha quickly handed Rachael her sack. "Fine," Kamau's sister responded, as if Talitha had spoken to her. "I'll hold the sack, and you fill it. I guess it really wouldn't do for Uncle to think that your blisters are catching!" Talitha gazed upon her friend with gratitude and tried to embrace her, but Rachael protested. "No, we haven't time for that. We've got to fill this bag quickly and get you back to your room before Umm notices that you --that we—are missing and alerts the whole castle! I told her just to leave you alone, and, of course, what I do is none of her business, but I doubt Umm will pay me any mind whatsoever!"<br /><br /> So the two women made short work of filling Talitha's sack; then they rushed, as quietly as they could, back to Talitha's room. Rachael pushed Talitha into her room with the sack, saying, "You should come get me the next time you need to go out. It takes less time if you have help. Mmmph! The things I do to get a decent sister in law!" And after making this embarrassing comment, Rachael went back to her room to sleep. Talitha stayed awake, working with the stinging needle grass, fashioning them into cloaks, little knowing that someone besides Rachael had seen her at work outside the castle.<br /><br /> Umm went straight to Minkah with her report. The brow of Kamau's uncle turned dark with anger. "So this is what he brings home with him: an evil sorceress to bring to naught all that his forebears have worked for." And Umm saw the great man tremble, but she did not know that it was not with fear of the sorceress. Even before Minkah had had Talitha followed, he had heard reports of the twelve ibis. One servant (though not a prophet) had said the presence of the sacred birds was a sign of blessing upon the royal house of Kamau. But Minkah had realized what the birds actually were. He had recognized what the star on Talitha's forehead meant. He knew he must plan, and quickly.<br /><br /> The next evening, for supper, the waiting women had dressed Talitha in crimson robes --and they had done more. At Minkah's command, they had secretly littered her bath with a sleeping potion, which would affect Talitha before the meal ended. When, to the dismay of everyone (except Minkah), Talitha collapsed at the table, Kamau rose with a cry and ran to her side to cradle her in his arms. <br /><br /> "What has happened?" Kamau turned to his uncle for help. Minkah, who had also risen, spoke solemnly after a practiced pause: "Who can know, Prince? Perhaps it is exhaustion. Perhaps illness. In any case, we should take the princess back to my rooms. I will summon the physicians." While Kamau carried Talitha himself, vainly calling her name, Rachael and Umm followed. Minkah stayed behind, to summon --and advise --the royal physicians.<br /><br /> Minkah and the physicians found Kamau, Rachael, and Talitha in Kamau's bedchamber, the stricken princess lying on the bed. The physicians examined Talitha and, as they had been commanded, shrugged their shoulders and otherwise registered confusion. <br /><br /> "We cannot tell what ails the princess," they lied, to the consternation of Prince Kamau and Princess Rachael. Minkah cleared his throat.<br /><br /> "Your highness," he said smoothly, "I know well that your desire is to be here with your guest. Still, someone should get word to the Princess Talitha's parents, and her brothers, of her illness. Perhaps we should dispatch a few of the warriors to relay the message and escort Princess Talitha's family here to watch with you until she recovers." Minkah knew that Kamau would want himself to lead the warriors to the Princess' kingdom, and Kamau did not disappoint his uncle.<br /><br /> "Yes, my desire is here, by Talitha's side," he said with wistfulness, "but I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed any but myself to lead warriors to the princess' kingdom; her parents will want to speak with someone who has been with her. I will immediately prepare a convoy for the journey to the princess' kingdom." Kamau kissed Talitha's hands and was as good as his word: in two hours, he and the warriors were off.<br /><br /> In three hours, Minkah had sent Rachael, too, off on some pretext, (and suggested to her handmaidens a bath similar to Talitha's). Soon Talitha awakened in a dark, damp imprisonment under the castle. A guard noted her first stirrings, and after commissioning another to take his place, he took the news of the princess' awakening to Minkah. Kamau's uncle immediately descended to the holding place where he had sent Talitha.<br /><br /> "I suppose you are wondering why you are here, although you are obviously too proud to even deign to ask," said Minkah Chafulumisa. When Talitha did not answer, he spoke on as if she had: "I know who you are. I know your plans to destroy this house. And although Kamau is too young and besotted to do what needs to be done, or even to know what needs to be done, I have not been beguiled by your witchery. In the forest, even as I speak, trained hunters seek your brothers, whose enchantment has defiled the image of the sacred ibis. The hunters will kill every one of them. You --I will personally see to it-- you will be burned as a sacrifice to the just God of our fathers at sunrise --as befits a witch." Minkah waited to hear the girl plead and weep. But he was disappointed. In respect, Minkah responded to her solemn silence: "I can tell you have a great deal of royal blood, although I never believed you were a princess." He turned and left Talitha alone with her thoughts.<br /><br /> Talitha could have screamed, tearing her hair and her clothes with confusion and frustration. But she had noticed that whoever had put her in the dungeon had also put her bag of needle weed and all the cloaks she had made in the dungeon as well. So she set to work. She could not allow herself to worry about her brothers (at least not any more than she had already worried); instead, as her fingers, automatically by now, began to fashion another cloak, Talitha silently prayed in her spirit for the safety of her brothers. <span style="font-style:italic;">Hide them, Great Father,</span> (she thought) <span style="font-style:italic;">from the eyes of the hunters --at least until they are men again and can defend themselves. And, oh, God!</span> (She wailed inwardly) <span style="font-style:italic;">Where is my Abayomi?</span> Tears blurred Talitha's eyes for a moment, but only a moment. She wouldn't be able to see if she let herself weep; she wouldn't be able to make cloaks if she couldn't see; so she simply aligned her inner forces with the demands of her duty. And she waited for daybreak.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-86187576795750889022011-02-15T06:28:00.005-05:002011-02-15T13:33:06.600-05:00The Twelve Brothers (Part the Third)"Dear God!" Talitha whispered. "This is what the prophecy meant. But how can I undo this horrible thing?"<br /> <br />"You must listen carefully, Princess, and fail not to accomplish my every word. From this day forth, you may not speak, or even laugh, until you have fashioned, with your own hands, a needle-grass cloak for each of your twelve brothers. Nor can any of you ever return to your parents until you have finished your task. As for these violets, drop them. Let them return to the earth from which they came. When you are able to speak again, they will bloom again." Talitha complied, letting the violets fall to the ground. Immediately, they turned black and sank into the earth. But Talitha had one more question.<br /> <br />"'Needle grass'? I have never heard of such a plant," said the Princess. <br />"You have lived a happy life thus far," responded the Seer. "Needle grass grows only in graveyards and otherwise barren places. It is a vindictive plant, not at all like violets: it stings and blisters the hand that uproots it." With these words, Enobakhare disappeared as quietly as he had appeared.<br /> <br />Talitha shuddered; still, she determined in her heart to accomplish every word of the seer, lest her brothers remain ibis forever. She remembered the question the Seer had asked her long ago: "What evil can you <span style="font-style:italic;">un</span>do?" And from the moment she made that decision, she stopped speaking, spending her days alone, searching for more and more needle grass to make cloaks for her brothers. Her hands became feverish and covered with blisters; still, she spent every waking hour either picking needle grass or sitting in her brothers' cabin, painstakingly fashioning cloaks. Her brothers, now in the form of iridescent black and white ibis, brought her grains and nuts, and occasionally a frog (for which Talitha was grateful, but refused to eat). <br /><br />Three months after Talitha had begun her new quest, Prince Kamau returned to the forest. "Hello, the house!" he called, as he and Montsho approached the cabin. At the sound of his voice, Talitha dropped the cloak she had just finished and rushed to the door. Kamau ran to embrace her, but was dismayed when the princess fell to her knees and began silently to weep.<br /> <br />"These are not tears of joy, such as we shared when we parted," he said, as he raised the Princess to her feet. "What is the matter? Where are your brothers?" Of course, Talitha could not answer him; she only shook harder with grief, though she was very careful not to make a sound. After a while, she ceased to cling to the Prince, and she went back into the cabin and sat down to begin another cloak. Kamau followed her. "Why are you so silent? Can you not even call me by the name my mother gave me?" he asked, looking into her face. But when Talitha's tears fell afresh, Kamau stopped questioning her and began pacing the floor. <br /><br />"I came back to find out why you and your brothers had not come to my kingdom for the celebration. I can see now that I am too late, somehow. What is this you are making? Oh, God!" the Prince whispered, at the sight of Talitha's hands. He noticed, too, how thin and ashen she appeared. "What has happened here? I should never have left. All right, you needn't explain anything to me, but you must let me take you home to your family." When Talitha emphatically shook her head, silently weeping again and covering her face with her hands, the prince changed his tactic.<br /> <br />"Then, please, Talitha, if you cannot go home, come home with me. I myself will make certain that you eat, and I will bathe your hands myself. Please, Talitha, if you do not hate me for leaving you, please come with me." The prince's pleas prevailed upon Talitha, and, gathering the few cloaks and all of the needle grass she had into her bag, she climbed upon Montsho, who stood as still as stone while she did so.<br /> <br />"Noble beast!" Kamau praised his horse, watching. "Hold me tight, now," he said to Talitha, as he mounted in front of her. Talitha secured her bag around her waist and then firmly clasped the Prince about his. She sighed and relaxed, resting her cheek on the Prince's back. Kamau clucked to the horse, and Montsho was off home.<br /> <br />The two rode for days, stopping every now and then to dismount, stretch their legs, drink and eat. Some evenings they slept outside-- or, at least, Kamau did. Talitha continued to silently seek out needle grass and work on her brothers' cloaks. By this time, Kamau had surreptitiously watched Talitha at this work for a long while, but he had stopped asking questions and had determined not to interfere at all-- except to take her to his home, where he felt she would at least be comfortable. And whenever they came upon running water along the way, Kamau would stop and bathe Talitha's blistered and burning hands. Once, while he was carrying out this kindness, Talitha pulled one hand away and caressed his cheek with the back of her fingers. Kamau did not look up into her face at this, but he caught her hand again, and, before continuing to bathe it, he lightly kissed it. Then he said, "Let's go on." And they rode on until, finally, the two reached Kamau's kingdom.<br /> <br />The sentry on the watchtower of Castle Obsidian saw, afar off, two riders on Prince Kamau's horse and cried the news to another sentry, who took the message inside the castle. By the time Kamau and Talitha had approached the gates, Prince Kamau's uncle, Minkah Chafulumisa, was there to meet them. He was a tall, serious faced man, dressed in gold robes curiously embroidered in glittering black. His skin was the color of loamy earth, and his voice was as deep as a lion's; though he spoke with quiet joy at the sight of Kamau, Minkah was obviously surprised to see his young nephew accompanied by the ashy, poorly dressed beauty with circles under her eyes. <br />"Welcome home, nephew --and welcome to your companion . . . uh?" Minkah said, waiting for a name.<br /> <br />"Uncle, this is Princess Talitha," Kamau said, as he helped her dismount. A servant led Montsho away to the stables. "This is the woman I told you about the last time I came home. She has . . . come upon hardship and is in need of succor. I have offered her our home to rest and strengthen herself-- for as long as she needs to stay." <br />Minkah nodded in understanding and agreement. "And what is your trouble, Princess? How otherwise can we offer assistance to you?" But before Talitha would refuse to answer, Kamau spoke up, taking Minkah aside: "She would rather not speak of this trouble. And I, too, wish to exercise the utmost discretion. Let us leave her in peace, uncle, as much as we can." Minkah bowed his head in assent.<br /> <br />"Of course," he replied, and then clapping his hands, told waiting servants, "Make ready the best rooms for our guest!" And to Talitha, he said, "You will stay in my rooms, for as long as you like." And whispered to a servant: "Draw a bath for the Princess as well; use plenty of aromatic oils."<br /> <br />Kamau talked to the silent Talitha: "Although we must separate for now, try not to feel like a stranger. To this household --my household-- you are a kinswoman. As soon as you are rested and refreshed, we will reunite and dine together." Talitha almost smiled at the Prince's words of comfort, and then she allowed the castle's servant women to lead her away to her chambers.<br /> <br />She fell asleep several times in the hot bath full of flower petals, while the women gently massaged her feet and hands –and murmured disapprovingly at the pitiful state of those hands. The eldest servant, called Umm, was bold enough to say, "I am sixty years old and my experience tells me, from your bearing, that you are a noble woman, Princess; but if we had to judge you by your poor hands-- ! What have you been doing?" Umm did not wait for an answer (she seldom did), but, clucking in consternation, ordered medicinal salves for Talitha's hands while the others unbraided, washed, dried and dressed her hair, and then dried, oiled and powdered her skin with the most wonderful smelling ointments and talcs. (They even brushed her teeth and scraped her tongue.) As the women finished dressing Talitha in lovely, soft robes of gold satin, the salves Umm had called for arrived-- in the hands of Kamau.<br /> <br />"I couldn't wait for supper," he said, ignoring Umm's dark disapproval, "and since Umm would be scandalized if I bathed you myself"-- Umm scowled while the other women gasped and tittered-- "I settled for bringing the salves myself." This time, Talitha did smile; the luxurious bath and the beautiful robes had done much to restore her. But she did not forget her mission. She knew that she would not sleep that night, but begin again on her brothers' cloaks and the search for more needle grass. Kamau did not understand Talitha's quest, but he showed how well he was beginning to understand her: with the salves, he brought two pairs of gloves, one pair of soft gold lace, "To wear to dinner," he said; about the other pair, which were lined with down and made of thin, but strong leather, he said nothing. But Talitha knew what he expected them to be used for. <br /><br />"You women may all leave," he said, "all except Umm, since she will not leave anyway, while I am here." <br />"Wise prince, you well know that a noble woman needs a female companion at all times when in a strange place," answered Umm. The other women left. <br />But before the door closed, another woman entered, saying, “And since I’m here, you needn’t remain at all, brother. Not that you will pay any of us any mind,” she added. The woman offered her hand to Talitha. “I’m Rachael, Kamau’s sister,” she said. She was a shorter, feminine version of Kamau, having a deep, beautiful brown face with high cheekbones and white flashing teeth. Her eyes were slightly lighter than her brother’s and her hair longer: it was a thick black halo about her head. <br /><br />"How beautiful but sad you are, Princess! Do not be troubled: Kamau has not betrayed any confidence, and knowing him, he never will. But you may safely tell me nothing, Talitha, because, as you can tell already, I speak my mind. Still, we pray to God for you, to replace your sadness with peace." Rachael gently embraced Talitha and kissed her on the cheek. "And if there is anything I can do to help you-- besides pray-- you have only to speak." <br />"But the Princess does not speak much," interposed Umm meaningly. <br />"Then we will read her wonderful eyes! Or," answered Rachael, gazing at the elder woman suddenly without the merriment, "we will do --and say-- nothing. That has been known to help, at times, as well." And Umm bowed her head, cowed by Rachael's gaze. Apparently, despite her self-deprecating words, Rachael was also like her brother in understanding and diplomacy. While Rachael talked to Umm and Talitha of inconsequentialities –what to expect for dinner and whether the cooks knew what they were about that night-- Kamau gently applied the salve to Talitha's hands, and then gingerly helped her slide the lace gloves on. Talitha's heart turned over again as their eyes met briefly. