Not at ALL What You Thought

The Twelve Brothers (Part the Final)

2011-02-28T13:37:00.002-05:00

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, and her brothers . . . ." 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.

"We must return home," he said. Without a question, his convoy obeyed, turning their horses.

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."
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.

“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.

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.

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--"
"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.
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--"

"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 prophecy, Talitha stopped rubbing the circulation back into her legs, which had gone to sleep as she knelt on the bier, watching the skies.

"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.
"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."
"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.
"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."
"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.

"Seize them!" shouted Minkah. "Destroy them!" But as Minkah's men moved to obey, Jawhar spoke.
"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."
"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.
"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.)

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."
"Rise to your feet, Minkah Chafulumisa," replied Talitha. Tears stood in her eyes. "A kingdom could ask for no guardian more faithful than you."
"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."
"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.

"Long live the King!" Minkah cried, and the people echoed his cry.
"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.

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.
"Abayomi," she whispered.
"It's good to hear my name in your mouth again, Talitha," he answered. "How do you feel?"
"Much better. For a long time, I have felt so heavily burdened, so guilty, so alone--"
"I was here."
"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."
"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."
"God sent you to us," Talitha said fervently. "God sent you."
"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."
"Then say what you can."
"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."
"I don't need you, but I love you, Abayomi. How could you not know?"
"Then will you have me as your husband?"
"When my parents come, I'll tell them that I will have no other man." Kamau's face lit up from within.

"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."
"I don't see why I can't stay, now that you are here, to keep things proper," Kamau protested.
"Well . . . for a little longer, then. But when I leave, you leave."
"You don't make a very impressive chaperone, Rachael," said Talitha.
"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!"
"Everyone knows it wasn't your fault, Rachael," reassured Talitha.
"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!"
"I wonder if they'll ever be whole again," sighed Talitha.
"They'll always be the most beautiful hands in the world to me," said Kamau. "And I know your brothers would say the same."

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.
“I blame myself for your trouble,” she whispered.
“But how can you--?” began Abdu, when the queen interrupted.
“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?”
“I remember I made some thoughtless remark, and you ran off somewhere,” said the king. The queen related her story to the young people.

“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.
“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.”
“So you think it was your fault –that ‘ridiculous fate’ you and Father told me of?” Talitha asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Rukiya covered her face and shook her head.
“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—-“

“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.
“And what man would give up the opportunity to know the ibis from the inside out?” asked Chinelo.
“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.

“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.
“Disagree? With what?” he asked.
“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.”

“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.”
“Did you notice her asking our consent to this quest?” exclaimed Rukiya.
“And, Father, Mother, I tell you now, but with love, honor and respect—-“
“Well?” came from the King, whose eyes were sparkling with mirth.
“-—that I have chosen this man, Kamau,” finished Talitha. “I could choose no other.”
“I can see that you have talked this young man into going along with your choice,” said the Queen.
“Oh, please!” interrupted Rachael, laughing. “Do you really think she had to do much persuading?”
“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.

“It pleases us,” Abdu said. “May heaven bless your union -–with fourteen daughters!”
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.

The Twelve Brothers (Part the Fourth)

2011-02-21T14:29:00.003-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"We cannot tell what ails the princess," they lied, to the consternation of Prince Kamau and Princess Rachael. Minkah cleared his throat.

"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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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. Hide them, Great Father, (she thought) from the eyes of the hunters --at least until they are men again and can defend themselves. And, oh, God! (She wailed inwardly) Where is my Abayomi? 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.

The Twelve Brothers (Part the Third)

2011-02-15T06:28:00.005-05:00

"Dear God!" Talitha whispered. "This is what the prophecy meant. But how can I undo this horrible thing?"

"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.

"'Needle grass'? I have never heard of such a plant," said the Princess.
"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.

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 undo?" 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).

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.
"Welcome home, nephew --and welcome to your companion . . . uh?" Minkah said, waiting for a name.

"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."
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.

"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."

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.

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.

"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.

"You women may all leave," he said, "all except Umm, since she will not leave anyway, while I am here."
"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.
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.

"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."
"But the Princess does not speak much," interposed Umm meaningly.
"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.

I love you, Abayomi, thought Talitha, as she experienced the prince's tender solicitation, 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?
But Kamau would not meet her inquiring gaze again. 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.

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.

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?

Rachael amused herself with watching her brother watch Talitha, thinking, The man is lost to us forever! 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.

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.

"You look weary, as well as sad and beautiful," said Rachael.
"She kept falling asleep in her bath, Princess," volunteered Umm.
"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.

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?

"A woman child, born with a star,
Will gladly take this man child far:
When she brings him back again,
His reign can never be the same.
Twelve sacred birds will surround this royal house;
They come for the woman, and not her future spouse.
The twelve ibis are more than birds,
But twelve brothers and warriors: hers.
Mark well the woman, the star on her head;
Mark well these words that I have said."

Suddenly, Minkah awoke and sat straight up in bed.

The Twelve Brothers (Part the Second)

2011-02-06T09:33:00.002-05:00

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.

"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!"
"We would have told you," began the King slowly, "had the circumstances been different. As it was--"
"You were afraid I'd seek them out and harm them!" the princess gasped.
"No, daughter. We only feared to burden you with a ridiculous guilt."
"'Ridiculous'?" echoed the princess.
"Yes," spoke the Queen for the first time. "Fate so often seems ridiculous."
"'Fate'?" The princess fell silent, thinking, This is what separates me from my brothers: a ridiculous fate. "Tell me about them," she finally said.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But Enobakhare the seer was nowhere to be found.

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.

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.
"Where are they?" she demanded.

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.

"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.
"There is still hope," he said. “We will continue to pray.”
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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

"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.

"'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.

"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?"
"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."
"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.
"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."
"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."
"I will tell you the story one day, should my quest be successful," Talitha said simply.
"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.

"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.

"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.
"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.
"It appears there will be a celebration," murmured Kamau. He could feel his eyes burning, too.
"Yes!" replied Adisa. "The celebration starts now. Please stay with us, Kamau, until my eleven brothers return, and share our joy."
"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.
"Surely I, with your mother, can now call you Abayomi. Providence brought us together," she said.
"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."
"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.

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.
"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.
"'Safe'?" responded the prophet. "But what is that in your hand?"
"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!"
"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.

The Twelve Brothers (Part the First)

2011-01-31T06:52:00.006-05:00

When my sister and I were kids, Mama bought us an LP titled Goldilocks and the Three Bears (and other stories). 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." ("WHY 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.

THE TWELVE BROTHERS
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.

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.

“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.”

Abdu smiled and shook his head. “Some of our sons have more in common with you than with me. Jawhar, for example—“

“I mean,” the queen interrupted, “I want someone I can teach woman things. To pass on the knowledge my foremothers have given me.”

“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.

“Is that all you can think of? What your children can get for you?”

“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.

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.

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.

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:

"The birth of a thirteenth child
May not be cause for joy
Unless Queen Rukiya's child
Is born a thirteenth boy.
A woman child will bring
Sorrow upon the head
Of princes, queen and king;
Heed well what I have said.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"But what evil will I wreak upon them?"
"Who can tell, Princess?"
"Surely I can control my own will. I am not evil hearted. And true evil can only be deliberately, intentionally wrought, can it not?"
"Who can tell, Princess?"
"You can tell, Seer," replied the princess, finally standing in irritation. "You can tell me something. You will tell me something." The "or else" hung in the air, unsaid, but not unheard.
"Yea, Princess, I can tell this: the question is not 'what evil can you do?' but 'what evil can you undo?'" 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.)

Technical "Support"

2010-08-31T14:41:00.002-05:00

FYI: Micrograde is a virtual gradebook. It's sold by Chariot.
G

On Sat, Aug 28, 2010 at 3:41 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:

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."

Please advise.

J. Blackwell

On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 3:01 PM, Technical Support wrote:

What is the serial number you are using?

On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 1:09 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:

WXXXHSXX-60000-SXXXX.

On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 4:37 PM, Technical Support wrote:

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

On Mon, Aug 30, 2010 at 2:54 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:

Yes. As I told you, the error message said that it was a Windows serial number. However, the software is labeled as "compatible with Mac AND Windows."

So now you're saying the label is in error?

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 11:19 AM, Technical Support wrote:

No. I'm not saying that. Pay attention!

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.

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 9:53 AM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:

Please try not to be rude.

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.

I will pass on this conversation. Thank you for your attention (if not your courtesy).

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 1:13 PM, Technical Support wrote:

You got what you gave. If you don't want to be lectured, don't lecture.

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:

micrograde.html

"Lecture"? I asked a few questions, for the sake of clarity. I asked for help.

Thank you again.

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 1:30 PM, Technical Support wrote:

"Yes. As I told you, the error message ..."

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 2:00 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:

Ah. Because you repeated what I had already said, and I pointed that out, you call that "lecture," not clarification.

I see. I've sent our conversation to those in charge of software purchase for our library.

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 4:04 PM, Technical Support wrote:

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.)

"I see. I've sent our conversation to those in charge of software purchase for our library." Meaning what exactly? Do you think that's some kind of scary threat? You haven't spent a dime here for over 6 years. 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.

Oh, and don't forget to send this along to them as well.

On Tue, Aug 31, 2010 at 4:41 PM, J. A. Blackwell wrote:

There is no difference between underlining and italics. Both are emphatic typography. The problem is not my underlining, but your over-reaction to it.

I don't threaten. I inform.

Thank you again for your attention.

Look. Just unfriend me now and avoid the Xmas rush.

2010-06-09T16:18:00.003-05:00

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 not believe that every Fb friend YOU 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.:

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;

or if s/he attacks you or another friend's grammar, ungrammatically, or spelling, unspelltically;

or if s/he begins to obsess over The End of The World As We Know It (in 2012, specifically);

or if s/he seems to be choosing ANONYMOUS and obviously psychotic Teabaggers over you or your friends, whom s/he actually knows;

or if s/he attacks you or another friend, howsomever;

I will respond in unkind.

Now, I have 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?

Think on that, beloved (and, of course, whether you hold with my abbreviation of Christmas), and consider that friend thang, as regards you, me, and Facebook.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, I'm tryin to do right. Really, I am. Help.

Birds' Brains

2010-04-28T13:55:00.001-05:00

For 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.

“When in the world did they find the time to build it?” I wondered aloud. Apparently, it may take only a few days to build the kind of nest Robin built, but it’s supposed to last for at least a month.
“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.

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 ring-necked doves, 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.

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.

And then, when the coast was clear, she’d come back and start all over again.

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.

“Yo*, I found an empty eggshell on the porch,” Goobs, heading back from taking out the recycling, said.
“Blue?”
“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.

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.

Life goes on, somehow, in spite of everything pointed at it, conniving against it.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, teach us to keep hoping and believing and looking up.

*She’s Really Cool. That’s why she talks that way.
*Goobs’ currently favorite injunction

Xmas at HHS

2009-12-17T11:05:00.002-05:00

Last 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.

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.

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 loves 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 asking questions before doing what he was told.

Anyway, last night, in the middle of a performance, the child took his horn apart 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 spit or slobber-- 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.")

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.

Interesting how much more patient I am with the handsome young men, huh?

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to love on all of our children.

*I'll give you one guess.

A Propos of Nothing

2009-10-01T14:52:00.003-05:00

I 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?"

"What, Ms. [Student]?"

"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.

"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.

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.

"They murdered him," she said. "Murdered him. Murdered him. And he never meant no harm to nobody."

Dear Jesus, help us to know the advantage in being wise as serpents and harmless as doves.

*And last.

I have to do this now, while it's still fresh.

2009-09-09T09:24:00.006-05:00

I'm ready to talk about my Tuesday now. You may not be ready to hear about it, and that's fine.

Those of y'all still here? This happened.

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 hate taking them outside. When we lived at the other house, we used to just let 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 (especially that idiot, Frody), "Hey, I live somewhere around here. Better go home, where they love me. Kinda." Poor dogs. Now, there are definite advantages, actually, to taking the dogs, as opposed to loosing 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.

Such is life, though, when you choose to allow dogs to take up residence in your home.

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.

The day started out fairly normally, I'm tryina say.

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.

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.

"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?"

"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.

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, all the way down, 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.

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.

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 I 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.

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 I 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. And I decide what I say. "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.)

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 begin work 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 doing?" 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.

"Why?" he asked, exasperated.
"Can you just do that for me? Talk with me after class?"
"Okay. Okay," he said.

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. . . ."

I did call on him, but not next. Because I don't have it in for him.
Yet.

But it's going to be hard not 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 beforeI "called him out." I asked him what he thought I should do to restore order in my class. He shrugged.

"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 I was saying anything at all. 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?"

"When did I say that?" I asked.
"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.
"They run between 11 am and 1 pm," I said.
"I'll be there at 1 then," he replied.
"Um. My office hours END at 1."
"Oh. Well, I'll be there sometime before."

One of my sneaky students, also older, waited until the young man had left and said, "Ms. Blackwell, he's not gonna do anything you tell him to do." And she burst out laughing. But I had to run, though, so when she assured me that she wouldn't give me a hard time this semester, all I could say was, "Well, if you do, I can handle it."

"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.

I'm so glad some of y'all prayed. God, He knows what would've happened if y'all hadn't.

Jesus, my brother, I thank You. Anyway.

*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 for the purpose of 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.
*Me commanding, "Okay, get your poop on," and them just looking and sniffing around for the rabbits they're sure will show up shortly.
*Meaning that if it's not some kind of sugar bomb, she won't eat it.
*Yes, that's what I said.
*Especially since he didn't have his textbook (the Best Excuse EVAR for not doing an in-class assignment).
*Meaning he looked to be about my age.
*I wonder (again) if I actually turn red when I get angry or embarrassed.

"And What About YOUR Husband?"

2009-08-26T12:09:00.002-05:00

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.

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?

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.

"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 black single mother, my reception was just dripping with stereotypes. Surely, he was thinking, this is one of those welfare queens one hears about. Or, you know, not.

"Not any more," I replied. Then followed a discussion about why. I was vague, as one should 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 should 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.

Related to this sadness is the assertion that if your marriage is failing, whatever the reason for the failure, you should work to save it. Or, as I learned recently, if you Have The Nerve to try to work through the end of your marriage by writing about it, publishing your thoughts and experiences is "a bit much."

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.

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.

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to make the best of the non-marriage relationships we have, especially those we have with You.

I Don't Even LIKE Obama Like That!

2009-08-26T11:07:00.006-05:00

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.

The assertion that Sotomayor wasn't the first Hispanic Supreme Court Justice is tacked onto a charge of antisemitism. The assertion that Obama can't craft a decent national health care plan is tacked onto his stance on abortion. The assertion that Obama is "incredible [sic] cold and arrogant" 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.

Clearly, I'm a naif, but I'd just like for people to focus. 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?

Frankly, I blame that idiot Bush.

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to use the brains you gave us.

*Yeah, I turned it into a verb. You like that?

How Does Your Breath Smell?

2009-08-13T07:40:00.006-05:00

(Rated R for pervasive strong language)

So.

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.

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.)

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.

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 LMAO and even LMFAO. 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 in the eye with a towel. (I use the word accidentally because, although she was playing around and meant to snap me with it, she did not mean to snap me in the eye with it. In response, I deliberately used the words damn it 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 this essay, anyway.)

I'm reminded of Walter Mosley's character, Socrates Fortlow, the sixty-something ex-convict who, in the novel Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned,
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.

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 mean is "Take pride in yourself, your accomplishments, your standards, your creations"? Personally, I haven't taken pride in my shit since I was two. I flush it away, in fact.

So why, finally, is shit always in your mouths, little brothers and sisters? Aren't you aware of what that does to your smile and your breath?

Lord Jesus, my brother, let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight.

*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 LMFAO thang.
*I am, however, a prude in other areas. Deal with it.
*Yes, a hunnert years ago.
*She and her husband actually follow The Dead around. Nuff said.
*Yes, I use this word advisedly, but only in reference to certain people, never a certain part of their (or anyone's) body.

Merry Father's Juneteenth!

2009-06-22T17:31:00.008-05:00

On Saturday, the family celebrated my stepfather's 80th birthday. I think I had more fun than anybody.

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.

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.

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 Juneteenth; 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).

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.

His stepdaughters (my sister and I) and stepson-in-law sang for him, too. We were at least as nervous as the grands.

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.

"But why are your shoes up here?" PopPop had asked.

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.

"I understand you read the bible a lot," he said. "Do you know what it says about honoring your parents?"

"I know," I said. "Do you know what it says about fathers not provoking their children?"

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. THIS --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. THAT was when he became PopPop.

On Sunday, the family met at a Chinese buffet. PopPop and I crossed paths on the way to the dessert.

"Happy Father's Day," he said.

*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.

**Most recently, PopPop came through with $300 when Juice's father broke a promise to provide half of a college dormitory deposit.

Hairy Issues : Never Say Never

2009-06-04T08:06:00.007-05:00

This 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.

Some loc lore: 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 What Not to Wear. Is Sista going to whoop up on Nick and his scissor fetish?)

Oh, and folk who wore dreadlocks smoked marijuana. Also to get closer to God*.

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.

I guess I should say something about the process of loc'ing hair. Currently, there are (at least) two schools of artificial* process : palm rolling and latch hooking. Palm-rolled locs are just what they sound like: hair rolled into the desired loc shape, maybe helped along with styling oils or beeswax or gels. Latch hooking 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 guarantee that I could never "unlock" my hair. Never.

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 could come unlocked.

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 eye hurt, I decided to go to a friend who had been employed by SuperCuts, and I asked her to cut my hair.

I was mildly intrigued when, after the cutting, the ends of my locs --that is, the oldest parts of my hair-- began to unravel. "Huh," I thought. "Maybe Amy [the email friend] knows what she's talking about." This is an earth-shattering revelation.

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 "hand in loc disease," 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.

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 is the style now, after all. . ."? I'm also imagining myself with long, thick, nappy hair*, 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.

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, I chose locs because I'm a lazy git.

Dear Jesus, my brother, teach us that self-love is at the root of neighbor-love.

*Look. Don't ask me. I don't know.

*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.

*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.

*Whoopi Goldberg's term.

*Read "dirty and uncombed."

*Yeah, after I unravel my hair, all my fat'll fall off my body and I'll look just like Gloria Reuben.

Worth Repeating (from May 08)

2009-05-10T13:59:00.001-05:00

For ALL the Mothers
(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.)

This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with
sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up puke laced with Oscar Mayer
wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy ' s here".

Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing
crying babies who can ' t be comforted. This is for all the mothers who
show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their
blouses and diapers in their purses.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies
and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

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.

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections
are hanging on their refrigerator doors.

And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal
bleachers at football, hockey or soccer games instead of watching from
the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see
me, Mom?" they could say, "Of course; I wouldn't have missed it for
the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in
the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet
and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who
count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their
children and explained all about making babies. And for all the (grand)
mothers who wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their
children can eat.

For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a
night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to
tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers
who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook
and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically
when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their
own offspring are at home -- or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to
school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they
got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking
them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who
can't find the words to reach them.

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed
when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green [or pierce their lips.
Don't ask].

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school
shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.

For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who
sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came
home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to
be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway?

Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to
nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same
time?

Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you
watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school
alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed
to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when
you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again
in your home?

Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your
child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our
thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and
sleep deprivation...

And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.

Single mothers and married mothers.

Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all. For all of us.

Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we
can. Tell them every day that we love them. And pray.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, thank you for Mama.

Freestylin at the HBCU

2009-04-05T19:08:00.002-05:00

Last Tuesday, I gave a "paper" on Morrison's A Mercy at Hampton U's annual Read-In. The entire occasion began hilarious and got better.

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.

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 paper!" Goobs' godmama, also a former colleague and the one who'd invited me to sit the panel, replied, "Well, I told her to give a paper!" Best Friend pulled out a sheaf of papers and said, "I did what you did!"

The panel before us started and we all listened, nonplussed, at the panelists talking about shoes in the novel.

Yes, shoes. Or, more properly, a shoe motif. 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.

"It's entirely possible," I said.

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.)

Godmama is also smooth. I listened in awe of her.

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.)

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."

Ah, he's probably married.

Goobs' godmama said I behaved as if I was at home. I replied, "I felt like I was among friends." And I was.

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us influence the children to read --and then talk about what they've read.

I Don't at ALL Like "Christians"

2009-03-18T20:02:00.002-05:00

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, "You're not saved. If you were saved, you wouldn't be wearin those." She was referring to my shorts, which were very short, and purple with little pink back pockets.