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I love you, Abayomi,</span> thought Talitha, as she experienced the prince's tender solicitation, <span style="font-style:italic;">And no wonder, for you are the kindest and noblest of men, besides my brothers and my father. The wonder is that you love me, too: a suddenly, strangely silent and lone woman. What can you know of me, to love me?</span> <br />But Kamau would not meet her inquiring gaze again. <span style="font-style:italic;">I cannot look into those eyes long, Talitha, he thought. They are deep pools; even a strong man could lose himself in them. And if I am to help you at all, to love you at all, I cannot lose myself --not yet. </span><br /><br />For Kamau had counted the ibis which had followed Talitha from the forest and now lived near the lake behind Castle Obsidian. He remembered waking during the nights of their trek through the forest, secretly watching Talitha silently fashion cloaks from blistering weeds. Kamau could not tell what evil had bound the thirteen siblings; still, somehow, he understood that Talitha was doing what she could to destroy the yoke of enchantment. Kamau understood that whatever Talitha had to do, she had to do it herself, alone, and that the best way he could help her was to keep others from hindering her. He devoted himself to that work, even, he decided, if he had to leave his kingdom again, with Talitha, until she finished her task.<br /> <br />Supper that night in the Castle's great hall was filled with uncomfortable silences and stilted conversation. Everyone's eyes were drawn to the beautiful, silent girl who ate hardly anything. Minkah looked surreptitiously at the girl. The handmaidens of his niece had braided Talitha's heavy hair into a glistening black crown atop her head. When she lifted her chin, the girl looked regal. Minkah suspected that Kamau had not been duped into accepting a common maid as a princess; it was obvious that the girl had, at least, a great deal of royal blood. Still, while diplomacy and soft spokenness were virtues where women are concerned, the uncle thought, taciturnity was completely inappropriate! What was the matter with the girl? <br /><br />Rachael amused herself with watching her brother watch Talitha, thinking, <span style="font-style:italic;">The man is lost to us forever!</span> She was glad that her brother had finally found a woman to his liking, silent and mysterious though she was. Rachael found Talitha lovely, and she was relieved that the princess had not that "delicate" loveliness which had become fashionable lately. Here was obviously a hardy beauty, proof against even the forest. This woman already bore herself as a strong queen should. But Rachael hoped the mystery would dissipate soon. She had little patience with mystery. <br /><br />Kamau, who knew that Talitha would not speak (though he was not quite sure why), attempted to hide her silence from the company. His attempts fell flat, and they all breathed a sigh of relief when Minkah clapped his hands for the clearing of the table. The men and the women separated (Kamau and Talitha glancing wistfully at each other), and Rachael and Umm took Talitha back to her chambers. <br /><br />"You look weary, as well as sad and beautiful," said Rachael. <br />"She kept falling asleep in her bath, Princess," volunteered Umm. <br />"I've been known to do that myself, after hunting with Kamau," replied Rachael. "In any case, Talitha, you need rest and probably solitude, which can be helpful in times of trouble." When they reached Talitha's chambers, Rachael kissed her again and said, "Rest well, my sister. Perhaps morning will bring an end to trouble. If you need anything, pulling the bell rope near your bed will summon Umm or one of the other servant women." Umm bowed her head and wished Talitha a good night as well.<br /> <br />In another bedroom, Minkah's sleep was troubled and filled with dreams that were trying to remind him of something: a man in white robes speaking over a baby. What had he said? <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"A woman child, born with a star, <br />Will gladly take this man child far: <br />When she brings him back again, <br />His reign can never be the same. <br />Twelve sacred birds will surround this royal house; <br />They come for the woman, and not her future spouse. <br />The twelve ibis are more than birds, <br />But twelve brothers and warriors: hers. <br />Mark well the woman, the star on her head; <br />Mark well these words that I have said." </span><br /><br />Suddenly, Minkah awoke and sat straight up in bed.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-5292749448390914142011-02-06T09:33:00.002-05:002011-02-06T09:50:18.000-05:00The Twelve Brothers (Part the Second)The princess angrily rushed out to find her parents. When she did find them (her father was watching her mother clip roses in the royal garden), she exploded.<br /> <br /> "How could you let me live without knowing?" was all she said at first, but the King and Queen exchanged a look of complete, sorrowful understanding. "Surely," continued the princess, "you could have told me about my brothers. They know about me!" <br /> "We would have told you," began the King slowly, "had the circumstances been different. As it was--" <br /> "You were afraid I'd seek them out and harm them!" the princess gasped. <br /> "No, daughter. We only feared to burden you with a ridiculous guilt." <br /> "'Ridiculous'?" echoed the princess. <br /> "Yes," spoke the Queen for the first time. "Fate so often seems ridiculous." <br /> "'Fate'?" The princess fell silent, thinking, This is what separates me from my brothers: a ridiculous fate. "Tell me about them," she finally said. <br /><br /> King Abdu and Queen Rukiya were surprised at the delight that rushed up within them at the princess' demand. It was as if the desire to boast about their twelve wonderful sons had lain enchanted, asleep, for eighteen years, and could not have been awakened save by that one voice speaking those four words. <br /><br /> So the King and the Queen and the Princess sat on the ground in the garden, and the parents told stories about their twelve sons to the thirteenth child. Often interrupting each other, stumbling over their own and each other's words, and even speaking some words in unison, Abdu and Rukiya told the happy stories, the sad stories, the funny stories, the frightening stories, the strange stories, the important stories, and the unimportant stories about their twelve sons. They told stories that illustrated the personalities, skills, weaknesses, habits, and needs of their twelve sons. They told stories about the friends, enemies, loves and acquaintances of their twelve sons. They told stories that other people, family, advisors, servants, onlookers, had told of their twelve sons. By the time Abdu and Rukiya stopped telling stories, the moon had risen and was beginning to fade again before the dawn; their voices were ragged and hoarse, their cheeks blotted with falling, dried and fresh tears.<br /> <br /> And Talitha had wept, too. Finally she asked the question she had asked the day before: "How could you let me live without knowing?" And one other question: "How could you live without telling me?" Yet even as she asked these questions, she knew there was no answer--none the King and Queen could give her, in any case. A ridiculous fate, she kept thinking, separates me from my twelve fine brothers.<br /> <br /> For three days and nights, the princess neither spoke nor slept after that. The servants and advisors to the royal family, wisely sensing great agony of soul, whispered and tiptoed about. <br /><br /> But Enobakhare the seer was nowhere to be found. <br /><br /> At supper, the King and Queen met each other's eyes over the Princess' weary head with apprehension. Outside, a storm, complete with gray, brooding clouds, over the palace threatened, and there seemed to be a storm threatening within the walls as well. <br /><br /> At the beginning of the fourth day, the storm broke with a great clash of thunder. It was the same clash that heralded Princess Talitha's entrance into Enobakhare the Seer's solitary, drafty, brightly lit suite of rooms, located in a parapet of the palace. The Seer turned from a great old book on a stone table to meet the burning eyes of Princess Talitha. <br /> "Where are they?" she demanded.<br /> <br /> When the King and Queen learned of their daughter's firm intention to bring her brothers home, they were filled with dismay. But neither of them resisted Princess Talitha's resolve. <br /><br /> "We have attempted to thwart Fate," murmured Rukiya. "But although it was a grand struggle, we remain powerless." The King folded his wife into his arms. <br /> "There is still hope," he said. “We will continue to pray.” <br /> In that hope, the royal city saw Princess Talitha off with great rejoicing. There were three days of singing, dancing and eating, the last of which Talitha enjoyed with gusto: who knew when she would next eat so well?<br /> <br /> On her journey, the princess would carry three changes of light textured, dark green clothing, most of which were coveralls with cowls or hoods; seven changes of undergarments; a black cloak; she carried insect repelling salves and healing ointments; strong, but light footed brown boots; a sharp, short heavy knife in a thick, leather sheath, a heavy bag (which converted into a enveloping sleep pallet) made of leather and canvas, to carry over one shoulder; a stout walking stick (which doubled as a sort of bayonet when its shoe was removed); several short, thick rolls of white cotton cloth; a brown loaf of soy bread as big and round ("and as hard," said the King) as Talitha's head; and a skin of water. The food would last several weeks if the princess ate and drank sparingly. The princess left her golden crown and gorgeous robes at home. <br /><br /> Early in the morning of the fourth day, Princess Talitha bound up her braided hair and set off in search of her brothers. She began her journey trudging through the great, dark forest, the edge of which her brothers had inhabited months before her birth. The forest was so great, she had been told, that it would take two months to cross it on foot, even if it hadn't been filled with strangling snakes, slavering wolves, smothering sand pits, sharp-toothed panthers, poisonous plants and seemingly starving, ever-present insects. Talitha learned quickly never to lean, stand, sit or lie on any thing before careful examination. <br /><br /> But the forest was beautiful, too. Filled with multitudinous shades of green life and gold light, clear pools dancing with silver fish, riotous (in sound and appearance) birds, and the most marvelous insects, the forest became a delight as well as a challenge to the princess. She soon learned to spear the fish that moved, as well as looked, like mercury, and found that a book knowledge of plants and animals (acquired in eighteen years of palace schooling) would save her life a thousand times.<br /> <br />Her favorite creatures were spiders, some of which were hardy enough to catch small fish in their waterproof webs. The princess admired spiders most because of their tenacity: the willingness to fashion and re-fashion webs whether the originals were destroyed by prize or peril; the patience to wait and wait for the thrill of a thread, which betokened survival; and the boldness ready to fight any enemy, regardless of size. Ants were as bold, but lacked separate wills, individuality. Bees had the same mindless drive as ants. No, spiders were best, displaying initiative, creativity, courage, and (most easy for the princess to immediately identify with) the ability to cope with prolonged solitude.<br /> <br /> Her solitude broke on the third week of Princess Talitha's trek. While sitting on a (carefully examined) rock just long enough to wipe her brow and take one swallow of water from her bag, the princess heard the snap of a twig, the whisper of leaves against cloth and the jingle of a bell. Having dashed quickly, quietly, carefully behind a broad, ivy-draped tree, the princess stared in the direction of the sounds. Her heart thudded in her ears. One of her twelve brothers? <br /><br /> No, for though he was a man, and apparently of royal birth, he carried no green and gold. His family's colors were, apparently, black and gold, for that was what he, and the night black horse he was leading, wore. His feet were covered in dull black hunting boots, his well muscled legs, slim gold trousers; he wore a matching light, gold jacket with a cowl which was black on one side and gold on the other. There was a square on his right breast pocket that was cut into four smaller squares, one gold, one black, one black, one gold. He was much taller than Talitha (who stood taller than the tallest woman in her kingdom); he had beautiful broad shoulders, and his biceps bulged in his sleeves. A pretty shape! thought the princess. Curse that cowl for covering his face! The sound of bells came from the horse's braided leather harness, which was also black and gold, as was the saddle and the blanket under the saddle.<br /> <br /> "Whoever you are," said suddenly a deliciously deep voice from the cowl, making the princess jump, "it's too late to hide. I have seen you already. Come out. I mean you no harm." As the speaker was coming closer with each word and obviously headed straight for her hiding place, Talitha quickly, quietly unsheathed her short knife (though she did not hold it out in the open) and stepped out from behind the tree.<br /> <br /> "'Harmless' hardly hides," said Talitha, gesturing with her free hand at the cowl. The stranger, understanding, removed his cowl, revealing deep ebon brown skin, deep set brown eyes, a wide nostriled nose, full lips, and crisply thick, black, close cropped hair. He smiled, disclosing perfect teeth and a dimple in his chin, but it was too late for the dimple: the stark planes along his cheeks had already snared Talitha's heart. <br /><br /> "I was hardly the one hiding," he responded. "My name is Prince Kamau. But my mother," he went on, "called me Abayomi.” He paused. “I don’t tell many people that name. Are you in trouble?" <br /> "I am Talitha. I come from the kingdom far on the other side of this forest. I am not in trouble, but I am far from home, seeking twelve lost kinsmen." <br /> "Are they lost, or are you?" Kamau smiled again. "My kingdom is far on that side of the great forest, six weeks away, but you are welcome to ride home with me and restore your provisions." He patted his horse's neck, and it snorted and shook its head. "Montsho can bear the weight of another friend." Kamau's eyes twinkled as he added, "You see I call you 'friend' –although your knife has not yet decided." Talitha's face grew hot as she brought the knife out from the folds of her cloak and sheathed it. <br /> "Your offer is kind to a stranger, but I cannot forsake my quest. It may not last much longer, and after I find my brothers, we can seek out your kingdom, so that you may celebrate with us." <br /> "Your brothers? They do not live in the kingdom? Or," Kamau quickly added, as a shadow fell over Talitha's face, "Maybe they are on a hunting trip, as I am." <br /> "I will tell you the story one day, should my quest be successful," Talitha said simply. <br /> "Well, if I cannot persuade you to come home with me," responded the prince, "maybe you will stop at the cabin yonder. It's not mine, to offer its hospitality, but the young woodsman who lives there seems friendly enough. Allow Montsho and me to show you the way. Would you like to ride?" Talitha inclined her head at this fresh kindness, although she refused the ride, so Prince Kamau also walked, alongside his horse, holding the rein, as he led Talitha to a little cabin in the forest. It was so craftily built to be hidden among the shadows and trees of the forest that, had Talitha not met the prince, she might not have found the cabin alone.<br /> <br /> "Hello, the house!" cried Kamau as the two approached. The door opened, and Talitha looked into the face of her youngest brother. She knew it was he by his stark resemblance to her mother. He was the same height as Talitha, broader across the shoulders, but carried his mother in his smooth, heavy eyebrows, long, dark eyes, and sculptured lips. His skin was the color of carob powder. Before she knew it, Talitha had flung herself at him, startling Kamau and the young man both. <br /><br /> "God be praised, brother! I am your sister, Talitha," she explained once she had caught her breath. "Look at me. Can't you see I am your kinswoman?" As Adisa held the stranger at arm's length, he could. The mixed feelings of bitterness and fear that he and his brothers had known for eighteen years gave way to wonder as Adisa gazed upon the lovely, open face of his sister. <br /> "There is my father," Adisa whispered, "in the shape of your brow and the line of your nose. But," he continued, as tears flowed from his eyes, "your smile is my mother's." Adisa realized then that he had no choice but to love his sister, regardless of fate or prophecy. He knew his brothers would feel the same. <br /> "It appears there will be a celebration," murmured Kamau. He could feel his eyes burning, too. <br /> "Yes!" replied Adisa. "The celebration starts now. Please stay with us, Kamau, until my eleven brothers return, and share our joy." <br /> "My desire is here," said Kamau, as his eyes gently brushed Talitha's face, "but I have been away from home for more than a month now. I must return to the kingdom. However, at the palace, I will make ready to receive you and your brothers, to continue the celebration." Talitha turned to Kamau and embraced him, too. <br /> "Surely I, with your mother, can now call you Abayomi. Providence brought us together," she said. <br /> "Neither my mother nor my father is with me any longer," responded the prince, "so I haven't heard that name in a long time. I like the sound of it from your lips. I am overjoyed that your quest has come to a happy end. You and your twelve brothers must not forget to bless my kingdom with a visit. Please." <br /> "It will give us great pleasure to share our joy with you, Kamau, our benefactor," said Adisa. The prince climbed upon his black horse and, saluting the reunited brother and sister, rode away.