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.)

"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 love 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.

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.

The distinction came home to me today when a Facebook friend, a rabbi, posted this story. 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 right 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.

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 religious instead of "Christian" 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.

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."

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.

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.

. . . .because Sister Girl is right: I am angry. And she is wrong: because a lack of anger about lies, liars and lying is the very thing that will make us deaf to the Father's voice.

*I'm learning a lot about perspective from this teacher.

Dear Jesus, teach us how to be angry and sin not.

Love, Fear, and Integrity

2009-02-06T21:04:00.006-05:00

So 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 found in R-rated movie auditoriums, claiming to be with Adults. And then alleged Adults claiming the kids.

And the tickets being traced to Juice's window.

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.)

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.

She said nothing to me of being fired. I found out when I went to my 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?

We make these promises, we mamas.

Anyway, I told everybody who cared about Juice what had happened. They all commiserated with her, but only my mama insisted that I talk to Juice's boss. Well, the boss of Juice's boss: he 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.

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:

Hey, [boss' boss' name],

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.

Thanks!

And then another week went by. Juice still hadn't heard anything from him.

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.)

"Where's your sister?" I asked.
"She's talking to Mr. [BB's name]."

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.

"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, some of his employees.

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 I 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.

Especially when they're wrong.

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 job to overturn a bad decision and help the boss understand that his decision was a bad one --bad for the business, bottom line. It annoys me that this man doesn't see that.

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."

The heck?

At first, I thought (and --you know-- said) "Oh, yes, he is afraid of me. Else why even say. . . ." And then I talked about it with Christina, who agreed that the week wait after my email might've been. . . . Boss' boss' message --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 --because you said you would. Boss' bosses do not have to re-hire anybody, especially in this economy, okay? But shouldn't they have to stand on their word?

Riding home from prayer, I was listening to some tobymac songs. 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?"

And then my mind went back to a Malcolm in the Middle 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?

"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.

"You're funny, Mommy," Juice said.

Well, Jesus, my brother, thank You for always trying to teach us to pay attention.

*An expression I learned from my first boyfriend when I was fifteen. It means, of course, "renders the benediction."
*Yes, child. He's barely older than Juice.
*If I say so myself, she has a great smile.

Served Yet Again. . . .

2009-01-30T10:40:00.003-05:00

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? And then serves the clueless one with a subpoena? "You've just been served, J. Regina," Possible New Friend says, and walks away.

You know the deal. Well, it happened to me this morning, and it's happening to you right now, johnbrownit. IF YOU ARE WITHIN THREE FEET OF A BOOK, YOU MUST PARTICIPATE IN THIS MEME.

So I gots Bread Not Stone on my johnbrown desk and I'm quoting, johnbrownit, here and now, the fifth johnbrown sentence (and then some) from page 46:

"Insofar as biblical studies are "canonical" studies, they are related to and inspired by their Sitz im Leben 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."

Hey, it coulda been worse. I started to quote from this book. And my advice to you is If Christina innocently asks if you're three feet away from a book, LIE.

Thank you, Jesus, for friends who know me entirely too well. Else this life'd be so lonely.

Predictions for Elayne

2009-01-03T16:43:00.002-05:00

If, 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.

I'll be responding to tons of text messages. (Hopefully they won't all say "Happy New Year!" all year.)

I'll be watching TV with Goobs.

I'll be listening to the new songs Juice wrote.

I'll be speaking civilly to the dogs (a NY's resolution*), as opposed to calling them both "stupid" (loudly and under my breath).

I'll be listening to very loud, rock/hip-hop-inspired gospel music.

I'll be taxiing the girls around.

I'll be reading up the stacks of books next to the bed.

In other words, doin what I did last year.

*Broke this one before I finished this list. LOL

Lord Jesus, my brother, thank You for another chance to get it right.

Just Thankful

2008-11-28T09:11:00.002-05:00

Merry Day-After-Thanksgiving! I am thankful (daily, but especially this time of year):

1. for my faith;

2. for my family, as crazy as the members thereof behave from time to time;

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;

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;

5. for a job, a career, a vocation, which I still enjoy, despite all those essays somebody keeps assigning;

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;

7. for my dogs, Nimue and Frody, the idiots.

Yes, But How Do You USE It?

2008-11-25T20:02:00.003-05:00

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.

Seriously.

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.

"I am not 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.

"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.
'I'ma back up, Rich,' he said. 'Don't let me hit the wall.'
'Okay,' Rich said. Hubby got into the car and began backing up.
'Come on back,' Rich said. Hubby moved back.
'Come on back.' Hubby moved back some more.
CRRRRUNCH!
Hubby had hit the wall.
'Hold up, now,' said Rich." We nea'bout died laughin.

It was A's turn to tell a story.
"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.

And her wig fell off." We were already in the painful throes of laughter, but A wasn't finished.

"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!"

L, who had also been there, nodded. "Did not miss a note," she said.
"But when we were finished," A said, "and left the stage, girl! We laid on the floor, laughin!" We were almost there ourselves.

L and her sister began reminiscing about parental expressions --The Old People's sayings. My sister had a problem with one of those expressions.

"But what does it mean?" my sister the lawyer asked.
"It means 'It's not happening. Give up on it,'" L's sister said.
"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 he 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.

"My favorite," I said, "is '. . . .as a dog knows about makin hot biscuits.' That always cracks me up."

L, using a word already on the Scrabble board, legally 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.

"I do not know why the media is so obsessed over where they're goin to school," L said.
"Did they obsess over Chelsea?" the attorney asked, rhetorically.
"You know, I heard that some people think they should go to public school," I added. The room went into an uproar.
"How are they gonna attend public school?"
"Think of the security!"
"That school'll be on lock down!"
"Before That Man became president, they could've gone to a public school. . . ." somebody said.
". . .but the dog's eye is out on that one now," 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.

"THAT's the way to use that expression!" L's sister said, triumphantly. "Regina's got it."

On Sunday, I got a text message from my sister with the dog's eye is out on that one in it. But she still wasn't usin it right.

Dear Jesus, remind us that a merry heart does good. Like medicine.

Christina Makes Me Tired.

2008-11-15T18:29:00.002-05:00

But Christina doesn't care, and I think this award is just lovely, so I'm passing it on:

*to Elayne of Elaynocentricity, because, over and over, she says what I was thinking, and so well;

*to Jen of A Few Choice Words, who is always pithy and on point;

*to Tom of The Long View, another English Prof who loves the profession and his country;

*to Kem of Kem's Utterly Merciless Guide to Essay Writing, yes, one more, who is Dead Serious about what everybody should be Dead Serious about;

*and to Bill of Tome of the Unknown Writer, whose shameless novel title and shameless writing about his daughter and his life is always refreshing.

Hey, y'all? I appreciate y'all. Now do this, please:

*Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.

*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.

* Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to this award">, which explains The Award.

* 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!

*Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Go crazy.

On To the Revolution

2008-11-03T13:54:00.003-05:00

A social-worker friend emailed these lyrics to me this morning. I'd never seen them all:

Fly Like An Eagle

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future

I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Oh, Lord, through the revolution

Feed the babies
Who don't have enough to eat
Shoe the children
With no shoes on their feet
House the people
Livin' in the street
Oh, oh, there's a solution

I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Fly through the revolution

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future

I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Fly through the revolution

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future

A Night With William Jefferson Clinton's Favorite Writer

2008-10-29T21:20:00.005-05:00

A woman of my age should go to the bathroom before major events; I should know this by now; I’ve been taught, all my life, by Mama, to “go before we leave the house”; however, I still get too distracted now and then to act with any sense. I was sorry about that last night, when I went to see Walter Mosley speak at Christopher Newport University’s Ferguson Hall. Because I had moderated* a panel where four colleagues talked about four different Mosley novels, we all got tickets to the talk. But about halfway through Mr. Mosley’s talk, I felt An Urgency. I felt hot with embarrassment, and I felt forced to lean over and tell my girlfriend, with whom (and her husband and Juice) I had come to the talk, “I need to find the ladies’ room.” Without batting an eye, she pointed and said, “It’s right outside this room.”

I appreciated the fact that it didn’t even seem to occur to her to recoil in horror at the possibility that I’d have to leave the front row (“priority seating,” the usher told us) , in front of God and everybody, and run all the way back to the ladies’. As I mulled over this appreciation, I realized that, at my age, NONE of the people I truly like and love (virtually or IRL) would feel embarrassed by having to watch me do that. In fact, I know a couple who’d get up, all in front of God and everybody, and go with me. I have to say that I do not include my daughters in that number, although I like and love them, too. Either or both of them would just die of embarrassment in such a situation. Fortunately, I didn’t have to witness Juice’s embarrassment: when I thought about my friendships, for some reason, The Urgency passed.* I got to hear Walter Mosley talk about writing, politics, sex, race, celebrity, and family. It was a joy, thoroughly entertaining and enlightening.

Walter Mosley is a tall, roundish, balding, extremely light-skinned black man. (Juice, sitting next to me, asked, as he came to the podium, “Is he white?” She had been confused by her programme, which had a picture of a café-au-lait-skinned black man on the cover. The fact is, Mosley’s father was black and his mother was Jewish. This is how he describes his parentage; as he says, “Anybody who knows the history of the Jews in Europe would not call them ‘white.’ And I am not white.”) He was dressed entirely in black, black suit, black mock turtleneck shirt, black shoes; one corner of the back of his suit jacket was kind of hiked up over one hip. I kept getting distracted by that corner of his suit jacket. (My gf said she had had the strong urge to run up to the stage and pull it down, but she didn’t feel such solicitation would be appropriate or welcomed, so she beat the impulse down.)

Mosley talked about writing. He said that, every morning, he got up, made coffee, and turned on his computer. “After that, everything else comes easy.” He rejoices in the discovery (twenty years ago) that he is a writer, despite the fact that his father had wanted him to go into “the prison system, a growing industry,” and had predicted (wrongly) that he’d never make any money as a writer. When an audience member asked him, “What do you do to get started?” he replied, “Nothing.”
“You mean you just get up, drink some coffee and just write?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
He said that every writer should take a poetry course. “I’m a terrible, terrible poet. Terrible. But taking a poetry course taught me about rhythm and rhyme and the sounds of words, how sentences should work –everything, really, about writing a novel, except characterization and plot.” He also said it might be a good idea for poets to take novel-writing courses.

Mosley talked about politics. He said that he hadn’t watched the debates. “What? Am I gonna suddenly change my mind [because of a debate] and vote for McCain? I guess I should’ve said ‘the other guy,’ huh?” He believes that, whoever we vote for, “the lobbyists will continue to run the country.” But, although he has decided to “vote for Obama, stump for him,” he realizes, he says, that one man can do only so much for an entire country. “We all have to go to work,” he said, “on November 5th, to create change, to end the control of those lobbyists.”

Mosley talked about sex. Or, rather, the sex in one of his new books. He published his thirtieth (?) book, Killing Johnny Fry: A Sexistential Novel, this year, and the critics have panned it as “just porn.”
“And,” he said, shrugging, “it is. . . .It’s about sex. So if you don’t like to read about people having sex, lots and lots of sex, don’t buy it.” He was amused by non-critical reaction to the novel. “People were reading it, getting aroused by it, and not wanting to be aroused!” But, as one of the audience members (one of my favorite colleagues. I was so proud of him) pointed out, there is more than just sex, lots and lots of sex in the novel. Mosley was thinking of Sartre and Camus and Malraux (but not Eliot) when he wrote that thang. He was thinking about what happens to a person “when sex is the problem.” His girlfriend said, “In ten years, they’ll get it,” and he hopes that’s true.

Mosley talked about race. He pointed out that, after 9/11, he got “two thousand phone calls, one thousand from white people, and one thousand from black people.” Everybody was stunned and grieving, he said, but “only the white people were surprised.” (And one black woman, whom he laughed at.) He claimed that black people, having watched white people for centuries, always “know what white people are going to do. ‘See what Massa did right there? Know what he’s gonna do next?’”

Mosley talked about celebrity. People keep confusing him with another writer. Some gentleman at an airport told Mosley how much he had enjoyed Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. When Mosley said, “I’m not August Wilson; I’m Walter Mosley,” the gentleman flapped his hand derisively at him and said, “Oh, never mind, then.” And then, at a panel, the late, great Wilson told Mosley, “I’m bout sick of people tellin me how much they like Devil in a Blue Dress!” Mosley doesn’t understand it. “I think I look like Billy Joel,” he said. At this point, I apologize, but I have to tell y’all that Juice asked me, “Who’s that?”
“August Wilson? A great playwright. He wrote The Piano Lesson, remember?”
“Not him. The other guy he said.”
“Billy Joel?”
“Yeah. Who’s that?” At that moment, after telling her he was a pop legend, I couldn’t remember any songs except, “My Life,” “Innocent Man” and the very, very, very end of “Just the Way You Are,” none of which I could sing to her at that moment. (Y’all help me. What Billy Joel would the child’ve heard?? Today, I remember the “la lalala” hook from “Piano Man,” but otherwise, I’m drawin a blank.)

Mosley talked about family. I liked his stories about his father, who told great stories and listened while his son learned how to tell stories. I liked what he said about his mother, who helped teach him how to function in the world. He said that he learned everything he knew about white people from his mother (although, as I said, he contends that she herself “isn’t white”). I liked what he said about his aunt, a very, very short woman “who was the strongest member of the family.” (He meant physically, too.)

Mosley was very generous with his time. During questions from the audience, one audience member, about a hunnert and fifty years old, apologized first for having "a bad cold," coughed (“all the way from his but-tocks,” said gf’s hubby) right in the microphone, and finally asked a question Mr. Mosley said he’d have to take notes for. But he answered a LOT of questions, patiently and as completely as (he thought) possible. Mostly, he was very effective with questioners. He knew how to cut off an answer and then move, expeditiously, to the next. He was good. I was filled with admiration.

And then he walked away to a table to sign autographs. The line was ridiculous long, but Mr. Mosley sat and signed and sat and signed. GF had left her children (one a 10mo) with Goobs and her own 14yo, so she was a little antsy about standing in that long line, waiting for an autograph. But the line moved rather quickly, so we got in it.

GF’s hubby had sketched Mosley while he talked. Hubby told us the story of how Toni Morrison refused to sign his sketch of her.
“Did I write this?” he says she asked.
“No,” Hubby replied, still not even seeing what was coming.
“Then I’m not signing this,” she said. “Next!” (Here, GF interjects, “And I shoved him aside and pointed my book –her book—at her. Got my autograph.”)
“I don’t like Toni Morrison anymore,” Hubby ended. But Walter Mosley signed the sketch, and my copy of Gone Fishin and GF’s copy of Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned, and Juice’s copy of the programme.

Then he allowed everybody and her brother to take pictures with him. Around this time, I found one of my former students. Hadn’t seen her in years, though we email all the time.
“Ms. B! You gotta take a picture with me and Mr. Mosley!”
“That’s not happenin,” I replied, filled with dread.
But, honey, it happened.
I stood there, on the right side of Walter Mosley, one arm around me, feeling like a rabbit on the interstate. My former student was saying to Mr. Mosley, "I never would've known who you were if it hadn't been for her!" My stank friends were standing around, with their own cameras, yelling, “Stop bein so shy, Gine! SMILE!” I couldn’t. I hate picture-taking, and I hate forcing myself on celebrity strangers.

“Gotta tickle her,” said Mosley. And then he did: first behind my ear, then at my considerable waist. It’s gonna take me a long time to forget that. On the ride home, while everybody was laughing at the cougher, I had both hands on my face, thinking, I do not believe what happened. At home, in bed, I was still shaking my head.

It was the second coolest thing that happened that night. The best, best thing, ever, was being there with Juice, who had asked to be my date.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, thank You for the Great Ones.

* That means I kept the panelists from fist fights. No, really.

*No, I did not pee in the seat.

Goobs’ Trombone Spit Valve Repair

2008-10-18T19:22:00.004-05:00

Saturday, we got up, went to the bank, and then spent nea’bout everything we had on bills. I rejoiced greatly about the loss of about $67 of it.

I might’ve told y’all that the girls are in their HS band: Juice plays French horn* and Goobs plays sax and t-bone.** I bought nearly everything the girls play at school from one pawn shop or another. And I get the instruments repaired at a little place called Woodwinds Plus. A very correct gentleman, tall and very dark and thin, Mr. Sylvester Artis, manages the place and, along with very correct colleagues who call each other “Mr,” repairs all kinds of musical instruments.

Saturday we had to go to Woodwinds Plus because the spit valve on Goobs’ trombone had broken off. (I could go on for just pages and pages about the disgusting necessity for spit valves, yes, on certain instruments, yes, simply because some human habitually blows into them, a necessity that had never occurred to me before my daughters became musicians, but, this time, I’ll spare you.) Goobs, quite aware of the cost of instrument repair (yes, because our instruments come from pawn shops, mostly), had taped up the hole left by the departing spit valve, and had been satisfied with her own work –until we went to the bank. Then, of course, she saw her opportunity and leapt upon it.

I always feel intimidated by the very correct gentlemen at Woodwinds Plus, probably because they’re older and wiser than I. Now, I know, in this day and age, it’s a stupid reason to feel intimidated by mere people, but there you are.

“What can I do for you today?” Mr. Artis asked Goobs as we walked up to the counter. I always make Goobs and Juice talk to the very correct gentlemen. The girls hate it because they’re shy, but I really hope something of these gentlemen will rub off on the girls, so I insist.

“The spit valve. . .” she said and kinda trailed off. She opened the case for Mr. Artis and his colleague (who had sauntered up to the counter, too), and, ignoring the spit valve issue, they made admiring noises over the dents all over the trombone. The colleague took the trombone lovingly into his hands.

“You hit somebody with this?” Mr. Artis’ colleague asked. “Tell the truth. You beat some poor boy with this, didn’t you? In the head?” He took the trombone and the case and walked off to the repair area, central to the little shop. There are two big tables there, covered and surrounded with the arcane paraphernalia used by those who coax abused instruments back to their former glory: poles and tubing and valves and buttons and keys and screws and knobs and pliers and mallets and things. This section of the shop is wide open, except for a wood bar separating the repair portion from the rest of it, so we watched the repair for a while. Before even playing with the spit valve, the very correct gentleman worked, for more than an hour, on the dents. He stuck metal sticks into a vise and then stuck the various trombone parts on the sticks, beating out the dents. Then he washed the parts, inside and out. Then he polished and buffed them. THEN he sat down at his table and took the valve apart. He cut Goobs’ tape off the hole the valve was supposed to cover and frowned at it. He scrubbed the black gunk from around the hole and began the work to put the valve in its rightful place.

(Juice and I had told Goobs that this repair was not one of those Super Glue thangs. “He’s going to have to solder it back on,” I told her, but neither I nor Juice could explain the work to Goobs’ satisfaction. I was glad she was getting a chance to see the work. Mostly, though, I was glad I had been right about how the thang would be repaired.)

Woodwinds Plus is packed to bursting with extremely old and brand-spanking new musical instruments. Today, a viola, a cello and a guitar sit in the big front window. Some of the glass cases inside, near the cash register, are full of things instruments --and, I guess, musicians-- need, like reeds, oils, picks, drumsticks, spotless white gloves, mutes, strings, metronomes, swabs, drum heads, mouthpieces, cork grease, cases, polish, books, and straps, for example. The glass cases up against the walls are full of memories: old, old, faded black and white photographs of the three gentlemen, looking younger and more intimidating, and other musicians and soloists and their friends and colleagues, pretending to play, so the picture’d look interesting. The last time I was there, I managed to identify Mr. Artis in one of the pictures.

When the girls and I come to WP, we’re always fascinated by the stuff on display. And the stuff kind of hidden, or just pushed out of the way of old feet: Saturday, we found a beautiful brand-new French horn, in its open case near where one very correct gentleman was repairing Goobs’ trombone, and a gorgeous viola, its bridge broken, leaning up against the wall near where another very correct gentleman was giving a saxophone lesson.

The girls and I have visited WP many times, but we have never witnessed any lessons, despite the fact that we knew at least one of the very correct gentleman gave flute, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, and God knows what-all other instrument lessons. Saturday, people were running in and out of WP, taking half-hour lessons. When we came in, Goobs heard somebody struggling with a saxophone.