<br /> <br /> At nightfall, Talitha's other brothers, Chinelo, Akil, Liu, Nizam, Fadil, Chijioke, Masomakali, Harith, Tabari, Jawhar, and Shawki, returned. (They had been hunting, as Kamau had surmised.) Each was envious that it had not been his turn to stay home that day, and so be the first to welcome their sister after eighteen years. At first sight of her, they, too, loved Talitha with all their hearts. And Talitha found that looking at her brothers was like looking at portraits of her beloved parents. <br /><br /> "Our parents," said Tabari, "must learn of this reunion. As soon as possible, we must all return home and end their worries." All the brothers and Talitha agreed, but Masomakali pointed out, “It will be another whole day before we can be ready. But after that, come the dawn, we must be on our way." So that night, the twelve princes and their princess sister feasted and regaled each other with stories of their lives while they had been apart. They felt so much joy, they could hardly sleep for the excitement at the thought of seeing their parents' faces. <br /><br /> The next morning, Chinelo, Akil, Liu, Nizam, Fadil, Chijioke, Masomakali, Harith, Tabari, Jawhar, Shawki, Adisa, and Talitha began packing up everything portable in the cabin. And then, at one point, all of the princes had to leave Talitha: each of them had left something in the forest that he wanted to take back with him. <br /><br /> "We will return," they said, "cook supper, and begin our rest for the morning's journey." And off they went, in twelve different directions, it seemed. <br /><br /> Alone in the cabin, Talitha decided to decorate the only thing they would not be able to carry home: the large, heavy table Nizam had built for meal times. Talitha went outside the cabin, looking for beautiful plants, and she was charmed to find twelve violets growing together, but alone, in a clearing. Talitha had seen violets in the forest before, but never so many blooms in one plant, and never so large. Each blossom was as large as the palm of Talitha's hand, with royal purple petals surrounding a gold center. Talitha knew such a gorgeous bouquet, as a centerpiece to her brothers' table, would gladden their last day in the cabin. <br /><br /> She sang as she plucked the violets, but as soon as she had gently snapped the stem of the last one, Talitha heard a thunderclap, and the sky darkened about her. She turned at the sound of a soft step behind her, and was hardly surprised to see the face of Enobakhare. <br /> "Good cheer, Seer," she greeted him. "I suppose you have learned of my safe reunion with my brothers." Talitha said these last words almost with gloating, remembering the prophecy with which Enobakhare had troubled their lives. <br /> "'Safe'?" responded the prophet. "But what is that in your hand?" <br /> "They are flowers for my brothers' table," said Talitha, and she was about to add, "Aren't they beautiful?" when she looked again at them and saw that they were very quickly wilting. "Oh, the poor things! I should never have plucked them!" <br /> "You are quite right, Princess," said Enobakhare. "For these are more than flowers: these are the bodies of your twelve brothers, who are now soaring the wind in the shape of ibis. Unless you can undo the harm you have wrought them, they will remain sacred waterfowl forever." By now, Princess Talitha had fallen weakly to her knees in horror. The wilting violets she managed to keep, though, gently cradling them in her hands.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-32919835390716585942011-01-31T06:52:00.006-05:002011-01-31T14:34:58.829-05:00The Twelve Brothers (Part the First)<span style="font-weight:bold;">When my sister and I were kids, Mama bought us an LP titled <span style="font-style:italic;">Goldilocks and the Three Bears (and other stories)</span>. We listened to those stories over and over. We liked the Goldilocks story, which covered all of one side of the LP: it was familiar. But on the "B" side were "The Shoemaker and the Elves" and "The Twelve Brothers." To this day, my sister and I remember all of the stories, the sound of the narrator and the music, but, to this day, the only story we quote is "The Twelve Brothers." ("<span style="font-weight:bold;">WHY </span>couldn't you leave the flowers alone? They were your twelve brothers.")The tale of the girl who saved her brothers from enchantment sticks with us. So one day, having determined that the original story was too grisly for my (then-very-little) daughters, I adapted the Grimm Brothers' story for them. Friends and family have seen this story. (One friend has read it over and over to her son, to the point where he calls it HIS story. Another friend has offered to illustrate it.) My dream is that my version of this tale be published, with Steve Prince's illustrations, and, one day, it will become the foundation of an animated feature film. Until then, I shall loan it to your eyes and imaginations. Enjoy.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">THE TWELVE BROTHERS </span><br />Once upon a time, in a happy, green and gold country of beautiful brown people, lived wise, kind King Abdu and Queen Rukiya, who had eleven sons. Each of the sons, in addition to being strong and handsome, was adept and skilled in at least one discipline: science, mathematics, music, architecture, finance, art, astronomy, agriculture, history, poetry, or religion. But all, Chinelo, Akil, Liu, Nizam, Fadil, Chijioke, Masomakali, Harith, Tabari, Jawhar, and Shawki, were, like their parents, wise in many matters and kind to every living being. <br /><br />One day the royal family began a great celebration because the royal physician, Moyo, had discovered that Queen Rukiya was expecting a twelfth child. But Rukiya was filled with disappointment when her physician told her, a few months before she was due to bring forth the new child, that it would be another boy. <br /><br />“I love my sons, but I had so been hoping for a daughter this time—to keep me company,” she confided to her husband the king. “I watch you with our young men, teaching them to hunt, to be strong, to be real men –and I envy your connection. The things you have in common.” <br /><br />Abdu smiled and shook his head. “Some of our sons have more in common with you than with me. Jawhar, for example—“ <br /><br />“I mean,” the queen interrupted, “I want someone I can teach woman things. To pass on the knowledge my foremothers have given me.” <br /><br />“Well, my heart, I suppose I can understand your disappointment,” replied the king, “but I am glad you’re having another son. After all, a daughter could never gain us a kingdom. She could only lose one.” It may have been her pregnancy affecting her, but the queen suddenly felt misunderstood –and a little insulted. <br /><br />“Is that all you can think of? What your children can get for you?” <br /><br />“My dear!” began the king, but the queen had stormed out of his presence. She ran into the royal suite and snatched off her royal robes before a waiting woman could help her. At first, Rukiya was so angry she noticed no one in the room with her, but as the other women kept touching her, trying to help her, she impatiently commanded them to leave her. Then she pulled out some traveling clothes --her husband’s shirts because she was too filled out with child to fit her own. After dressing hastily, and throwing together a few other things in a bag, she seized a pre-nuptial gift --a large, beautiful violet in an ornate earthen pot—and left the castle. No one had the nerve to stop her. <br /><br />In the middle of a nearby forest, Queen Rukiya dropped, out of breath and sobbing, to her knees. She reached for the violets she had brought with her and placed them next to her knees. Then she began to dig a shallow hole in the rich, black earth. As she dug, she prayed: “Righteous Father, You know I am not ungrateful for my family. I dearly love my husband and my sons, but if –if You could –if You would. . . . I promise to raise her to be righteous as You are righteous, if You would just give me a strong daughter. And, please, if You would also knit her brothers’ hearts to her, I would praise You forever.” At first, Rukiya thought, amused, Isn’t this a bit much to ask Him? Then she remembered: He’s God! He can do what He pleases. So she continued, “ Oh, Father, I would that You would be pleased to grant my prayer, and that the answer to my prayer bring glory to Your great name.” As she transplanted the violet from the pot to the ground, Rukiya began to weep again. Her tears watered the violet. <br /><br />In four months, Queen Rukiya brought forth her twelfth son, whom she and the king christened Adisa. (The little boy turned out to be as bright as his brothers, and manifested a propensity for languages.) And twenty-five months later, the queen was found to be with her thirteenth child.<br /> <br />The thirteenth prenatal celebration in the Great Hall of the Palace had roared on for about seven days, with ecstatic dancing, loud music, and the most savory foods, when the royal seer, Enobakhare, clothed from neck to toe in a stark white caftan, rose up in the midst of the revelers and cried out in an eerie, high voice:<br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"The birth of a thirteenth child <br />May not be cause for joy <br />Unless Queen Rukiya's child <br />Is born a thirteenth boy. <br />A woman child will bring <br />Sorrow upon the head <br />Of princes, queen and king; <br />Heed well what I have said.”</span><br /> <br />This announcement, of course, abruptly ended the celebration. Queen Rukiya, who was four months pregnant then and moody as a matter of course, burst into tears and ran from the Great Room to lock herself into the Royal Bedroom. None of her favorite handmaidens could comfort her, and once she emerged from her seclusion, even the King was powerless to do more than quiet her weeping. After the seer's portentous announcement, no one could find Enobakhare to ask for details or clarity. Misery covered Queen Rukiya's face for four months. <br /><br />For five months, the twelve princes, having understood that the birth of a sister would somehow endanger their lives in particular, decided to live just outside the palace in a great, dark forest. They had agreed upon a signal with their father concerning the birth of the baby: they were to watch the parapet of the palace at the end of the five months for the appearance of a flag. If the flag was green, it meant that the Queen had brought forth another son, and the twelve could return in peace; but if the flag was white, it meant that the Queen had brought a daughter into the world, and the twelve sons should flee for their lives, never to return home. <br /><br />At the end of five months, the twelve watched the parapet every day for three days, holding their breaths. On the fourth day, a white flag appeared, and the twelve strong and handsome princes left their royal home sadly, believing they would never see it again. <br /><br />In the palace, although there was great mourning, King Abdu and Queen Rukiya could not help but love their thirteenth child at first sight of her, because the baby princess was so beautiful. Her skin was the color of smooth mahogany; she already had a full head of thick, soft, onyx black hair; her eyes were a wise, sparkly brown; her nose was a round button; her mouth was full and chocolate rose; she was plump and joyful, and even her voice, like a little bell, was a blessing to the ear. The princess seldom cried, and remained alert for long periods of time, apparently examining her new world with clarity. She had a tiny, deep chocolate star between her thick, black eyebrows. The princess' parents did not know what kind of person she would be, so they named her what they could see she was: a "little girl," Talitha. <br /><br />As the years passed and the King and Queen mourned the disappearance of their sons, yet they rejoiced at every appearance of their maturing daughter, for rather than being evil, as they had feared, the Princess Talitha was, instead, good and powerful, kind and wise, as her parents and brothers had always been. In time, the Princess studied and excelled in each of the twelve disciplines her brothers had mastered. And in time, the King and Queen's greatest sorrow was in the fact that Princess Talitha's brothers would never know and delight in their sister.<br /> <br />Until Princess Talitha reached the age of eighteen years, she never knew she had brothers. Every member of the royal household had been sworn to secrecy. But early one day, while wandering through the green and gold halls of the palace, she came upon a room she had never seen before. Finding the door locked, the princess hesitated only a moment before removing two slender but ornate, heavy hair pins from her braided thick hair, and gently manipulating them in the lock until she heard the tumblers fall. The princess turned the copper doorknob and entered the room. <br /><br />The room's walls were papered in green and gold; the room itself was full of clothing-- beautiful men's clothing: silk shirts, linen trousers, satin stoles, soft leather shoes, belts and boots, pure virgin wool jackets, pants of soft cotton—and all dyed in the most wondrous blood reds, jungle greens, earthy browns, ebon blacks, rich gold, and, of course, royal purples. Princess Talitha cried out like a baby with the pleasure of looking at and touching the dazzling array of clothing, hung carefully in twelve recesses along the walls of the room. <br /><br />"Whose clothes are these?" she asked herself aloud. She knew they weren't her father's-- not all of them; many were too small or too young in design for her old, stuffy father the King. She had just noticed that a different monogram decorated all of the clothes in each recess when she heard a soft step behind her. Princess Talitha turned. <br /><br />"These are the clothes of your twelve brothers, my princess," spoke the seer Enobakhare, enveloped in dead white. And the prophet told the princess her life story. By the end of the story (when the beautiful princess picks the lock of the mysterious door), Princess Talitha was sitting on the lush green carpeted floor, not feeling so powerful as she usually did. <br /><br />"But what evil will I wreak upon them?" <br />"Who can tell, Princess?" <br />"Surely I can control my own will. I am not evil hearted. And true evil can only be deliberately, intentionally wrought, can it not?" <br />"Who can tell, Princess?" <br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">You</span> can tell, Seer," replied the princess, finally standing in irritation. "You can tell me something. You <span style="font-style:italic;">will</span> tell me something." The "or else" hung in the air, unsaid, but not unheard. <br />"Yea, Princess, I can tell this: the question is not 'what evil can you do?' but 'what evil can you <span style="font-style:italic;">un</span>do?'" And before the princess could open her mouth, the Seer had turned and departed. (Enobakhare alone, among all King Abdu and Queen Rukiya's subjects, could leave the royal presence without permission.)Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-43281766156679455482010-08-31T14:41:00.002-05:002010-08-31T15:41:38.898-05:00Technical "Support"FYI: Micrograde is a virtual gradebook. It's sold by Chariot.<br />G<br /><br />On Sat, Aug 28, 2010 at 3:41 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I'm trying to install Micrograde 6.0 on my Mac. Everything works but the serial number: when I type it in, I get the error message: "This is a Windows serial number. Contact Chariot for a valid Macintosh OSX."<br /><br /> <br /><br />Please advise.<br /><br />J. Blackwell</span><br /><br /> <br /><br />On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 3:01 PM, Technical Support <helllp@chariot.com> wrote:<br /><br />What is the serial number you are using?<br /><br /> <br /><br />On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 1:09 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">WXXXHSXX-60000-SXXXX. </span> <br /><br /> <br /><br />On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 4:37 PM, Technical Support <helllp@chariot.com> wrote:<br /><br />This license is only for Windows. Because it is a site (school) license, if you want to add a Mac license, the entire site license must be upgraded. The cost to upgrade the entire license (providing serial numbers for both Mac and Windows) would be $1,245.00<br /><br /> <br /><br />On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 2:54 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Yes. <span style="font-style:italic;">As I told you</span>, the error message said that it was a Windows serial number. However, the software is labeled as "compatible with Mac AND Windows."<br /><br /> <br />So now you're saying the label is in error? </span><br /><br /> <br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 11:19 AM, Technical Support <helllp@chariot.com> wrote:<br /><br />No. I'm not saying that. Pay attention!<br /><br /> <br /><br />Just because the software is compatible with both Mac and Windows, just because MicroGrade will RUN on a Macintosh, that does not mean YOU have the right to run it on a Macintosh.