“He’s just learning,” she said confidently.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“His tone,” she said. “Shaky.” Nosy, Goobs maneuvered herself around so she could see the sax student. It was a man, nearly my age. He finished his lesson and walked out, smiling. The next student, a boy with a trumpet, was already waiting for his turn. Of course, Juice commented upon the trumpet player (because she used to play trumpet). "He's holding it down. He shouldn't hold it down. His tone is good, though." The teacher sang the notes he wanted his students to play, corrected the way they held their mouths, the way they breathed, and even the way they sat (probably). When the aspiring trumpeter left, an aspiring flautist, about my age, rose from his seat and went back to the teacher.

At one point, one of HU’s former band directors, a Professor Brady, came in, with a baritone saxophone (according to Goobs). He looked at Goobs’ trombone and asked her who she’d been hitting with it. He asked Juice if she played, what she played.
“French horn,” she said. The atmosphere changed. (Earlier, before the director came in, the teacher, walking slowly from the back of the shop, asked, “French horn?? I can’t do nothing with that.” Mr. Artis said, “If you can play French horn, these colleges, they’ll give you a full scholarship. You don’t even have to major in music.” We had heard this before. I was waiting to see what the band director would say.)

“You any good?” he asked Juice. She shrugged.
“She’s very good,” I said. Nobody had asked me, but . . . you know.
“Modest, huh?” He joked around with the girls some more, asked me if they looked like their daddy or me, if they were recruiting trombone and French horn players, asked if they were on good terms with Mr. Smart (the girls' own band director), looked at a cello somebody was trying to sell, and then he left. But he asked for Juice’s name twice.

We had been at WP for nearly three hours when Mr. Artis (who had joined his colleague in the repair –when he wasn’t busy returning already-repaired instruments to their owners and taking in sick instruments, and appraising instruments to buy) said, to Goobs, “All right, young lady, let’s hear you on this trombone.” Mr. Artis’ colleague had tucked the trombone in its case –along with the repair bill—and brought it to the counter.

Mr. Artis, et al ALWAYS make young musicians play before they leave. It’s part of the repair payment, I think, and my favorite part, mostly because I’m proud of my girls’ talents, but also because I learn something, too. Every time. Goobs got up and took her trombone, blew into it. By now, the third very correct gentleman, the teacher, much older, I think, than Mr. Artis or the other colleague, was making his way to the counter. He was slightly, habitually bent, as were his fingers, and his steps were very, very, excruciatingly slow. He stopped Goobs and said something about the way she was holding her mouth. Asked her to play “Taps.” Goobs didn’t know what “Taps” was, so the teacher sang the notes, three at a time, for her, and she played them back to him. Almost satisfactorily.

“Now you play something of your own,” he commanded. Goobs played something or other. “Louder,” he said. “Play it strong. Not like a peashooter.” Goobs played some more, until the teacher was a little more satisfied.

“Thank you,” said Goobs.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. After asking Juice about the parade their band had participated in last week, last Friday, he talked to me a little about Friday nights, and how dangerous they were nowadays.
“Folks killing each other,” he said. “And I know why, too. I know why, too. Children aren’t held responsible for anything they do. Their parents are put in jail for whippin ‘em. I got whippin’s. Didn’t hurt me none.”
“I got whippin’s every day, seem like,” Mr. Artis, working on something behind his colleague injected. We all laughed.
“One them grown folk tell you do something, you did it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “No conversation about it.”
“No. And sometimes, they didn’t even say anything. Just a look.” And he demonstrated. He made other pleasantries, and then made his way to the repair area.

I looked at the bill in my hand. It cited the replacement of the spit valve. The three hours of straightening and beating and shining and loving on the instrument wasn’t on the bill at all. And the trombone? It looked like a different horn entirely, a million times*** better than it had when we brought it in. Mr Artis’ colleague, coming in from smoking a cigarette, came close to me and murmured, “I like to see the young musicians, like to encourage them.” He was a very, very fair-skinned black man, with blue eyes and thinning, curling, shiny hair. I looked at him and imagined that he had been a lady killer back in the day. All of them, no doubt. Women have always loved musicians.

“I appreciate that, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Here,” he said to Goobs, “give me your case. Let me shine it up for ya.” He didn’t charge for that, either. He wished "a blessed day" upon us as we left Woodwinds Plus. We wished it back upon him. Upon all of them.

Thank you, Lord Jesus, my brother, for folk committed to passing on the good traditions.

*. . .and trumpet and keyboard and guitar. . .and anything else she thinks would be fun to play.
**Got this cool abbr from Woodwinds Plus.
***Damning with faint praise here.

You Know, They WARNED Me. . .

2008-10-16T15:41:00.003-05:00

. . about MySpace, but I really had no proof that the warnings were true until yesterday.

See, bein of the "Can't beat 'em? Run off and hide" crowd, I hate and eschew online communities, but somebody's always invitin me to join somethin or other. (I'm lookin at you, Christina and Ranuel.)

But it seems like I'm raisin a coupla joiners. Goobs, for example, wanted a MySpace page. The very thought raised my hackles (my total ignorance* notwithstanding). I talked to my pastor (yes, the one I bother when I want a Father POV) about it, and he said as long as I had the password to Goobs' page, I shouldn't worry: I'd have creative control. Ran this past Goobs, and she was agreeable. I also got my own page. We've had pages for a few years, now, and neither of us has had any weirdness. Well, one total stranger contacted me with some assumptions about me, but he was merely annoying. And summarily blocked. (Gotta love that "block" option.)

Yesterday, though, I was approached by a strange 19yo who wrote, "Hey! how r u? I kno ur alot older than me but, i found u attractive. and i have a foot fetish and wus wondering wat color r ur toes painted? if u aint mind?"

I laughed until the dogs were frightened and Goobs said, "It's not that funny, Mommy" (her standard evaluation when I'm laughin).

Christina and I discussed our respective "toe paint" color, but Christina urged me not to "be cruel."

Another friend and I played with the idea of playin with him, but she finally said, sadly, ". . . . folks are too crazy to have fun."

Yet another friend said, "Hey, young brother might hook you up girl!!!!"
(She's the one with Priorities.)

I took Goobs' advice: "Go look at his page!"

Never take a 14yo, fellow MySpacer's advice about other MySpacers. Toe-Color Boy had a scary, scary page: large scenes from SAW IV; thonged butts for which no thongs had clearly been imagined; a half-naked MySpace friend who called herself "The Black [really, really white movie-star icon]"; rap music; red and black background. And there was Toe-Color Boy himself, staring intently, intently into his PC camera. Now, y'all ain never read me use this adjective, but the word demonic hovered in the front of my mind. I clicked immediately on the word block. And immediately, my heart smote me.

Y'all can (and do) call me crazy if you like, but I do not believe in coincidence. I believe God manifests in every circumstance; I believe every encounter is an opportunity to manifest the God in me. After blockin that child, it occurred to me that TCB's expression wasn't necessarily "intent." Maybe it was just a searching expression. Like all of us, this child was looking for something. So I unblocked him.

First I threw a "LOL" at him for making me laugh so hard. (Till the day I die, I will deeply appreciate every one of my ROTFLAGL** moments. Laughter comes from God; it's The Big O of the spirit.)

Second, I dropped him a little note.***

THEN I blocked him.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, teach us to grab every opportunity to make somebody laugh.

*Since when has total ignorance kept anybody from makin and expressin an opinion?
**Rolling On The Floor, Laughing And Gathering Lint. Bethany's.
***Because all sane people appreciate it when somebody's prayin for 'em (and tellin 'em, "Jesus wouldn't want you obsessin over butts and SAW IV, baby").

Hey, YOU!

2008-09-30T20:36:00.000-05:00

Registered to vote?

20 Things About Me (Stolen from Jeff)

2008-09-24T18:40:00.004-05:00

(Homage, and all that, Jeff.)

1. I call myself "antisocial," but I love, love, love hangin out with the people I love, either IRL or not. One of my favorite people says, "I have enough friends," and I sometimes think that's a selfish way to be. And then somebody I don't just love tries to be Best Friends. . . .

2. Total strangers confide in me, for some reason. I wonder: do I have a kind of "I'd be interested in whatever you have to say" face? I've heard some doozy confessions, too. (I'm tellin you only one: while standing in line at Big Lots, a million years ago, a 65yo woman told me that the baby everybody was assuming was her grandchild was her child!)

3. I'm a terrible housekeeper, too. I don't know how it happened, since Mama's house is so clean folk can literally eat off her floor, and Daddy was, while not antiseptic, pretty meticulous about where stuff should go. OTOH, he was a packrat. And so am I.

4. I buy movies all the time, so much so, I think the DVDs might outstrip the books one day. . . . .Nahhhhhhh. That'll never happen.

5. Although I have Issues with my superiors on the job, I truly like and respect most of my colleagues, and was really hurt when a new one thought my big smile (when people peek into my office to say "Hey!") was fake. (Maybe, by now, Colleague knows better.)

6. I'm painfully shy. Among friends and family, I have a reputation for certain talents, but every time I'm asked to "perform," my knees almost give out. Literally.

7. I lie about the reason I'm a teetotaler. (Samuel Adams commercials tempt me, though.)

8. My shyness helped form me into the TV hound I am today. Every year, TV stinks up the joint more, but every year, there's a jewel or two (or a habit I just can't break) that keeps me in front of my Glass Teat*.

9. I love to sing.

10. I'm fiercely loyal. To a fault.

11. I'm fiercely proud of my daughters.

12. I get a serious rush every time I spend money.

13. I truly do not believe that anyone pays as much attention to certain details --especially visual details-- as much as I do.

14. So I don't believe anybody can/could love my daughters as much as I do, unless it's God.

15. I have an aversion to leaving a book unfinished, although, the older I get, the smaller the aversion shrinks wrt certain books I've started.

16. I believe I was deeply depressed most of the ten-eleven years I was once married.

17. I love words and wordplay, and I love the people who will play with me (whether they love words and wordplay or not).

18. I love a good argument, especially when people don't get mad about it. I'm so sad because the one man I used to argue with, every time we talked, and laughed the entire time, died this year. We were the same age.

19. I love gadgets.

20. I still think about my three favorite compliments of all time, and they still make me happy, every time.

Thank you, Jesus, my Brother, for this life, however it turns out.

* If you (anyone) can identify this reference, and without Google, I'll. . . do something for you. . . .Something.

Sexaaaaaaay!

2008-09-09T21:12:00.003-05:00

Every night, just after I've told everybody, "Get out and go to bed!" Goobs commando-crawls over to where I'm invariably sitting and wraps her skinny little arms around me.

Tonight, she said, "You have spaces between your teeth. Your bottom row."

"That's sexy," I replied.

"Is not."

"Is. Sometimes, I go around and flash my bottom row. Like this." She cracked up.

"Eww!"

"No, seriously. Makes men's knees give out. I don't do it that often, though, because people gotta work." Goobs flashed her bottom teeth at me. I flashed back.

We crack each other up.

I knew you'd wanna know.

Dear Jesus, my brother, teach us not to despise The Day of Small Things.

Quoting (and agreeing with) Smart Friends

2008-08-30T20:43:00.002-05:00

An friend spoke some wisdom to an online forum recently, and another friend quoted him. I'ma go and do likewise:

"This is NOT directed to the originator of the thread, but at everyone. There are some people who are immediately going to vote for McCain on this basis alone. Those people are idiots. The PUMA person immediately talked about how this was great for women everywhere.

Well, if women everywhere believe that abortion should be illegal in every case, including rape and incest and life-threatening pregnancy; if women everywhere want creationism taught in schools; if women everywhere think global warming is a hoax; etc.

The PUMA people, who supported Clinton, appear to be willing to completely ignore anything of substance she ever said. With supporters like these---

But there is another group of people- who were turned off by the sexism against Clinton during the campaign and are thus predisposed against the Dems- and there are many reasonable people in this group. I don't agree with every single example of sexism that they give, but I can see a lot of it.

So, preemptively, for those of us who are progressive, let's not push those people toward McCain-Palin. Let's not focus on her gender, let's not talk about her appearance, let's not use sexist terms like bimbo, let's not make vpilf jokes.

Let the Republicans do it. Let Pat Buchanan, in raving about her, call her "gal" repeatedly. Let McCain do his transparent tokenism thing. Let them focus on her breeding capability as somehow indicative of her value. Let her display her own stunning lack of regard for other women. Let the Republicans be who they are. And let us be who we are.

In short, focus on her absolutely crazy policy positions and her relevant experience. Criticize her- but please don't be a dick about it."

Thank you and amen!

Schooooool's In. For. Autumn!!!

2008-08-27T15:58:00.005-05:00

My lit class didn't make (again), so I'm teaching only comp, which I don't really mind as much as I thought I would. Especially when I'm in the Developmental Writing classes. The older I get, the more helpful I feel I am for these students, the ones who, by no fault of their own, "test into" that class, hate being there most, and yet (or consequently), are the most grateful for the help in getting out of that class.

DW isn't all I'm teaching this semester, but it's the only class I'm enjoying. Already.

Because, today, I read my classes' first essays. As diagnostic essays go, they were brief (I asked for only one page to mollify folk who hate writing in the first place), but pithy. I had forgotten how easily I slip into the psyches of nervous, desperate, and often sarcastic neo-writers, when I read their first essays. Emotions lie right under the skin, especially when the prompt is "How do you feel about writing? No, really? Can you remember a positive writing experience? A negative experience?" Lordy.

So, of course, today, I read the standard fare, where some students actually tried to respond seriously to the prompt: "Writing has always made me nervous, especially for tests." Or "The only writing I enjoy is in my journal, where nobody grades me." But I also have several ESL students in my classes (as usual: an unfamiliarity with English means that a person can't write effectively), so I also got quite a few "I am learning English. This means I think in [Spanish, Italian, French, Romanian, etc] and then translate to English. And then I have to re-read for grammar and punctuation. It is a very long, tiring process" essays.

My favorite today (probably my favorite this semester) began with a student recounting what a high-school teacher had told him about writing: It's communication, like speech. "That's a bunch of bull-crap," the student went on to say.* I was hard-put not to burst out laughing right there. Y'all know how I laugh. My laughing at students has been the subject of many a student evaluation. ("She doesn't have to laugh at us the way she does.") So I try not to roll on the floor during class, no matter how funny the essay (or remark) in class, unless the student clearly means to be funny.

Some essays were neither run-of-the-mill nor funny. One student wrote about the hand-made cards he made for family members, like his 90-something grandmother, the time she fought off a thirty-four-year-old, and ended up in the hospital. Another student's essay ended with a sentence like, "You wouldn't believe the stories I could tell you." Well. By the time we finish the semester together, she's going to realize that, yes, I would believe.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, help me help somebody this semester.

*And he's right: who puts punctuation between their lips?

Mint Condition

2008-08-22T13:30:00.006-05:00

Juice, my 17yo, fantasizes a LOT. Hey, I guess she is just like I was at her age, only Juice fantasizes about things, while I (used to) fantasize about people. These days, she's fantasizing about her very own car, fantasizing because I have (strongly) suggested that her father's promise to give her a car, before she begins her senior year in HS, may not be realized.

Today, I was picking her up from work, and she said, "I wish I lived in the days when cars cost $500. I wish I could just go back in time."

I pointed out to her that since she was a black young woman, going back in time for a $500 car probably wouldn't be worth the trouble.

"Oh. Right," she said. "Well, then I'd send a white friend back in time to get the car for me. . . . Like one of those Starsky and Hutch cars, only brand-new." Skirting the issue of whether she could buy a "Starsky and Hutch" car, brand-new, from the past, for only $500, I agreed that such a car, in mint condition, would be worth a lot of money in 2008.

"'Mint condition'? Does that have to do with your breath --'minty fresh'?" she asked. I told her that, in fact, the expression had to do with making money at Fort Knox (among other places).

"So mint condition doesn't have anything to do with mints?" I told her no; I tried to explain that mint was also a noun meaning "the place where money is printed" or a verb meaning "stamp" or "print," but then the child said, "Does the word for the place where money comes from have to do with the way the money smells? Like a minty-fresh smell?"

I told her that the expression minty-fresh comes from the name of a plant, "mint," that grows in the ground.

"So money's made from mint?"

Jesus, my brother, just give me strength.

My Morning Off

2008-08-13T14:08:00.003-05:00

Since Monday, the girls've been going to HS band camp in the morning and the afternoon. They're both very excited about it, mostly because this is Goobs' first time in band with Juice.

I'm not so excited: I have to do all the driving. But last night, Juice arranged for a driving, band-camp-attending friend to pick them up in the morning. I went to bed fantasizing about sleep, wonderful, uninterrupted, morning sleep.

Fantasies are cruel.

On the nights before band camp, I set my alarm clock for 730 am (because the girls have to get to camp by 859). This morning, however, I didn't need to set my clock, not because I was sleeping in, but because somebody got to knockin on my door at 7 am (yes, a half hour before I usually get up). I thought I was dreaming. I thought somebody was knockin on somebody else's door. But when I didn't respond to the knockin, somebody opened my bedroom door.

"Why are you in my room?" I asked Juice.

"Mommy, should Goobs get up at 7 or 730? Cuz it's her day to get up first, and she's not gonna do it, so can you wake her up?"

"Get out of my room," I said. Then I got up and woke Goobs. "Get up, Goobs. Get UP." I said, pattin her on her negligible little butt. Then I went back to my room, closed the door and got back into bed, where I yelled, "GET UP, GOOOOOOOOOBS!" I listened intently and finally heard mattress squeaking and the shutting of the bathroom door.

By then, I had to pee. So I got up again and listened, from my bathroom (which shares a wall with theirs) intently for the sounds of running water. (Goobs doesn't tend to use a lot of it. Soap, either.) Eventually, I heard the other toilet flush. Then the door opening. (Any hand washing between opening and closing? Any? Anyone?) Then I heard somebody knockin on my bedroom door again.

"I'm in the bathroom! What do you want??"

"Oh!" said Goobs. "Never mind." Then I heard the other bathroom door closing. Then I heard water running. I left my own bathroom (after washing my hands) and went back to bed. Then I heard the bathroom door open and Goobs' bedroom door close. Then I heard her say, "Oh!" And the door opened and I heard her knockin on Juice's door.

"YOUR TURN!!! GET UUUUUUP!!!!"

Then I pulled out my bible and started reading it. Maybe I could sleep after people left the house. Juice went into the bathroom, (ostensibly) washed up, and went back to her room.

Where she began to play some crazy music as loudly as possible, singing loudly along. I got out of bed and asked her what kind of idiot she was. Juice just looked at me during my tirade and then giggled as she turned off the music. On my way back to my bedroom, Goobs accosted me.

"I didn't run my scan [on her PC] last night, Mommy," she informed me.

"I do not care," I said, still walking. "Y'all eat something. Don't forget the dogs. And don't forget to get your instruments and sheet music out of the car." I went back to my room and shut the door.

"OH!" said Goobs, who then went out to the car to get her stuff. It was Goobs' day to put the dogs out, so she was the one yellin at Frody when he got to barkin at nothin under my bedroom window. She brought the dogs back in.

The two of them left about twenty minutes later. Then one of them came back and went back out.

I think I would've slept more soundly in the car, driving them to band camp.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, please help me not to kill my children.

My Brothers, Stay On Top of Your Health. . . .

2008-08-09T12:29:00.003-05:00

. . to quote Field.

We have all suffered a great loss.

Jesus, my brother, remind us that we still have a lot of work to do, so we should take care.

Legitimate Ministry, Bastardy and Sore Feet

2008-08-02T14:40:00.008-05:00

So this week, my church held its annual Holy Convocation. Simply put, we invite all the churches from our organization, and everybody else who will come, to enjoy what we think is the best: preaching, teaching, singing, dancing and fellowship. The sound level, despite (or, maybe, because of) the most expert tweaking, was deafening. Seriously. I sat down after helping to sing during praise and worship service, turned to a fellow tenor and said, “I think I’m deaf.” He responded, “What??”

Apart from that (and the sore feet, which I’ll get to later), it was a pretty cool convocation.

I enjoyed the preaching. The theme this year was “Legitimate Ministry.” So all of our* preachers/teachers talked about what made legitimate ministry legitimate. At least three separate pastors used the word bastard from the pulpit. Makes sense to me: in order to discuss legitimate ministry (and legitimate ministers), you might wanna talk about what it is not.

• It is not the new “prosperity doctrine.”

• It is not substituting “God told me” for true knowledge/interpretation* of the bible.

• It is not ignoring what your community needs.

• It is not believing yourself to be a law unto yourself.

It is sacrifice. It is getting a degree in theology (if you can). It is remembering that the word minister really means “servant.” It is submitting to accountability. Anything else, especially the “law unto yourself” stuff, is bastardly. Or so my pastor* and his colleagues said, in their several messages. I enjoyed them greatly.