<br /><br /> <br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 9:53 AM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Please try not to be rude.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As I am a professor at the college which bought the Micrograde software --and I am attempting to use it at home as well as at work-- I am paying attention. I have to inform the library that the software is in fact compatible with Macs --because the pertinent license --which would enable the professor to actually the software on a Mac-- will cost the college another $1K.<br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br />I will pass on this conversation. Thank you for your attention (if not your courtesy). <br /><br /> </span><br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 1:13 PM, Technical Support <helllp@chariot.com> wrote:<br /><br />You got what you gave. If you don't want to <span style="font-style:italic;">be</span> lectured, don't lecture.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Nonetheless, if you are the only professor planning to use the software on a Mac, it would be much less expensive to purchase an individual license only for yourself. The regular price is $89.95, but it can be purchased online for $79.95 at this address:<br /><br />micrograde.html<br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Lecture"? I asked a few questions, for the sake of clarity. I asked for help.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Thank you again.</span><br /><br /> <br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 1:30 PM, Technical Support <helllp@chariot.com> wrote:<br /><br /> <br /><br />"Yes. As I told you, the error message ..."<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 2:00 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ah. Because you repeated what I had already said, and I pointed that out, you call that "lecture," not clarification.<br /><br /> <br />I see. I've sent our conversation to those in charge of software purchase for our library.</span><br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 4:04 PM, Technical Support <helllp@chariot.com> wrote:<br /><br /> No, the underlining, you genius. The underlining. Emphasis has a subtext that is usually more powerful than the words themselves. Didn't they ever teach you that in school? It's why God invented italics. If you don't understand that, you might want consider banishing underlining from your written repertoire. (And take a remedial interpersonal communication course.) But I think you do understand that and you're just playing the innocent. (Not too convincingly.)<br /><br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">"I see. I've sent our conversation to those in charge of software purchase for our library."</span> Meaning what exactly? Do you think that's some kind of scary threat? <span style="font-weight:bold;">You haven't spent a dime here for over 6 years.</span> We're not holding our breath. If you don't want the school to pony up for the Mac version, that is more of an inconvenience to you than to us. Go ahead and cut off your pretty nose to spite your lovely face.<br /><br /> Oh, and don't forget to send this along to them as well.<br /><br />On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 4:41 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">There is no difference between underlining and italics. Both are emphatic typography. The problem is not my underlining, but your over-reaction to it.<br /><br />I don't threaten. I inform.<br /><br />Thank you again for your attention.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-83184130239834483312010-06-09T16:18:00.003-05:002010-06-09T16:25:41.855-05:00Look. Just unfriend me now and avoid the Xmas rush.Let me say, first of all, that I firmly and deeply believe that you, my actual Fb fam, should befriend whom you please. And, truly, really, and sincerely, I do <span style="font-weight:bold;">not</span> believe that every Fb friend <span style="font-weight:bold;">YOU</span> have is a measure of the kind of person you are. Sho, y'all have your befriend reasons, as I certainly have mine. But n. b.: <br /><br />if you have a friend who does not read for comprehension, and s/he, consequently, responds uncomprehendingly to my comment or your comment, or somebody else's comment, to your post;<br /><br />or if s/he attacks you or another friend's grammar, ungrammatically, or spelling, unspelltically;<br /><br />or if s/he begins to obsess over The End of The World As We Know It (in 2012, specifically);<br /><br />or if s/he seems to be choosing ANONYMOUS and obviously psychotic Teabaggers over you or your friends, whom s/he actually knows; <br /><br />or if s/he attacks you or another friend, howsomever;<br /><br />I will respond in unkind. <br /><br />Now, I <span style="font-weight:bold;">have</span> read your snotty little statuses concerning my (or anyone's) responding to your snotty little statuses, and I know you have the right to delete my snotty little comments on your snotty little statuses, but think: how many of your friends will see my snottiness (and begin to characterize you as One Like Unto Me) before you get a chance to disclaim and delete it? <br /><br />Think on that, beloved (and, of course, whether you hold with my abbreviation of <span style="font-style:italic;">Christmas</span>), and consider that friend thang, as regards you, me, and Facebook.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my Brother, I'm tryin to do right. Really, I am. Help.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-52521031476669468192010-04-28T13:55:00.001-05:002010-04-28T14:03:10.749-05:00Birds' BrainsFor some reason, when they had a score of the lushest bushes and trees to choose among, a couple of robins instead chose one of the busiest thoroughfares in our neighborhood: the porch light over our front door. I’ve seen a lot of nests in my day, but theirs is the first I’ve seen so close or so often. It seemed to have sprung fully-formed from the imaginations of those crazy birds. The first time I saw it –my older brother brought it to our attention—it was finished.<br /> <br /> “When in the world did they find the time to build it?” I wondered aloud. <a href="http://depts.washington.edu/natmap/facts/american_robin/nest.html">Apparently, it may take only a few days</a> to build the kind of nest Robin built, but it’s supposed to last for at least a month. <br /> “Y’all gotta get out more often,” my brother said. And that’s the thing: any sensible coupla birds would have recognized our front door as entirely too busy for feathery family building. <br /><br />I’ve known a lot of birds. Mama once had a parakeet, and she loved that bird. He used to chirp at her, specifically, and Mama called him “Tweety Bird.” He flew away one day when I was cleaning out his nest, and somebody opened the back door. When I was a kid, I had two <a href="http://www.feathersite.com/Poultry/Pigeons/Doves/BRKRingNeckDove.html ">ring-necked doves</a>, one male and one female (or so I was told by the folk who gave ‘em to me). They lived in a tall, tall birdcage that stood, on long legs, on the floor. The female would lay an egg or two, and the male would dive down and crush them. Easy come, easy go. We gave them away eventually. But after that (I think it was after that), I took home a wild baby bird, somebody the neighborhood Girls’ Club had found, for the weekend. I fed it Daily Dog Food, which was canned and mostly cereal, and, apparently (consequently?), isn’t sold anymore, as far as I can tell. That bird died when I brought it back to the Girls’ Club, and somebody fed it too big a morsel to gulp down. I remember my sister and me finding a lot of baby birds one day when we were little and lived in “the country” (Franklin, Virginia, under the Union Carbide Paper Mill). Because Mama refused to let one more bird in the house, we stationed the babies on bush limbs near the house. Of course, next morning, we learned that we had given some cat/s a tasty night meal.<br /> <br />One wild bird even died in my hands (somebody said of a heart attack). That’s the bird I remember most. I worried about Robin having a heart attack, all the time. It seemed to me, in the early days of the nest –when Goobs and I kept forgetting about it until we heard the panicked flutter of wings just overhead—that Robin watched our approach, made herself sit there and sit there on her clutch, the sound of her heart hammering in her little bird ears, until she could stand the terror no longer and had to fly off, leave her babies –almost certainly to be eaten by Brobdingnagians.<br /> <br />And then, when the coast was clear, she’d come back and start all over again.<br /> <br />And then there was the precariousness of the situation. To me, the nest seems shaped like a thick, messy, shapeless handbag, draped over our porch light. I pictured shattered little eggshells strewed all over our concrete front porch. One morning, it seemed my fears had been realized.<br /><br />“Yo*, I found an empty eggshell on the porch,” Goobs, heading back from taking out the recycling, said. <br />“Blue?”<br />“Yeah.” Aw, man. Robin’s babies didn’t make it, I thought. Or an egg fell out. Or one went rotten because Robin hadn’t had enough brood time, what with the front door opening and slamming all hours of the day and night. I had predicted the screams of hungry baby birds greeting us as we went inside and came outside. (Goobs promised to yell, “Get it together!*” if she heard too much screaming.) Now it wasn’t going to happen. My heart sank.<br /><br />And then one evening, on my way out to bible study, I looked up and saw the little gold beaks peeking out of the nest. Robin’s babies were here! I was suddenly filled with a sense of the miraculous. <br /><br />Life goes on, somehow, in spite of everything pointed at it, conniving against it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my Brother, teach us to keep hoping and believing and looking up.<br /></span><br /><br />*She’s Really Cool. That’s why she talks that way.<br />*Goobs’ currently favorite injunctionGinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-53828849035744853612009-12-17T11:05:00.002-05:002009-12-17T11:22:18.439-05:00Xmas at HHSLast year, HHS's winter concert was okay. The year before was really sad (even though the band had Juice. LOL). The problem was the band director, an ironically named gentleman who was once arrested at a football game for disobeying the police (who had asked him to quiet the band for a minute). IMO, he was a poor example, and poor disciplinarian: this poverty showed up in the band's performance. He left HHS last year. He was kind to my girls, and so I managed not to hate him, but he was sloppy and immature as a band director.<br /><br />Mr. B, the new director, isn't perfect. I think he's swung in the extreme opposite direction, thereby sucking the fun out of Band, but the HHS concert band was bigger and better than it was last year. Mr. B. did good.<br /><br />During the concert, one of the musicians did something bizarre (IMO). A friend of Juice and Goobs plays the French horn (and, really, anything he wants to play, like Juice). He's tall and handsome and well-behaved. (He once told Goobs, "Your mother <i>loves</i> me: she thinks I'm handsome and well behaved." His conversations with his father are peppered with "sirs.") If I were Goobs' age, I'd have a crush on the young man, but when they were both freshmen, he habitually annoyed The Section Leader --and her sister*-- by <i>asking questions</i> before doing what he was told.<br /><br />Anyway, last night, in the middle of a performance, the child <i>took his horn apart</i> and shook the spit out of it. He's First Horn, so he was on the front, where everybody could see him. No, the French horns weren't playing at the time (it was a percussion passage, in fact), but I got a little nervous about whether he'd get the thang back together in time to play. He did, but after the concert, right after he'd hugged me, I did ask him what in the world he was thinking. A very proper young man, he tried to explain --without using the word <i>spit</i> or <i>slobber</i>-- that what he had done positively affected the sound of the horn. (I helped him out, of course, by offering him those words, and agreeing with my semantics, he said, "Yes, ma'am. I drool a lot.")<br /><br />The chorus (not Mr. B's purview) sounded really good, too, but I was distracted by a child who apparently did not know or care about how she should behave during a concert. She stood with crossed arms, kept fidgeting and digging at her hair, actually hitting herself on the head sometimes, removed and replaced both earrings, and even carried on a briefly-mouthed conversation with somebody in the audience --during the singing. I was truly hard-pressed not to walk up to the stage and have a word with her. There were a hundred and something kids on the stage, all with proper singing aspects, so how does one child --yes, again in the front-- manage to miss out on The Rules? ARRGH. But they sounded good.<br /><br />Interesting how much more patient I am with the handsome young men, huh?<br /><br /><i>Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to love on all of our children.</i><br /><br />*I'll give you one guess.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-53784704362894172552009-10-01T14:52:00.003-05:002009-10-02T07:18:05.324-05:00A Propos of NothingI just left my third class today, inflicted a test on my students, and at the end of class, the same two students who hang around were hanging around. These are black women about my age. One was trying to make her way to the door when the other, still at her desk, looking at the floor between her feet, said, "You know what, Ms. B?"<br /><br />"What, Ms. [Student]?"<br /><br />"They killed my neighbor this week." And she told us about this friendly guy who had recently moved in near her apartment (a neighborhood across the street from the first* house Ex-Husband and I lived in, it so happens), a guy about our age. He had begun to hang out with some of the young men in the area, drinking, staying up late, and showing the boys his guns, when my student took him to the side --Tuesday night-- and told him he'd better cut it out.<br /><br />"Those young guys don't care nothin about you," she warned him. "Hit your knees and make friends with the Lord. You better pray." Of course, he paid her no mind.<br /><br />By Wednesday morning, the police were banging on Ms. Student's door: her neighbor was dead, murdered, she believes, with one of his own guns. (It had disappeared earlier this week.) One of the worst things about this story was Ms. Student's apparent attempts to "get over this" as soon as possible. She said she didn't think she'd be able to.<br /><br />"They murdered him," she said. "Murdered him. Murdered him. And he never meant no harm to <span style="font-style:italic;">nobody</span>."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, help us to know the advantage in being wise as serpents and harmless as doves.</span><br /><br />*And last.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-56945431232304971192009-09-09T09:24:00.006-05:002009-09-09T11:37:46.161-05:00I have to do this now, while it's still fresh.I'm ready to talk about my Tuesday now. You may not be ready to hear about it, and that's fine. <br /><br />Those of y'all still here? This happened. <br /><br />I woke up to rain on the morning it was my turn to take the dogs out. Used to be, Juice and Goobs took turns with the dogs, but since Juice left for college, I'm taking up the slack. I don't mind feeding them, combing them, training them or playing with them, but I <span style="font-style:italic;">hate </span>taking them outside. When we lived at the other house, we used to just <span style="font-style:italic;">let </span>them outside. But that house had a fence. This one does not, so the dogs must be taken, or one or both of them will make a break for it, and hours'll pass before it occurs to Nimue or Frody (<span style="font-style:italic;">especially </span>that idiot, Frody), "Hey, I <span style="font-style:italic;">live </span>somewhere around here. Better go home, where they love me. Kinda." Poor dogs. Now, there are definite advantages, actually, to <span style="font-style:italic;">taking </span>the dogs, as opposed to <span style="font-style:italic;">loosing </span>the dogs to the back yard: one is that the Taker gets to decide (more or less) where each dog pees and poops. Otherwise, there's pee and poop all over the yard, and I, personally, don't like that. YMMV*. But I hate taking them outside because I have to stand around and wait for the peeing and pooping, while mosquitoes feast on my person. <br /><br />Such is life, though, when you choose to allow dogs to take up residence in your home.<br /><br />It was pouring when I decided to stop stalling and take the dogs out. The rain wasn't really an issue, though, since I have a gigantic umbrella, and Frody, at least, doesn't mind getting wet. Actually, I think Frody is unaware of getting wet. As he is unaware of most realities. Nimue does mind getting wet, but she gets over it fairly quickly if Family is out in the rain with her. So we all went outside, did our thing,* and came back inside. I had cereal, and since Goobs is extremely finicky about cereal,* I told her to eat breakfast at school.<br /><br />The day started out fairly normally, I'm tryina say.<br /><br />But it was Tuesday, so that means when I got to work, I was probably going to have to walk "off-campus" to class. In the rain. I didn't mind walking to class; it takes about ten minutes and it's exercise. Even the rain wasn't an issue, right? Because of Huge Umbrella. So I walked to class, tortured my students, took up papers, gave them their new assignment, let them go, and then waited for the next class, reading essays as I waited. About five minutes before my next class, I went to my other classroom and discovered that my boss had put up a sign there: "Courses using this classroom will be meeting at the auditorium for today only." Why? As far as I could tell, the ceiling was leaking. Yes, there was a little water (and buckets) on the floor, but not so much that, IMO, one couldn't have class there. <br /><br />But it was five minutes before class, and nobody but me was there. Usually, that class hangs around, as a body, in the hallway, until I show up, ask, "Why are y'all hangin around in the hallway? Get in here!" and escort folk into the room. Clearly, today, students had showed up earlier, read the sign, and gone off to the auditorium. Back on campus. But I went to the instructors' office and called our AA, left her a message to call me back at that number. She did so almost immediately and confirmed, yes, that she had heard that "the classroom was flooded," had written the note, and my boss had walked over and posted it.<br /> <br />"I wish I had known earlier," I said forlornly. "But please? If you see my students, would you tell them I'm on my way?" <br /><br />"I'll do that right now," she said. I grabbed up my stuff and, slogging it back on campus, I realized, as I reached my parking lot, that my front-passenger-side window had fallen down into the door. <br /><br />Recently, I had the driver's side window thingy, the thing that raises and lowers it, what is it? The regulator!! repaired or replaced, I forget which. Two days after that repair, the window on the other side went on the fritz. (The mechanic who had fixed the other regulator was also on the fritz, having had a serious accident in his shop shortly after fixing my window.) So when the passenger-side window would no longer go up or down, Goobs fixed in in the "up" position, and she and Juice taped it to stay there. Riding along in the car, though, we all discovered that various and sundry vibrations made the window slide back down. The girls kept sliding it back into place and taping it more securely. Tuesday's rain, however, wet the tape, and when the window wanted to go down, <span style="font-style:italic;">all the way down</span>, the tape gave out and let it go. It was raining hard and steadily --inside my car. I made an "Auuughhhh!" noise as I passed, but I couldn't do anything about the window, even if I had been able to dig it out of the door --because I was late for class.<br /><br />I found my students in near dark in the auditorium. I could barely see my roster or the textbook, although the students looked happy and dry and friendly, as usual. So I tortured them a little, took up their papers, gave them their new assignment, and let them go. <br /><br />My third class was in the same building as the auditorium, thank Jesus, but I'm learning to dislike the classroom mightily. For one thing, it's a "smart" classroom, with a computer for each student. For a professor who knows how to work "smart" classrooms, it's great. In fact, it wasn't long ago that a handful of the technologically savvy used to fight over that particular classroom. They had to learn to share it. When I discovered, however, that <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> had to teach in it this semester, my heart dropped. But beyond asking one of the Savvy to help me figure things out, I didn't complain. Much. The problem with the classroom is students' tendency to ignore lectures in the front of the class and, instead, play online with the PC in front of their faces. If I were a student in that class, I'd do the same thing. And, of course, the one bell/whistle of the situation that I could have used --the ability to see what students were looking at on their PCs (and even shut down the one on Facebook)-- wasn't working at present.<br /><br />Most of the students in that class don't play with the PCs, though. They're older students (mostly) with paychecks that are paying for school, and they don't come to class to play on PCs. But there's always one. Last week, the second week of the semester, The One, during his first time in class,* ignored the in-class assignment and began to play with his PC. Although I made a general announcement about the assignment, again, The One continued to ignore me. And then, when I left my podium to speak to him directly, he became offended that I had said anything at all to him. Clearly, he was supposed to do what he pleased*. Because I had said something specifically to him, and he didn't like it, The One began to grumble about what <span style="font-style:italic;">I </span>did or didn't "have to do." This prompted my popular "This is Blackwellia" speech, which lets my students know, early, that when they walk into my classroom, they do what I say. <span style="font-style:italic;">And I decide what I say.</span> "Blackwellia is not a democracy," I point out. "It's not even a benevolent dictatorship." It's a thundering good speech, but I hate to have to give it. That day, however, I felt that most of the class was behind the sentiment. One student, an older* gentleman in the back of class responded, "HIT THE DOOR!" to my rhetorical question, "And if you have a problem with that, then. . . ?" (Actually, I was angling for "Sign up for another class," but "HIT THE DOOR!" worked, too.)<br /><br />Despite my brilliant speech, a week later, The One repeated this performance. Essay revisions had been assigned the week before Labor Day weekend, the long weekend, remember, and those revisions were due Tuesday. Although nearly every other student in the class had his or her paper ready (either hard copy or flashdrived), The One decided that today was the day to <span style="font-style:italic;">begin work</span> on his essay. Walking around, collecting papers, I noticed that he had started this essay and asked him, as I had last week, "What are you <span style="font-style:italic;">doing</span>?" Of course, like last week, I was Just Wrong for saying anything to him, so I stopped myself and merely asked him if we two could talk after class. <br /><br />"Why?" he asked, exasperated.<br />"Can you just do that for me? Talk with me after class?"<br />"Okay. Okay," he said.<br /><br />The rest of the hour had his grumbling undertone as background music. He still didn't have a textbook, but as I was calling on students to do exercises orally, The One swiveled over to a classmate with a textbook, saying, "I just know she's gonna call on me next, so. . . ." <br /><br />I did call on him, but not next. Because I don't have it in for him. <br />Yet. <br /><br />But it's going to be hard <span style="font-style:italic;">not </span>to have it in for him because I listened to him talk after class (as did a couple of the other students. Sneakily). See, The One didn't have a problem with me, he said, but he did not like the way I talked to him. He didn't understand why I had "called him out" on his first day. I pointed out that he had come to class a week late, with no textbook, and had deliberately ignored the class assignment, twice, even <span style="font-style:italic;">before</span>I "called him out." I asked him what he thought I should do to restore order in my class. He shrugged. <br /><br />"I don't think you had to talk to me like that," he reiterated. He was under the impression that my "Blackwellia" speech was "completely unnecessary." I was under the impression that we would have to agree to disagree on that. See, while the student agreed that he had been wrong to ignore the class assignment, and wrong to try to write his paper a week after it had been assigned, he really seemed to feel that I wasn't supposed to say anything to him about it in public. I was getting angrier and angrier, particularly at the sense that, whatever I said, the problem was that <span style="font-style:italic;">I was saying anything at all</span>. He also didn't seem to understand the concept of Authority. After reminding him that I could do pretty much what I wanted in my class, he responded, "So as long as I do the work, I can do what I want?" <br /><br />"When did I say that?" I asked.<br />"Well, that's what I understand you to be saying," he responded. I lost it at this point, and by "lost it," I mean "let the conversation drop." I could feel my face burning,* and I felt I was near to saying something I shouldn't. Somewhere up in there, The One said, "Okay. I don't want to argue with you anymore." I reminded him that the class rule, if he ever wanted me to read his first essay, was that he had to bring the essay to me during office hours. <br />"They run between 11 am and 1 pm," I said.<br />"I'll be there at 1 then," he replied.<br />"Um. My office hours END at 1."<br />"Oh. Well, I'll be there sometime before."<br /><br />One of my sneaky students, also older, waited until the young man had left and said, "Ms. Blackwell, he's not gonna do <span style="font-style:italic;">anything </span>you tell him to do." And she burst out laughing. But I had to run, though, so when she assured me that <span style="font-style:italic;">she </span>wouldn't give me a hard time this semester, all I could say was, "Well, if you do, I can handle it."<br /><br />"I believe you!" she laughed. Time does not allow me to relate how, because of a meeting, I was late for my last class, the class thirty students full, but a sweet class, and that Goobs, catching a new bus to and from school for the first time, got home an hour late. But you get me. This was not a good day.<br /><br />I'm so glad some of y'all prayed. God, He knows what would've happened if y'all hadn't.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jesus, my brother, I thank You. Anyway.</span><br /><br />*As you might have realized, I have issues with walking the dogs outside the house, allowing them to pee and poop all over the neighborhood. If pee or poop occurs away from home, I'm not averse to cleaning up after my dogs; however, the whole idea of taking them around <span style="font-style:italic;">for the purpose of</span> letting them eliminate all over the neighborhood works my nerves. We do walk the Nimue and Frody, just to be walking them, but we usually try to get them to take care of their toilet needs before they leave the house. <br />*Me commanding, "Okay, get your poop on," and them just looking and sniffing around for the rabbits they're sure will show up shortly. <br />*Meaning that if it's not some kind of sugar bomb, she won't eat it.<br />*Yes, that's what I said. <br />*Especially since he didn't have his textbook (the Best Excuse EVAR for not doing an in-class assignment). <br />*Meaning he looked to be about my age.<br />*I wonder (again) if I actually turn red when I get angry or embarrassed.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-59729496215344967632009-08-26T12:09:00.002-05:002009-08-26T12:56:03.927-05:00"And What About YOUR Husband?"Seriously. This is a direct quote from a new member of our church. FWIW, I just love this new member: he's funny and smart and talented and happy with his life. But I nearly burst out laughing when he asked me this, not, mind you, with a view to a Relationship. (Brother is happily married.) But, in my not-so-humble opinion, with a view to All Up In a Sista's Bidness.<br /><br />Hey, don't get me wrong: I really don't mind anybody asking me, "Are you married?" I'm not keeping secrets. I'm not ashamed of my divorce. (More ashamed of my marriage, to tell the truth.) But just ask me, okay? <br /><br />Oh, and please, I'm beggin you with tears in my eyes, don't make assumptions about me simply because you know I'm not married. Yesterday, a very vocally devout used-book buyer was in my office when I was defending my right to sell used books. "Yes," I told a colleague, "I do that. Single mother? Child in college?" When I turned to the buyer (a Ukrainian gentleman named Yuri), he was smiling at me. <br /><br />"How many children do you have?" he asked. I gave him the number and their general ages. "And no husband?" His question was just dripping with assumptions, and being a <span style="font-style:italic;">black </span>single mother, my reception was just dripping with stereotypes. <span style="font-style:italic;">Surely</span>, he was thinking, <span style="font-style:italic;">this is one of those welfare queens one hears about</span>. Or, you know, not.<br /><br />"Not any more," I replied. Then followed a discussion about why. I was vague, as one <span style="font-style:italic;">should </span>be with random used-book buyers. Mostly, I said I didn't feel ready for a husband (yet). What bothered me most about this conversation wasn't the prying; as I say, my life's an open book. What bothered me was my feeling of being on the defensive. Somehow, I feel I <span style="font-style:italic;">should </span>be married, which makes me just putty in the hands of folk who feel I should be married, whatever their reasoning behind it, which is Just Sad.<br /><br />Related to this sadness is the assertion that <a href="http://sayingnothingcharmingly.blogspot.com/2009/08/interesting.html">if your marriage is failing, whatever the reason for the failure, you should work to save it</a>. Or, as I learned recently, if you Have The Nerve to try to work through the end of your marriage by writing about it, <span style="font-style:italic;">publishing </span>your thoughts and experiences is "a bit much." <br /><br />On the other hand, I was extremely heartened by some things my pastor said during his Back-to School bible-study series. For example, he called out the young women and told them that, while he had nothing against marriage, these young women had better focus on educations and careers and not husbands. He preached independence and self-esteem. To young women and girls. And then, after bible study, he hugged those who came near him and asked them, "You hear what I said? You hear me?" I like it that my spiritual leader doesn't just assume, because a young person is female, that she should be obsessing about marriage.<br /><br />If it weren't for this experience, I'd blame all men for this "Why aren't you married?" atmosphere. All out here in the twenty-first century. I guess I still could blame them. What the heck: it's men's fault. The problem is, women don't behave any better these days. Don't get me wrong. I think marriage, good marriage, is a God thing. And I do hope someday to have one. But I wish people wouldn't assume that an unmarried (or about to be unmarried) woman is a broken thing, something that needs to be fixed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to make the best of the non-marriage relationships we have, especially those we have with You. </span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-46434110767207692192009-08-26T11:07:00.006-05:002009-08-26T12:09:46.639-05:00I Don't Even LIKE Obama Like That!First of all, this is not a political rant. It's a rhetorical rant. What in the world has happened to the logical and sensible ability to talk about a politician? Any politician --even Barack Hussein Obama? I discover a lot about people's stances on Facebook nowadays, and I'm horrified by the way they argue.<br /><br />The assertion that <a href="http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=142648944007&id=515376261&ref=share">Sotomayor wasn't the first Hispanic Supreme Court Justice</a> is tacked onto a charge of antisemitism. The <a href="http://loyaltoliberty.blogspot.com/2009/08/health-care-what-revolt-to-freedom.html">assertion that Obama can't craft a decent national health care plan</a> is tacked onto his stance on abortion. The assertion that <a href="http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3765282,00.html">Obama is "incredible [sic] cold and arrogant"</a> is tacked onto his ability to president* the country. I had to unfriend two people because of their rhetoric (and, frankly, their commitment to fallacy and inflammatory folklore), and I'm trying to decide about a third.<br /><br />Clearly, I'm a naif, but I'd just like for people to <span style="font-weight:bold;">focus</span>. No, you don't have to love this president; I don't, for what it's worth. Look, I realize that logic is too much to ask for in this dialogue, but could you talk about this administration with some common sense and basic humanity? Less of the "I HATE HIS MUSLIM FACE!!!" and more of the "Eh, not liking this health care idea"? Less of the "But his middle name is Hussein" and more of the "His foreign policy's kind of weak"? This is all I'm asking. What is the point of all the irrelevant vitriol?<br /><br />Frankly, I blame that idiot Bush.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to use the brains you gave us.</span><br /><br />*Yeah, I turned it into a verb. You like that?Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-34874510142962654162009-08-13T07:40:00.006-05:002009-08-13T08:33:54.881-05:00How Does Your Breath Smell?(Rated R for pervasive strong language)<br /><br />So.<br /><br />I'm on Facebook (a LOT these days), and, surprisingly*, quite a few teenagers are my Fb friends, most of whom requested my friendship. This means, of course, I'm exposed to teenSpeak in its variegated forms. Most of the time, this amuses. But every once in a while, in fact, too often, it troubles. I admit it: it's the Language.