I enjoyed singing. At one point, the choir was singing, a beautiful song called “Sovereign God,” and I had the soloist part; then, the choir started its part. The singers sounded so good, I almost dropped the microphone. I yelled, “Y’all SINGIN!” at ‘em and pretended to give ‘em a group slap. (Our director gave me the fish eye and admonished me telepathically: Could you please just pick up the mike and do what you do? Please.) I finally remembered to do what I was supposed to be doing, and everything went fine. That was Wednesday night, and I really believe that was the best singing we did the entire week. Others disagree, but I don’t care what they think.

We’ve had a guest minister over the choir for the few months leading up to the convocation, Pastor John Walker, from Fayetteville, North Carolina*. Pastor Walker is hilarious, intelligent, and extremely serious about the gospel (and by that, I do not mean the music some people sing). He taught us about dynamics and execution; he fussed at us; he threatened us; he preached to us; he prayed for us. At the end of the choir rehearsals, we were ready to be legitimate ministers (of music).

But while I was watching for Pastor John Walker’s dimple, Juice and Goobs were falling in love with Pastor Walker’s wife, Pastor Lorna Walker. (She used the word bastard twice from the pulpit.) That woman is a pistol, she is. When she gets tickled at something, she laughs –often right then and there, often in the pulpit. She tells the unvarnished truth when she speaks. She studies and researches, so when she speaks, she knows what she’s talking about. She jumped up and down and flung a handkerchief around, like a little kid, after introducing my pastor before his message. She and her husband* are probably in their forties, but she looks younger every time I see her. My daughters are smitten. First Goobs then Juice asked for personal introductions to her, and, after that, the woman acted like they were her favorite people in the world.

So you know how I feel about Pastor Lorna.

I enjoyed teaching. Kinda. The convocation had morning sessions. My pastor paid our LLC to hold a three-day mini-workshop on “Compassion Fatigue: Dealing with Difficult People.” Nearly all the pastors, and many other ministers, participated in the workshop, all three days, and we had a ball. My best friend’s husband made everyone participate in an art project, a metaphor for how ministers interact with church members. My best friend’s mama (who has a Master’s degree in counseling) and her mama’s colleague (ditto) offered counseling exercises and information on how to deal with difficult people.

I got to find scenes from movies (Spanglish, Ray, Waiting to Exhale and The Gospel) to exemplify four* different types of difficult people. And I sang. I had so much fun, I should've been payin Pastor.

But, in the end, we realized that we –ministers-- are Difficult People. We –ministers—have to work on our legitimacy. We –ministers— have to strive to avoid bastardly lives.

C’est la vie, yes?

And my feet hurt. At my church, women wear pumps (often with 2+-inch heels) and fancy dresses and shoes; men wear comfortable shoes and sensible suits. What's up with that? The choir was in uniform, a different color outfit (yes, from your own collection of church clothes) every night. We didn't have to buy special clothes for the convocation, but my feet won't be the same (although I studiously avoid 2+-inch shoes) for days. Days, I said.

Also c'est la vie. I'm lobbying for a "dress down" day next year.

*This year, we didn’t send out for “famous” speakers. We satisfied ourselves with messages from ministers of our own organization. It was an inspired idea.

*As one pastor put it, “hermeneutics and exegesis.”

* "The Honorable Bishop blah, blah, blah."

*Our organization, including the folk we call our covenant churches, exists mostly in the south south -–Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina—- but we also have a new church in Massachusetts and one in Maryland.

* They sit nearly everywhere together with his arm around her and her head on his shoulder.

* Not exhaustive.

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us always to behave like members of Your family.

The Division of Child-Support "Enforcement"

2008-07-02T20:04:00.002-05:00

After filing for a Show Cause hearing, I had to meet my ex in court Monday. See, he hasn't paid child support in more than two years. My sister, a former child-support attorney, mentioned that if my ex came up before a certain judge, he'd go to jail. No passing "Go," no $200.

"How will he pay child support in jail?" I asked.

"I've seen it happen a million times," she said. "Somehow, they all come up with it. Don't wanna stay in jail."

Imagine my surprise when, despite Certain Judge's very evident disgust, the DCSE, whom I had enlisted to represent our children, said that it had come to a(nother) agreement with my ex. He'd have till October to get up to date, and the DCSE wasn't expecting him to attempt repaying the arrears. Oh, and my ex's attorney? A gentleman who'd once been my attorney.

"Nothing toward the arrears?" Certain Judge asked, incredulous.

"No, your honor," my advocate replied. The case was continued.

"But," Certain Judge said, "if it's one dollar off, I will be very unhappy."

I gave DCSE two days to process what had happened at court. Then, this morning, I went to the offices myself. My caseworker (not the DCSE's court rep) first told me that the DCSE doesn't enter into agreements with deadbeat dads. When I told her that my assertion was a direct quote from DCSE's representative at court, she said she had to go find this woman and ask her about it. She left the room for about ten minutes. When she returned, she could not meet my eyes as she told me that she was "stunned" to learn that I had been telling the truth about the agreement. And she said that I had no rights in this "agreement" matter, no, not even to expect to be told about it. This despite the fact that my ex had flouted the last agreement (deadline March this year) and he owes over $40k in arrears.

My caseworker seemed to commiserate, but she pointed out that since I had put the matter in the hands of the DCSE, there was nothing I could do. There was nothing she could do.

I said I was looking for the "enforcement" in this relationship. Where was it? My caseworker expressed the traditional view: If my ex was in jail, how would he pay the support?

My sister, when she heard the story, said, "I would have yelled at her, 'What difference would that make, stupid? He's not paying now!!' Wait. I wouldn't've said 'stupid.' But I'm thinking it."

The fault is mine, you know. I shouldn't've married that man.

I shouldn't've had his children.

When we divorced, I shouldn't've enlisted the help of the DCSE.

In court with the DCSE, I should've pointed out that I hadn't been informed of this, the second "agreement," or the first, and that the first hadn't been honored.

In court with the DCSE, I should've pointed out that my ex's attorney had once been my attorney.

But I messed up. I'm short and fat and self-effacing. I don't know what I can or cannot do in court, and often, it doesn't occur to me to ask.

Mea culpa.

Dear Jesus, my brother, deliver us from evil.

I Can't Believe It.

2008-06-15T14:37:00.000-05:00

You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man		70%
Superman		55%
Supergirl		50%
The Flash		50%
Robin		45%
Hulk		45%
Wonder Woman		40%
Catwoman		35%
Batman		25%
Green Lantern		20%
Iron Man		10%

You are intelligent, witty,
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz

This One's for You, TOO, Mama

2008-06-15T14:13:00.003-05:00

Because you went ahead and brought me into this world despite a rather peaceful decade of only two kids, all the way out of diapers and on their way to independence, and started, with me, to your horror, all over again;

Because you brought my little sister, who became my bestest friend, into this world a coupla years after that, despite doctors' claims that she'd be deformed or mentally challenged or otherwise Other, and refused to have an abortion;

Because, at the age of 38, you decided to take your life in your own hands, divorce the man who was no longer a good husband, and get your very first job outside of the home EVER, so you could take care of us financially;

Because you shouldered the responsibility of us all, despite your weariness and frustration and (according to you) rank ignorance about parenting;

Because, when we told you we were taking Sex Education classes at school, you IMMEDIATELY sat us down and told us The Real Deal, despite the fact that YOU had had to learn the facts about your body and The Birds and The Bees from a girlfriend (because neither your mother nor your grandmother would tell you);

Because you decided to behave in a deliberate, loving way toward your grandchildren, despite the fact that your own mother had never taught you how to be a woman, much less a grandmother;

Because, every year, you forget that you sent me a "Pull Your Life Together" letter last year, so you send it again, writing out three or four pages by hand, tucking them into an envelope, and mailing it;

Because at the age of 75, you still worry about all your grown children and pray for every one of us --and our children, blood and adopted;

Merry Father's Day. I love you and I hope you live forever.

Dear Jesus, my brother, thank you for fathers of each gender.

What's Wise Showing Me?

2008-06-11T21:04:00.005-05:00

So I read Tim Wise's essay, "Your Whiteness is Showing," and wondered a coupla wonders: (1) is the phenomenon of (some) feminist Clintonites suddenly considering McCain instead of Obama only about race? (2) What effect does Wise hope to have with his essay?

The first question is an issue I think we all need to ponder. For what it's worth, I think "racist" is a rather simplistic response to the phenomenon. It doesn't explain it for me. Racism, for one thing, is rarely a response to real hurt. And I says it as shouldn't --because I don't particularly believe in the "sexist" charge (some) feminists are trying to make stick to Obama's entire campaign. Yes, I see the sexism rampant in the media, I see Obama failing to respond to the bulk of it, but I can't bring myself to buy into the Guilt by Association thang.

But while I find the charge rather specious, I refuse to pooh pooh the hurt a lot of feminists are feeling right now. I refuse to pretend it's not a real thang. So shoot me.

The second question I thought I'd pose to Mr. Wise. Herewith his response:

Well, of course, writers don't only write for a particular effect. Writers also write their truth because it needs to be said, as with any truth. Effect is derivative and nice, but not always the purpose. Secondly, the effect, as with all of my work is to challenge white racism and those who perpetrate it. That is a value in and of itself, in that it raises awareness among white folks as to what some of our number are doing, or threatening to do, which manifests whiteness, and even if it fails to convince any of the persons to whom it's directed (which is possible), it raises the awareness of other whites as to just how phony some so called white liberals can be on race. That is something that sometimes we as white folks don't see immediately. Already I've heard from many folks who have been stunned to hear their white female friends threatening to vote for McCain, and who didn't really have a conceptual framework to figure out what the hell that was about, and who now sorta get it, having read my piece, and several others that are on the web, framing it in the context of white bonding, etc. So that awareness alone can be helpful for other whites when it comes to making clear the importance of doing antiracism work among white liberal folks.

thanks

Notice anything there? Or is it just me, the 47-year-old writer and professor of composition and literature, thinking that the comments "writers don't only write for effect" and "Effect is derivative and nice" are a coupla inaccuracies slathered with a patronizing sauce?

First of all.