<br /><br />I am not referring to textspeak or slang. I'm talking about profanity, vulgarity and obscenity. For what it's worth, I'm really not a prude as far as language is concerned*. I am, after all, a wordsmith myself. I avoid strong language, but I recognize its place in dialogue. When I was a kid*, people cursed in public only when they were angry, drunk, or insane. If one adult cussed at another adult, there was a brief stunned silence, signifying (I believe) the presence of anger in the conversation. Maybe my adult friends grew up the same way: rarely does any one of them use Language in our conversation unless anger is there. (One of my colleagues, maybe ten or fifteen or twenty years older than I, no prude in any context*, and certainly privileged with the prerogative of cussin, has cussed only once in my presence. She was very angry. She also whispered the cuss word. I leave you to map out the implications.) <br /><br />Then there is the thing about my faith. Because of the way I read the bible and follow the Lord Christ, I believe in the power of the curse. "The power of life and death is in the tongue," I was taught and I believe, because I've seen that power at work, for good and ill. So another reason I avoid strong language in my own mouth is the fact that I believe I am a woman of power. I believe that not only what I do, but also what I say has authority. Every idle word from my mouth smites my heart, bothers my peace for days, sometimes years. So even when I laugh and joke, I don't do it with strong language: contrary to current culture, I don't believe strong language is meant for joking around. <br /><br />Which brings me back to my teenaged friends and their language. One young Fb friend used to status only about sex. One cussed profoundly about having to go to work. And to my horror, my own daughters began punctuating their Fb threads with <span style="font-style:italic;">LMAO</span> and even <span style="font-style:italic;">LMFAO</span>. These are the same people who gasped in shock when I called an ass an ass*, or when I said "damn it" after my older girl accidentally snapped me <span style="font-style:italic;">in the eye</span> with a towel. (I use the word <span style="font-style:italic;">accidentally</span> because, although she was playing around and <span style="font-style:italic;">meant</span> to snap me with it, she did <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> mean to snap me in the <span style="font-style:italic;">eye</span> with it. In response, I deliberately used the words <span style="font-style:italic;">damn it</span> to help her realize that, even when playing, she should be a lot more careful.) In the same way, I recently told these people who live in my house that they should refuse to become "anyone's fuck buddy". And these people gasped in shock. (You see the hypocrisy --theirs and mine-- by now, I hope, because, I'm just not going to confess any more of my sins. In <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span> essay, anyway.) <br /><br />I'm reminded of Walter Mosley's character, Socrates Fortlow, the sixty-something ex-convict who, in the novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Always-Outnumbered-Outgunned-Walter-Mosley/dp/0671014994"><span style="font-style:italic;">Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned,</span><br /></a> caught a strange boy killing and stealing a neighbor's chicken. Fortlow makes Darryl clean, cook and eat the chicken, an object lesson in responsibility and accountability. When he asks the boy if he's ever had such a good meal, Darryl truthfully responds, "Shit, no." And then Socrates, the murderer-rapist (many times over, once outside and, consequently, the other times Inside) tells Darryl, "Keep your mouth clean, li'l brother. . . .an' then they know you mean business when you say somp'n strong." Some would argue, of course, as I used to, that there are many ways to "say something strong" without certain language. Point taken. But (again) I have come to recognize Certain Language's place in dialogue, even if I prefer to keep my mouth clean.<br /><br />Among my teenaged friends, I'm just saying, I don't see even the knowledge of a distinction between regular usage and Strong Usage. There is no sense of propriety. There is no discretion. Why should your status say, "Take pride in your shit" when what you <span style="font-style:italic;">mean</span> is "Take pride in yourself, your accomplishments, your standards, your creations"? Personally, I haven't taken pride in my <span style="font-style:italic;">shit</span> since I was two. I flush it away, in fact. <br /><br />So why, finally, is <span style="font-style:italic;">shit</span> always in your mouths, little brothers and sisters? Aren't you aware of what that does to your smile and your breath? <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Lord Jesus, my brother, let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight.</span><br /><br />*Because my older daughter refuses to befriend me or her aunt. And the younger one unfriended her aunt when she was called out on the <span style="font-style:italic;">LMFAO</span> thang. <br />*I am, however, a prude in other areas. Deal with it. <br />*Yes, a hunnert years ago.<br />*She and her husband actually follow The Dead around. Nuff said.<br />*Yes, I use this word advisedly, but only in reference to certain <span style="font-style:italic;">people</span>, never a certain part of their (or anyone's) <span style="font-style:italic;">body</span>.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-29953371383128987472009-06-22T17:31:00.008-05:002009-06-22T18:33:57.310-05:00Merry Father's Juneteenth!On Saturday, the family celebrated my stepfather's 80th birthday. I think I had more fun than anybody.<br /><br />A very admiring young man at PopPop's church had noticed when, last year, he said he had just turned 79, and the young man decided to celebrate the next birthday big time (meaning borrowing one of the church conference rooms and feeding everybody who showed up). This young man began planning the shindig in January. <br /><br />Which is from how long, I think, Juice, Goobs and their cousins, Auntie's nepphies, have been practicing the songs my sister forced them to perform for PopPop. Things got really hairy towards the end: tempers flared, children revolted, adults threatened. This is as it should be. I guess.<br /><br />In the meantime, the young man at the church dug up pictures and little-known facts about the man Bethel Temple called Papa Kelly. I knew what his birthday was, but had paid no attention, over the years, for example, to the fact that he shared his birthday with <a href="http://www.juneteenth.com/">Juneteenth</a>; or that he had left school so he could work and his sister could finish school; or that when he came back to school, he finished in record time as valedictorian. I knew that he'd hurt his back when, in Korea, he'd been blown off of a mountain, but I didn't know he'd met General Douglas MacArthur and President John F. Kennedy. I didn't know his favorite team was the Brooklyn Dodgers (but I figured I knew why). <br /><br />His daughter and granddaughter came and spoke about him in front of God and everybody, and Mama told jokes (which she'd written down, by hand, on the front and back of a sheet of notebook paper)*. The step-grandchildren (who had finally succumbed to the plea, "Y'all are doing this for PopPop") sang and played two songs. I was rewarded with a big metal grin (he's got braces) from one of Auntie's Nepphies when I said, "That was NIIIIIICE" at the end. <br /><br />His stepdaughters (my sister and I) and stepson-in-law sang for him, too. We were at least as nervous as the grands. <br /><br />We ate baked chicken and brisket (with three sauces available!!!), string beans and new potatoes, salad, and a mixed cake of chocolate and lemon. The best part, though, was when we all milled around and hugged each other and caught up. Toward the end, my younger nepphie walked up to a microphone and told the story of when he (the nepphie) lost a ball in one of PopPop's trees. Before PopPop quietly got a ladder, balls and other objects had joined the first ball: the kids had tried to knock the first ball down, and the tree had just grabbed everything.<br /><br />"But why are your <span style="font-style:italic;">shoes<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> up here?" PopPop had asked.<br /><br />This occasion cast my mind back to the beginning of our relationship. Mama married Mr. Alford when my sister and I were teenagers. We hated him: when we got chicken to eat, he got steak. He bossed us around and changed the rules of the house. We didn't know what Mama saw in him. But I will always remember when things changed. One evening, the newly-married couple were watching television. Too loudly. (At the time, I didn't know that my new stepfather was hearing impaired.) I had the nerve to knock on the bedroom door and demand, "Could y'all turn the TV down, please?" My stepfather burst out of the bedroom in his robe and began to lecture me.<br /><br />"I understand you read the bible a lot," he said. "Do you know what it says about honoring your parents?"<br /><br />"I know," I said. "Do you know what it says about fathers not provoking their children?" <br /><br />This began a years-long dialogue between That Man and me. He adored me, and I, of course, adored being adored. But the adoration became mutual when my sister and I had kids. That Man treated our children like --well, like his grandchildren. He happily spent time and scads of money** on them, lectured them, loved on them, taught them cool stuff, and grinned and laughed at them. <span style="font-style:italic;">THIS<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> --this smiling and laughing-- was what, finally, showed me something of what Mama had seen years ago: my stepfather looks a little like Sidney Poitier. <span style="font-style:italic;">THAT<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> was when he became PopPop.<br /><br />On Sunday, the family met at a Chinese buffet. PopPop and I crossed paths on the way to the dessert. <br /><br />"Happy Father's Day," he said.<br /><br />*My second older brother, the one who used to live with us, didn't even crack a smile. He hates it when people try to "make" him laugh. <br /><br />**Most recently, PopPop came through with $300 when Juice's father broke a promise to provide half of a college dormitory deposit.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-74183428945418233022009-06-04T08:06:00.007-05:002009-06-04T16:11:17.397-05:00Hairy Issues : Never Say NeverThis is about my hair again, so those of you looking for political commentary (which-- What in the world?? Is this your first time here?) should move on.<br /><br /><a href="http://thebutterflytribe.com/articles/historyofdreadlocks.html">Some loc lore</a>: the hairstyle's history is rooted (no pun intended) in Jamaica, where Rastafarianism taught that Haile Selassie was the Messiah, Africa was the promised land, and dreadlocks were NEVER to be cut. Personally, I've heard even unloc'd folk come near screaming about the cutting of locs: it's a religious thing, a spiritual thing, something to bring one closer to God, and NO one should cut another person's locs. Ever. (You oughta see how tense I get when a loc'd sister shows up on <span style="font-style:italic;">What Not to Wear</span>. Is Sista going to whoop up on Nick and his scissor fetish?) <br /><br />Oh, and folk who wore dreadlocks smoked marijuana. Also to get closer to God*. <br /><br />Further, the process of "locking" the hair can not be reversed. Ever. "Dreadlocks" aren't ever supposed to "unlock." Those of us with the applicable hair* were told if we ever loc'd our hair, it'd have to stay that way unless or until our heads were shaved. Seriously. It's a commitment, one way or the other. A friend of mine, who has had locs for years longer than I have, emailed me recently and said she was having her locs undone. "Yes," she said. "Unlocked." She explained that the process was expensive and time-consuming, but it could be done. I didn't believe her. <br /> <br />I guess I should say something about the process of loc'ing hair. Currently, there are (at least) two schools of <span style="font-weight:bold;">artificial* </span>process : palm rolling and latch hooking. <a href="http://www.making-dreadlocks.com/making-dreadlocks.html">Palm-rolled locs</a> are just what they sound like: hair rolled into the desired loc shape, maybe helped along with styling oils or beeswax or gels. <a href="http://fromgrandmaskitchen.com/Natural-Hair-Beauty/articles/3763/1/Ways-to-Grow-Dreadlocks---Interlocks-or-Latch-hook-Locks/Page1.html">Latch hooking</a> threads old hair through the new growth, making the locs tighter and neater. Sometimes the "loctitian" actually uses a latch hook, but s/he doesn't have to. A cousin (who had never loc'd her hair, btw) told me that palm rolled locs could, if desired, be relaxed and unlocked, but latch hooked hair? Never. When I decided to take the latch hook route, I was told that there was no turning back; that latch hooking would <span style="font-weight:bold;">guarantee </span>that I could never "unlock" my hair. Never. <br /><br />Over time, I found out that a lot of the loc lore was just dogma. For one thing, locs are older than Jamaica and Haile Selassie. Loc wearers weren't necessarily Rastas or marijuana smokers, of course. And, finally, locs <span style="font-weight:bold;">could </span>come unlocked.<br /><br />See, I got my hair cut, over the objections of my regular loctitian. When she began to complain that our conversation about cutting my hair was making her <span style="font-weight:bold;">eye </span>hurt, I decided to go to a friend who had been employed by SuperCuts, and I asked her to cut my hair. <br /><br />I was mildly intrigued when, after the cutting, the ends of my locs --that is, <span style="font-style:italic;">the oldest parts of my hair</span>-- began to unravel. "Huh," I thought. "Maybe Amy [the email friend] knows what she's talking about." This is an earth-shattering revelation.<br /><br />And now I'm obsessed with the stuff. Or, at least, the ends of the stuff. When I first did research on locs, I became aware of <a href="http://www.daezhavoo.com/picturespicturesandmore.html">"hand in loc disease,"</a> where folk waiting and waiting and waiting for their hair to magically lock up can't keep their hands off of it. Leave it alone, says Daezhavoo. It will happen; get your hands out of your hair. I never had that problem. I was never one to play with my hair. There wasn't any to play with. But now, now that my hair is unraveling, I can't keep my hands out of it, feeling the forgotten softness at the ends, finding the latched areas and pulling more hair loose, wondering if there's a point at which the unraveling will stop. Wondering if I want it to stop. <br /><br />Because, see, at bottom, a lot of black women chose locs because they wanted hair that cascadades* down their backs. Hair that moves. Yeah: Like white women's hair. This style might be or might not be, initially, about "heritage" or "history" or "self-love." Today's locs are about beauty. Otherwise, we would, all of us, be taking that "natural"* route. So now, my hair's at a length I really love, and the locs are coming out. Do I keep cutting to keep the length? Do I keep unraveling --until I decide, "Hey, I've got all this loose hair now. I never could grow it this long before. Could I get it (and keep it) Dead Straight? Dead Straight <span style="font-weight:bold;">is </span>the style now, after all. . ."? I'm also imagining myself with <a href="http://www.nndb.com/people/593/000103284/gloria-reuben-1-sized.jpg">long, thick, nappy hair</a>*, and liking the image. I wonder how long it'd last before my hair dried out and began to break off --because it was neither Dead Straight nor loc'd.<br /><br />With me, though, the answer comes down to just how much work I'd have to do to my hair in either case. Loc'ing my hair means that I don't have to do deep conditioners. I don't have to sleep in rollers. I don't have to use a curling iron. I don't have to use a blow dryer because, after I wash my hair, I can let it dry in the wind. See, <span style="font-weight:bold;">I</span> chose locs because I'm a lazy git.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my brother, teach us that self-love is at the root of neighbor-love.</span><br /><br />*Look. Don't ask me. I don't know.<br /><br />*Because there are white and Asian Rastas with dreadlocked hair (and dreadlocked non-black folk who are not Rastas). But, I understand, a good wash, with the right shampoo, will end that particular style for them, while for blacks, no. Wash all you want, once that lock kicks in, it's not going anywhere.<br /> <br />*Because there is also the "natural" school of thought, in which one allows one's hair to just do what it do, become what it be when one doesn't wash or comb it. <br /><br />*Whoopi Goldberg's term.<br /><br />*Read "dirty and uncombed."<br /><br />*Yeah, after I unravel my hair, all my fat'll fall off my body and I'll look <span style="font-weight:bold;">just like</span> Gloria Reuben.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-13032718138784781702009-05-10T13:59:00.001-05:002009-05-10T14:03:38.069-05:00Worth Repeating (from May 08)<span style="font-weight:bold;">For ALL the Mothers</span><br />(I don't know who wrote this, but I some like it. For all my friends who are mothers, used to be mothers, are about to be mothers, and/or are acting in loco parentis: Keep your heads up. Your work means everything.)<br /><br /><br />This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with<br />sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up puke laced with Oscar Mayer<br />wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy ' s here".<br /><br />Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing<br />crying babies who can ' t be comforted. This is for all the mothers who<br />show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their<br />blouses and diapers in their purses.<br /><br />For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies<br />and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.<br /><br />This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.<br /><br />This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections<br />are hanging on their refrigerator doors.<br /><br />And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal<br />bleachers at football, hockey or soccer games instead of watching from<br />the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see<br />me, Mom?" they could say, "Of course; I wouldn't have missed it for<br />the world," and mean it.<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in<br />the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet<br />and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who<br />count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who sat down with their<br />children and explained all about making babies. And for all the (grand)<br />mothers who wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their<br />children can eat.<br /><br />For all the mothers who read <span style="font-style:italic;">Goodnight, Moon</span> twice a<br />night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who taught their children to<br />tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers<br />who opted for Velcro instead.<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook<br />and their daughters to sink a jump shot.<br /><br />This is for every mother whose head turns automatically<br />when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their<br />own offspring are at home -- or even away at college.<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to<br />school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they<br />got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking<br />them to please pick them up. Right away.<br /><br />This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who<br />can't find the words to reach them.<br /><br />For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed<br />when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green [or pierce their lips.<br />Don't ask].<br /><br />For all the mothers of the victims of recent school<br />shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.<br /><br />For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who<br />sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came<br />home from school, safely.<br /><br />This is for all the mothers who taught their children to<br />be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.<br /><br />What makes a good Mother anyway?<br /><br />Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to<br />nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same<br />time?<br /><br />Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you<br />watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school<br />alone for the very first time?<br /><br />The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed<br />to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?<br /><br />The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when<br />you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again<br />in your home?<br /><br />Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your<br />child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?<br /><br />The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our<br />thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and<br />sleep deprivation...<br /><br />And mature mothers learning to let go.<br /><br />For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.<br /><br />Single mothers and married mothers.<br /><br />Mothers with money, mothers without.<br /><br />This is for you all. For all of us.<br /><br />Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we<br />can. Tell them every day that we love them. And pray.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my Brother, thank you for Mama.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-87767744646435559922009-04-05T19:08:00.002-05:002009-04-05T19:17:16.851-05:00Freestylin at the HBCULast Tuesday, I gave a "paper" on Morrison's <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mercy-Toni-Morrison/dp/0307264238">A Mercy</a></span> at Hampton U's annual Read-In. The entire occasion began hilarious and got better.<br /><br />I came in the library meeting room and found one of my favorite former professors. She was grading papers, but upon noticing my considerable shadow, she looked up, grinned all over herself, and then hugged me.<br /><br />The meeting room was packed with college students, many of whom had bought the hard-cover copy of the novel and were asking questions or giving their thoughts on it. There were so many students, some were sitting on the floor. Soon, my panel buddies --a best friend and her son's godmother, both former colleagues-- showed up. Best Friend had brought the baby (actually he's 1.5 yo), and he was raring to go (read "really, really sleepy"). Godmama pointed at me and said, incredulously, "She brought a <span style="font-style:italic;">paper</span>!" Goobs' godmama, also a former colleague and the one who'd invited me to sit the panel, replied, "Well, I <span style="font-style:italic;">told </span>her to give a paper!" Best Friend pulled out a sheaf of papers and said, "I did what <span style="font-style:italic;">you </span>did!"<br /><br />The panel before us started and we all listened, nonplussed, at the panelists talking about shoes in the novel.<br /><br />Yes, <span style="font-weight:bold;">shoes</span>. Or, more properly, a shoe <span style="font-weight:bold;">motif</span>. I guess. At one point, another favorite former professor came over and stood in front of me. He's now chair of the English department at HU. He just grinned all over himself, too. "If I stay, do I get to hear you speak?" he asked. <br /><br />"It's entirely possible," I said.<br /><br />That panel ended, there was a break, and the moderator found Best Friend, Godmama and me and made us take seats at the head of the room. I was very, very nervous. I could see my heart beating through my blouse. Best Friend read her paper, which she announced (inaccurately) as "incoherent"; it was about the orphans in the novel. Students and colleagues applauded, and then I read my "paper"; it was about the ruthlessness in the novel. Godmama, who had been taking notes during BF and my papers, talked about Rebekka. "In case you haven't noticed," she began, "I'm supposed to represent Rebekka in this panel." Students and colleagues rotfl: Godmama is white. (I guess I represented [Messa]Lina, the Native American: I was wearing really long feather earrings with little turquoise beads.)<br /><br />Godmama is also <span style="font-style:italic;">smooth</span>. I listened in awe of her.<br /><br />Then we fielded questions, but, mostly, we did what we had planned to do: talked to each other. When other folk disagreed with our interpretations, and not many did, we shouted them down. There was much laughter and joking, many insights and analyses. My favorite part was when a professor in the back of the room posited that some witch-burning characters were talking about the blacksmith (the one black male character in the novel) when somebody says they saw "The Black Man" in the woods. And I pointed out that "The Black Man" was a euphemism, in Puritan parlance, for the devil. (Now, this is not to say that Morrison wasn't talking bout the blacksmith. She's slippery like that. But her characters --these characters-- were too clueless, and the blacksmith too smart to have hung out in them parts.)<br /><br />Our panel ended too soon. At the end, we were walking around in the meeting room, shaking hands and answering students' questions, when I got to meet the professor in the back of the room. He still wanted to argue that "Black Man" stuff. I responded, "You're wrong. You're wrong." And he said the sweetest thing: "It's fun being wrong with you."<br /><br />Ah, he's probably married.<br /><br />Goobs' godmama said I behaved as if I was at home. I replied, "I felt like I was among friends." And I was.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, my brother, help us influence the children to read --and then talk about what they've read.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-7619011830354014572009-03-18T20:02:00.002-05:002009-03-18T20:59:19.477-05:00I Don't at ALL Like "Christians"One day, when I was a teenager, newly-born-again, I visited the home of an older church woman, one of the women who taught me how to pray and study the Bible. It was a Saturday, and it was very warm, I remember, and so I was dressed for the weather. A teenage daughter of the woman I was visiting looked me up and down and said, "<span style="font-style:italic;">You're</span> not saved. If you were saved, you wouldn't be wearin <span style="font-style:italic;">those</span>." She was referring to my shorts, which were <span style="font-style:italic;">very </span>short, and purple with little pink back pockets.<br /><br />Saved women didn't wear shorts. There was a whole list of things, apparently, that I was going to have to give up if I was to be seen as saved by The Right People. (Long story short: I . . . .didn't.)<br /><br />"Christians" is what I call The Right People today. (Note punctuation.) I didn't like them then, and I don't like them now. Now, as a Christian, I <span style="font-style:italic;">love </span> some Christians; they're cool. I also love some Jews, some Muslims, some Buddhists, some Atheists, some Agnostics, and other folk who couldn't care less about Christianity. I love them because they have grown on me as people of joy and integrity, and I believe that the Creator loves them all, too; because I'm trying to be like Him, I practice love.<br /><br />I'm going to have to work hard to love "Christians," though. Although I believe that the Creator loves them, too, and no less than He loves me and mine, I also believe that "Christians" are fakes. Liars. Cheats. Murderers. Rapists. Their behavior angers me, as I believe it dismays and angers the Creator who loves them.<br /><br />The distinction came home to me today when a Facebook friend, a rabbi, posted <a href="http://www.israelnationalnews.com/News/News.aspx/130432">this story</a>. In response to the post, I wrote, "Another example of 'Christians' practicing deception for the sake of proselyting. Wonderful."(Note punctuation.) You won't believe this, but, in this world, there are people who call themselves Christians, who believe it's <span style="font-weight:bold;">right </span>to lie, cheat, steal, kill and rape in the name of Christianity. (I told you you wouldn't believe it.)As a Christian, lies, liars and lying make me angry, and the junk the purveyors of this Christian Haggadahs are trying to trick devout Jews into buying figures in the category of lies, liars and lying. <br /><br />A while after my comment on Fb, a Fb friend of the Rabbi, someone who calls herself a Christian (well, at first, she said she was a "Christian", and, right now, I wonder if I should've corrected her), objected to what she characterized as "bashing." At first, she thought, because I criticized the "Christians" involved in lies and lying, that I wasn't a Christian. (I couldn't possibly be.) She pointed out that she didn't "bash" what I believed, and so I shouldn't "bash" what she believed. Later, she told me I should use the term <span style="font-style:italic;">religious </span>instead of <span style="font-style:italic;">"Christian"</span> to describe the people I take issue with. When I tried to explain the distinction I explain here, she urged me to examine the anger in my heart because "anger prevents a person from hearing from God." Then she began to preach and posted a link to something or other. I responded by (among other things) asking her not to proselytize.<br /><br />When the rabbi stood up for me, pointing out that she must be misunderstanding me, that I had nothing against non-Jews* (but I had plenty against liars who pretended to be Christians), the rabbi's friend replied, "I am confused...you say Regina is Jewish, but she says she is Christian and is easily angered . . . . If she is a Christian, . . . she would know that I am not proselyting on the subject but speaking 100% truth. Instead, she is easily angered, a cause of concern since in a Chistians [sic]life that interferes with hearing from God the Father."<br /><br />Here, there is a lack of reading for comprehension and an arrogant assumption of knowledge about me, a total stranger with whom she has exchanged only (partly-understood) words (and punctuation). Here, there is apparent support for the kind of cheat designed in the Christian Haggadahs sold by Amazon. Here, there is a shameless belief in an unadulterated welcome to anything she has to say about Jesus. Also, here (and most unforgivable), there is ignorance about the proper use of the apostrophe. <br /><br />I am ashamed of this person, y'all. And I figure my shame is a good thing because this person (and those like her) has no shame, so somebody should have some on her behalf, you know? But I'm content to know that God is real. He blesses people with inner change, even when I'm too angry to pray for them.<br /><br />. . . .because Sister Girl is right: I <span style="font-weight:bold;">am </span>angry. And she is wrong: because a <span style="font-weight:bold;">lack </span>of anger about lies, liars and lying is the very thing that will make us deaf to the Father's voice.<br /><br /><br />*I'm learning a lot about perspective from this teacher.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, teach us how to be angry and sin not.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-42723634771285668632009-02-06T21:04:00.006-05:002009-02-06T22:26:44.893-05:00Love, Fear, and IntegritySo Juice lost her job at the movies. There was a mess about under-aged folk buying tickets to appropriate movies and then sneaking into R-rated movie auditoriums. Or kids <span style="font-style:italic;">found</span> in R-rated movie auditoriums, claiming to be with Adults. And then alleged Adults claiming the kids.<br /><br />And the tickets being traced to Juice's window.<br /><br />For this, Juice was reprimanded and sent back to the window. Then Management found another kid with a credit card, but no ID. His ticket was traced back to Juice's window, too. So AMC fired her. And, to add insult to injury, the child who fired Juice accused her of being "blatant." (No, he doesn't know what the word means.) <br /><br />The night this happened, Juice called me to pick her up from work a half hour earlier than the schedule had said. I assumed that work was light; she'd been allowed to leave early plenty of times. Goobs and I went to the theatre and picked her sister up. Juice was quiet all the way home, and when we got home, she went to the bathroom and took a shower. Then she went to her room and closed the door.<br /><br />She said nothing to me of being fired. I found out when I went to <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> bathroom, where Juice had written on the mirror,in soap, "Mommy, I'm sorry, but I got fired tonight!" My heart broke for her, especially when I got into her room and saw that she had been crying since she'd gone to her room. My poor baby. What could I do but what mamas've been doing for centuries --tell her that everything would be all right?<br /><br />We make these promises, we mamas.<br /><br />Anyway, I told everybody who cared about Juice what had happened. They all commiserated with her, but only <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> mama insisted that I talk to Juice's boss. Well, the boss of Juice's boss: <span style="font-style:italic;">he</span> goes to our church. (Everybody does.) But I insisted that Juice handle this thang. She was the employee. She's seventeen. She's got to learn to confront these situations like a grown up. Her mama's got to learn to let her. So I made Juice call her boss' boss and ask if there was anything she could do to get another chance at AMC. Well, she called and left a message. That day, I think, her boss' boss called her back and said he'd look into the matter and get back with her.<br /><br />A week passed. I kept asking Juice if she'd heard from the man. She hadn't. And she hadn't. And [insert teenaged exasperated sigh here] she hadn't. So I took matters into my own hands. I emailed the guy. Here's what I emailed him:<blockquote><i>Hey, [boss' boss' name],<br /><br />I didn't want to get involved in Juice being fired at AMC; I wanted her to handle it. But more than a week has gone by, and she still hasn't heard from you. I fully understand if AMC management has decided not to give Juice another chance, but we'd just like to know what the decision is, so she can move on to another job.<br /><br />Thanks!</i></blockquote>And then another week went by. Juice still hadn't heard anything from him.<br /><br />Tonight is our weekly prayer night. The girls and I went out to pray, and I saw Juice's boss' boss in the sanctuary. All my instincts screamed "GO OUT AND COME IN THE OTHER DOOR!" But I've got to learn to confront these situations like a grown up. So without looking at the brother, I walked on in the sanctuary, chose a seat (some distance from him), took off my coat, and tried to pray. When prayer was over, I was hugging other brothers and sisters and, determining that I had been grown up enough, I decided to leave the sanctuary by a route different from the one by which I'd entered. I looked around for Juice, didn't see her. Goobs came up from somewhere and began, as is her wont, to pull me towards the exit. (I don't care how short our time is at church--and this was less than a half hour-- right after somebody brings on the benny*, my kids are READY TO LEAVE.) <br /><br />"Where's your sister?" I asked.<br />"She's talking to Mr. [BB's name]."<br /><br />I gotta tell you, honey, I had hopes. Even then, I had hopes. But after a long walk back to the parking lot (mostly alone because that Goobs child ran back inside the sanctuary before I reached the car), after the girls came back to me, I learned that grown-up things aren't always as mature as they should be.<br /><br />"What'd Mr. [BB's name] say?" Turned out, the boss's boss couldn't give Juice another chance. Juice, he said, would have to ask the child* who had fired her for another chance. Why? Because the boss' boss wants to show his employees that he has confidence in their decisions. Well, <span style="font-style:italic;">some</span> of his employees. <br /><br />Look. Don't get me wrong: if my child was sneaking under-age folk in the movie; if she was stealing; if she was disrespectful to patrons or her superiors; well, Juice'd have to get over being fired, in my book. (Yeah. She's gonna have to get over it anyway.) But this was not the case. My daughter was a good employee. She was always on time. She had never called in sick. She had, in fact, taken other people's shifts when they didn't want to take them. She had taken other people's shifts when <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> didn't want her to take them. Patrons and fellow employees alike were always commenting on Juice's sunny face*. She often chose that johnbrown job over my convenience (since, yeah, I taxied her to and fro). It really annoys the aitch out of me that the boss' boss couldn't see what a jewel of an employee he had had in Juice. It bothered me, too, that it doesn't seem to've occurred to the boss' boss that because he's the boss' boss, he has the prerogative to overturn various and sundry decisions. <br /><br />Especially when they're wrong. <br /><br />In the twenty-some years that I've been employed, I've seen plenty of boss's bosses do just that. Argue against employees' decisions. Second guess their employees' decisions. Overturn their employees' decisions. All the time. In different ways, of course. There are nasty boss's bosses and less nasty boss's bosses. Yes? But, in my not-so-humble opinion, it is the boss's boss's <span style="font-style:italic;">job</span> to overturn a <span style="font-style:italic;">bad</span> decision and help the boss understand that his decision was a <span style="font-style:italic;">bad</span> one --bad for the business, bottom line. It annoys me that this man doesn't see that. <br /><br />And this annoys me: after Boss's boss explained this to Juice, he said, "And tell your mother that I'm not afraid of her."<br /><br />The heck?<br /><br />At first, I thought (and --you know-- <span style="font-style:italic;">said</span>) "Oh, yes, he <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> afraid of me. Else why even <span style="font-style:italic;">say</span>. . . ." And then I talked about it with Christina, who agreed that the week wait after my email might've been. . . . Boss' boss' <span style="font-style:italic;">message</span> --to me-- that he wasn't afraid of me. But why? Who cares whether the man's afraid of me? Is fear the only reason he might be impressed to consider what I think is the right decision? What about integrity? His own? And here, you know what? I'm not even talking about giving Juice another chance at that job. I'm talking about just calling folk back --<span style="font-weight:bold;">because you said you would</span>. Boss' bosses do not <span style="font-style:italic;">have</span> to re-hire <span style="font-style:italic;">any</span>body, especially in this economy, okay? But shouldn't they have to stand on their word?<br /><br />Riding home from prayer, I was listening to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portable_Sounds">some tobymac songs</a>. The project in my car now has these amusing little interludes. One features a guy who clearly has no ear for real talent, but he thinks he does. He's not a nice guy, but he thinks he is. The girls and I have heard this amusing little interlude over and over again. But, for the first time, I wondered aloud, "What does this guy think about himself? How do we know?"<br /><br />And then my mind went back to a <span style="font-style:italic;">Malcolm in the Middle</span> episode where, at the end, Francis points at a man, bound and gagged in a classroom, and says, "I've never seen him before, but this guy is a jerk." I told Juice about these thoughts, and her patience, waiting for Mama to get to her point, was commendable. What did tobymac put in "Chuck@Artist Development Interlude" that helps us understand what kind of jerk Chuck is? How does Francis walk into a classroom and choose the jerk among the non-jerks? What helps us know what we know about people if we pay careful attention? What lessons can we learn from our experiences?<br /><br />"I just think it's interesting," I finally said to Juice as she stood, waiting at the back door with Frody on his leash, waiting for Mama to make her point. There was a silence.<br /><br />"You're funny, Mommy," Juice said.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Well, Jesus, my brother, thank You for always trying to teach us to pay attention.</span> <br /><br />*An expression I learned from my first boyfriend when I was fifteen. It means, of course, "renders the benediction."<br />*Yes, child. He's barely older than Juice.<br />*If I say so myself, she has a great smile.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-13911867811893962762009-01-30T10:40:00.003-05:002009-01-30T11:03:02.724-05:00Served Yet Again. . . .You know those TV episodes where a clueless person is going along, minding her own business, maybe hanging out with friends, maybe meeting a possible new friend, who comes up and shoots the breeze in a breezy way? <span style="font-style:italic;">And then serves the clueless one with a subpoena?</span> "You've just been served, J. Regina," Possible New Friend says, and walks away.<br /><br />You know the deal. Well, <a href="http://lisahgolden.blogspot.com/2009/01/merci-la-belette-rouge.html">it happened to me this morning</a>, and it's happening to you right now, johnbrownit. IF YOU ARE WITHIN THREE FEET OF A BOOK, YOU MUST PARTICIPATE IN THIS MEME.<br /><br />So I gots <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bread-Not-Stone-Challenge-Interpretation/dp/0807012319/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1233330703&sr=8-1">Bread Not Stone</a> on my johnbrown desk and I'm quoting, johnbrownit, here and now, the fifth johnbrown sentence (and then some) from page 46: <blockquote><i> "Insofar as biblical studies are "canonical" studies, they are related to and inspired by their <i>Sitz im Leben</i> in the Christian church past and present. The feminist analysis of the Bible is just one example of an ecclesial context and of the theological commitment of biblical studies in general. This fact is recognized by Schubert Ogden, who nevertheless objects to the advocacy stance of liberation theology. He argues that all existeing liberation theologies are in danger of becoming ideologies in the Marxist sense insofar as, like other traditional theological enterprises, they are "the rationalization of positions already taken." Rather than engaging in a critical reflection on their own positions, liberation theologies rationalize, with the help of the Bible, the positions of the oppressed instead of those of the oppressors."</i></blockquote><br />Hey, it coulda been worse. I started to quote from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Writers-Reference-MLA-Quick-Card/dp/0312465319/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1233330743&sr=1-1">this book</a>. And my advice to you is If Christina innocently asks if you're three feet away from a book, <span style="font-weight:bold;">LIE</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Thank you, Jesus, for friends who know me entirely too well. Else this life'd be so lonely.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-55190008538530018592009-01-03T16:43:00.002-05:002009-01-03T16:55:54.187-05:00Predictions for ElayneIf, as They say, what I did on New Year's day is what I'll be doing all year, then I'll be sleeping late.<br /><br />I'll be responding to tons of text messages. (Hopefully they won't all say "Happy New Year!" all year.)<br /><br />I'll be watching TV with Goobs.<br /><br />I'll be listening to the new songs Juice wrote.<br /><br />I'll be speaking civilly to the dogs (a NY's resolution*), as opposed to calling them both "stupid" (loudly <span style="font-weight:bold;">and</span> under my breath).<br /><br />I'll be listening to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=24USgRNeQxc">very loud, rock/hip-hop-inspired gospel music</a>.<br /><br />I'll be taxiing the girls around.<br /><br />I'll be reading up the stacks of books next to the bed.<br /><br />In other words, doin what I did last year.<br /><br />*Broke this one before I finished this list. LOL<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Lord Jesus, my brother, thank You for another chance to get it right.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-44885838087991649792008-11-28T09:11:00.002-05:002008-11-28T09:25:00.095-05:00Just ThankfulMerry Day-After-Thanksgiving! I am thankful (daily, but especially this time of year):<br /><br />1. for my faith;<br /><br />2. for my family, as crazy as the members thereof behave from time to time;<br /><br />3. especially for Juice and Goobs, who, as annoying and unaccountably clueless as they are, sometimes daily, make me laugh just as often, and are so beautiful and smart, I have to forgive them their foibles all the time;<br /><br />4. for a roof over my head, clothes on my back, food in the pantry/refrigerator, and the ability to pay (some) bills, something I can't take for granted, ever, in these days;<br /><br />5. for a job, a career, a vocation, which I still enjoy, despite all those essays somebody keeps assigning;<br /><br />6. for my friends, RL and cyber, who are, among other realities, proof that God loves me, else I'd've been kicked to the curb by those good people a long time ago;<br /><br />7. for my dogs, Nimue and Frody, the idiots.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-34653244967026690172008-11-25T20:02:00.003-05:002008-12-10T08:30:55.775-05:00Yes, But How Do You USE It?All of my sister's friends are beautiful, funny, and full of the Holy Ghost. You want somebody to pray for you? Honey, these are The Ones. And a few of 'em like Scrabble, so they schedule get-togethers where we eat the most delicious home-cooked food, (kinda) watch some of the newest movies and make each other laugh till we have to pee.<br /><br />Seriously.<br /><br />So Saturday was the latest Scrabble and Movies date, at L's house. After we had eaten my sister's delicious Chicken Soup and A's to-die-for banana puddin, we sat down to Scrabble, and L's sister came over. <br /><br />"I am <span style="font-weight:bold;">not</span> too stupid to play Scrabble!" she protested. "Why don't y'all invite me sometime?" And then the jokes started. L stood up from the table and acted out a church story.<br /><br />"There's a man at our church who's mentally challenged. You know Rich." Everybody knew Rich. "One Sunday, my husband asked him to help him park the car. <br />'I'ma back up, Rich,' he said. 'Don't let me hit the wall.'<br />'Okay,' Rich said. Hubby got into the car and began backing up. <br />'Come on back,' Rich said. Hubby moved back. <br />'Come on back.' Hubby moved back some more.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">CRRRRUNCH!</span><br />Hubby had hit the wall.<br />'Hold up, now,' said Rich." We nea'bout died laughin.<br /><br />It was A's turn to tell a story. <br />"We were singing at an important function one time," she said, "And the soloist was tearin up her part. Just singin. And then she threw her head back to hit a particular note.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">And her wig fell off</span>." We were already in the painful throes of laughter, but A wasn't finished. <br /><br />"Our director had seen it, but she hissed at us: 'Don't you DARE laugh. Don't you DARE laugh.' Our eyes got big, but we kept singing. We didn't DARE laugh. The soloist hit the floor, still tearin that song up, not missin one note" --right here, A nearly did a split to show us what the soloist did. We were sufferin really bad. "And she reached behind her, grabbed that wig and popped it back on her head!"<br /><br />L, who had also been there, nodded. "Did not miss a note," she said. <br />"But when we were finished," A said, "and left the stage, girl! We laid on the <span style="font-weight:bold;">floor</span>, laughin!" We were almost there ourselves.<br /><br />L and her sister began reminiscing about parental expressions --The Old People's sayings. My sister had a problem with one of those expressions. <br /><br />"But what does it <span style="font-weight:bold;">mean</span>?" my sister the lawyer asked.<br />"It means 'It's not happening. Give up on it,'" L's sister said.<br />"But in what context," the attorney persisted, "do you use it?" L and her sister shrugged. It was hard to explain the context. It was show and tell, and there was no context available to show and tell it. We moved on. My sister and I shared our favorite expression from Mama. If you quote or allude to the advice of somebody Mama doesn't respect, she will, without fail, say, "And <span style="font-weight:bold;">he</span> knows as much about it as a bear knows about makin ice cream." My sister was laughing so hard as she tried to relay this information, her eyes were tearing and she was near incoherent.<br /><br />"<span style="font-weight:bold;">My</span> favorite," I said, "is '. . . .as a dog knows about makin hot biscuits.' That always cracks me up."<br /><br />L, using a word already on the Scrabble board, <span style="font-style:italic;">legally</span> put down three words at once, clearing some 50 points. L always wins these Scrabble tournaments, although, Saturday, my sister came close to beating her. The conversation moved on to the Obama girls. <br /><br />"I do not know why the media is so obsessed over where they're goin to school," L said. <br />"Did they obsess over Chelsea?" the attorney asked, rhetorically.<br />"You know, I heard that some people think they should go to public school," I added. The room went into an uproar.<br />"How are they gonna attend public school?"<br />"Think of the security!"<br />"That school'll be on lock down!"<br />"Before That Man became president, they could've gone to a public school. . . ." somebody said.<br />". . .<span style="font-style:italic;">but the dog's eye is out on that one now</span>," I added. The room erupted in woman laughter. My sister just put her head down, and tears ran down her cheeks. One index finger managed to point accusingly at me. <br /><br />"<span style="font-weight:bold;">THAT</span>'s the way to use that expression!" L's sister said, triumphantly. "Regina's got it."<br /><br />On Sunday, I got a text message from my sister with <span style="font-style:italic;">the dog's eye is out on that one</span> in it. But she still wasn't usin it right. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dear Jesus, remind us that a merry heart does good. Like medicine.</span>Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30534783.post-16834637726886442802008-11-15T18:29:00.002-05:002008-11-15T18:53:13.661-05:00Christina Makes Me Tired.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTs-DE2iJCE8YaVinsXV9uz0YbyMmapix26-zQZ1-iPkauCEhQlTdODbII1MVx_IMk06IMEpqCCmNmUYRLlO9XejBGpJgYbhyS5Ox22EysFOK041Wk2nx-0dOabdomaypRdXvDNQ/s1600-h/superior-scribbler-award.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 144px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTs-DE2iJCE8YaVinsXV9uz0YbyMmapix26-zQZ1-iPkauCEhQlTdODbII1MVx_IMk06IMEpqCCmNmUYRLlO9XejBGpJgYbhyS5Ox22EysFOK041Wk2nx-0dOabdomaypRdXvDNQ/s320/superior-scribbler-award.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269030957202088018" /></a>But <a href="http://sayingnothingcharmingly.blogspot.com/">Christina</a> doesn't care, and I think this award is just lovely, so I'm passing it on:<br /><br />*to Elayne of <a href="http://www.elaynocentricity.com/blog/">Elaynocentricity</a>, because, over and over, she says what I was thinking, and so well;<br /><br />*to Jen of <a href="http://jentucker.blogspot.com/">A Few Choice Words</a>, who is always pithy and on point;<br /><br />*to Tom of <a href="http://thelongview.tv/">The Long View</a>, another English Prof who loves the profession and his country;<br /><br />*to Kem of <a href="http://kemthemerciless.blogspot.com/">Kem's Utterly Merciless Guide to Essay Writing</a>, yes, one more, who is Dead Serious about what everybody should be Dead Serious about;<br /><br />*and to Bill of <a href="http://bootynovelbill.blogspot.com/">Tome of the Unknown Writer</a>, whose shameless novel title and shameless writing about his daughter and his life is always refreshing.<br /><br />Hey, y'all? I appreciate y'all. Now do this, please: <br /><br />*Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.<br /><br />*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.<br /><br />* Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to <a href="http://scholastic-scribe.blogspot.com/2008/10/200-this-blings-for-you.html">this award</a>">, which explains The Award.<br /><br />* Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit This Post(same as above or IBID) and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!<br /><br />*Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.<br /><br />Go crazy.Ginehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01912743894908319757noreply@blogger.com3