Writers always write for effect. First. Even if only to get something off one's chest, the primary purpose of writing is purpose: one narrates; one exemplifies; one describes; one maps out a process; one argues. And for the story, the example, the description, the process, the argument, there is always, almost always uppermost in the writer's mind, an audience, explicit or implicit. And we always write to have an effect upon that audience. That purpose is inherent in any published writing. One can truthfully claim effect as "derivative" (whatever that means) and "nice" only if one keeps one's writing to one's self.

Secondly.

If racism isn't the entire issue where the Sudden Pro-McClain Feminist Response is concerned (and it isn't), if the response isn't entirely a manifestation of "whiteness" (and it isn't), then "challenging white racism" here is only part of the job, yes? And shouldn't we*, if we're concerned with Writing Our Truth, be concerned with the entire truth? I mean, even if we can't quite put our fingers on the thang, shouldn't we at least say that we haven't quite put our fingers on the whole thang?

I dunno. Maybe the compassion I feel for my sisters is just my whiteness showing.

*meaning Mr. Wise, of course.

Dear Jesus, Son of the living God, teach us to love the truth, even when we have to tell it to ourselves.

More Motherhood Solidarity

2008-05-29T09:24:00.003-05:00

Adding my 1.5c (because it's all I have right now):

So, as many of you know, my 16yo, Juice, has a job now, at a local movie joint. She's exhausted at the end of any given eight-hour stint, but ecstatic that she has her own money now. Too ecstatic, actually.

It is this joy in her own money that was at the heart of our first argument about her having a job: she wanted to work more hours (and more days) than I would let her: even school days; even late-night hours, when we both knew who would have to get her up the next morning; even during SOL week. The child's stance was that since she had agreed to work, she had absolutely no say in what hours or days she would have to work. My stance was "Bull." There was yelling, by golly, and then, because I (finally) realized that I was wasting my time with that child, I emailed one of the theatre managers. (Sucks to be him: he belongs to my church [as nearly everybody does], and so he has to suffer such slings and arrows.) I told him that the child was trying to graduate from high school, with a particular level of success, and go to college. I pointed out that if she was "forced" to work during the week and during late-night hours, this attempt would fail.

See I knew that the deal was: she wanted to work extra hours and get extra money. She finally admitted it. But unbeknownst to the child, Manager adjusted the child's schedule. With alacrity. Man's got good sense.

Which is more than I can say for my child. Or, maybe, myself. Fast-forward to last night. Expressing the same ecstasy, Juice told us that she was getting a promotion: from Concessions, she was moving to Box Office (yes, where folk sell tickets). And she needed to be at the movie joint for training by 6 pm. Her sister had to be somewhere else by 630, so there was right much rushing and finagling, as is per usual in my household these days. In the midst of said rushing and finagling, I forgot to ask (and Child "forgot" to tell me) exactly when her training would be over that night.

I hung out with the child's sister, at a school band awards ceremony/dinner, for two hours. (I'll spare you the description of the Nerdiness Waves that washed over my soul as my younger daughter --reportedly* one of The Cool Kids-- deserted me and ignored me for nearly the entire function, going off to sit at The Cool Kids' Table. Only the appearance of BF and her husband, with their band-member daughter in tow, kept me from shooting myself. Ah, nostalgia.)

At the end of the ceremony/dinner, I texted Juice, asking, "How much longer?" I've had way too many experiences of exhaustedly going home to wait for her call and getting said call two minutes after I've kicked off my shoes and thrown myself on the family-room couch. My plan was to leave the middle school and scoop up Juice on the way home.

But Juice did not reply. So I went to the movie joint anyway and parked in the lot. "Training," I thought, "could hardly last much longer." Ha (as you have no doubt said to yourself). An hour later, I was fuming. The child couldn't call me and let me know how much longer she'd be? Finally, I threw myself out of the car and aimed me at the box-office window, where I could make out Juice's locks and eyeglasses, glinting in artificial light. She was laughing and joking with her coworkers, but as I marched closer and closer, and she recognized me as the grumpy, control-freak she's been living with for the past sixteen years, the smile froze on her face. She attempted some hubris, but finally had to ask her "trainer" to allow her to talk to her mother.

!!!

She couldn't ask her "trainer" to allow her to text her mother back with the salient information, no. But after her mother had come all the way out to . . . . Let me just say, right now, that I'm quite aware of the workingperson's obligations to her superiors. Being employed myself, I know that respect (whether real or pasted on) for TPTB is critical in the working world --if one wishes to remain employed. I realize, also, that Some Kid Attached to a Cell Phone is not really the dream of every employer.

However. You know?

ANYway, the child came out and I gave her what Mama calls "Down the Country." At this point, two friends of mine (a colleague and her husband) emerged from the joint after having seen Iron Man. (Have y'all seen it? It's pretty good if you turn your mind off for a coupla hours.) They walked right up, happy to have run into folk they hadn't seen since the college had (for all intents and purposes) shut down for the summer.

I had to arrange my face, but I managed to hug my colleague and simultaneously warn Juice with my eyes that her "trainer's" promise of "fifteen more minutes" had better be accurate to the second; Juice went back into the Box. My friends, very astute individuals, wanted to know what Juice had done, and I told them. So for the next twenty-five minutes (the "trainer" lied), my friends tried to calm me down. There was talk of murder, mostly from me (okay, entirely from me), but it ended with speculation. Juice needs to fall to her knees and thank the living God that those folk showed up. Just sayin.

Of course, it was only during the ride home that I learned that the "training" was supposed to've lasted for three hours; that Juice would be getting paid, on a weeknight, for coming to the "training" (working, actually, regardless to what Juice protested: I saw her selling tickets); and that my daughter has gotten entirely too excited at the prospect of earning more and more money.

I know: I should be glad the child's got a job, and she likes it and she's glad to work. I should be. But it's the principle of the thang. Some mother out there (and it doesn't have to be a mother, either, right?) is feelin me right now, to wit: One simply does not inconvenience, disrespect, and ignore one's mother (particularly when she is your only means of transportation for the time being) to make extra money --unless, of course, one is paying household bills.

Dear Jesus, my brother, help me not to kill my children.

*These reports are Goobs, in fact.

My New Obsession

2008-05-21T13:36:00.002-05:00

I've answered over 1400 questions, less than 50% correctly, and I still can't stop. I've Joined The Crowd (I'm tellin ya, do NOT use the A-word* up in there), accumulated "friends" but no conversation, and I still can't stop.

Ya been warned.

*Like Christina, it's to blame for The End of Civilization As We Know It.

Thank you, Jesus, for something else to do.

Merry Mother's Day!

2008-05-11T20:36:00.006-05:00

Mine began getting up at 830, still agonizingly sleepy, and determined to get to Mama's church on time. Showered, found my (presently) favorite suit, comfortable hose, my (currently) favorite pumps, and very uncomfortable --ahem-- foundation garaments.

Woke up Goobs. "You gots fifteen minutes."

"What time is it?"

"9:05. Tighten up."

After tightening up, Goobs wanted to know if she and her sister had to dress up. I said I didn't know, but it'd be nice if they looked nice. So, of course, Goobs found her favorite outfit, a flowy, short, navy sleeveless dress with matching diaphonous duster and Juice (after tightening up) wore a very wrinkled, long, pink button-down shirt over a black, long-sleeved thermal and blue jeans that happened to have a matching pink flower applique'd on 'em.

"Iron that," I said.

We got to Mama's church in plenty of time, so, of course, my nepphies found Goobs and Juice and ran off with them somewhere. When I ran into my sister, we wondered for a hot minute where the kids were and then greeted a very strange man with a weird mustache. (After my sister went up into the choir stand, but before service had actually started, the strange man came by again, and I greeted him again. When the speaker for the day directed us to greet a nearby mother, the strange man just happened to come over, so I could greet him one more time.)

The speaker for the day talked about mothers in the bible: Hagar, Jocebed, Lois, each representing wonderful mother attributes. Unlike my pastor, he was very brief. He prayed for the congregation after his message and then offered to pray for individuals, just before he dismissed us.

I should say that Mama had planned to go to one of the several "Texas" steakhouses in Virginia. But, Saturday night, she got a phone call from the husband of my best friend, who (the husband, I mean) invited her, her husband, my sister, my sister's family, my family and me to their home. He was gonna cook. This invitation turned Mama's mind into a maelstrom. Could BFHubby feed all of us? ("He wouldn't've invited us if he couldn't, Mama," said my sister. "But we'll do what you want us to do. It's your day.") Finally, Mama decided to go to one of the (cheaper) "Chinese" restaurants in Virginia. Wok and Roll offered lobster on their buffet for Mother's Day ($10.99).

"It's the one where Old Country Buffet used to be," Mama said. "Let's have dessert at [BF's] house." I text'd BFHubby to let him know.

We met at Wok and Roll. Or, rather, my sister, her family, and my family met there. We scored a big table in the back, and a little one (for our kids) blessed the food we were about to eat, and went to get said food. Mama and Pop Pop showed up fifteen minutes later.

We ate. We talked. We laughed. At one point, First Nepphie told his father he couldn't finish his egg roll, but he needed to try because he'd read a sign on the buffet asking people not to waste food.

"There was a black man on the sign," Nepphie said. For some reason, the adults found this assertion hilarious. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks.

My sister's husband insisted upon paying for everyone's meal. The rest of us contented ourselves with leaving a fat tip. On the way out of Wok and Roll, I pointed out the "Please eat what you take" signs posted at the buffet. They were illustrated with colorful little "everyman" images one finds in MSWord. Their faces, as far as I could tell, were dark purple.

"I thought [nepphie] meant there was a picture of an actual black person on the sign," said my sister. We never saw any lobster.

We piled into our cars and drove over to BF's house. BF's family was just getting home from church. BF's Hubby was bubbly and friendly, as always, and BF was hungry and cranky, as she has been since December (when she had their third child). They hadn't eaten since breakfast (and it was 3 pm), but BF's Hubby made up an ice cream bar with Gummy Bears, Oreo crumbles, nuts, chocolate syrup, caramel, chocolate chip crumbles, etc. (He'd made the crumbles by hand.) Then he and his wife made chicken Alfredo with linguine and fresh broccoli.

"I love this stuff!" said BF's older son, the one who eats hardly anything.

"Mommy!" Juice cried. "It's 3:18!" She had to be at work by 3:30. She jumped into BF's guest bathroom and changed into her uniform. I rushed her off to the movies. When I got back, BF's Hubby was pulling out the French Vanilla ice cream and bowls, calling everyone over and personally serving each guest.

Mama and Pop Pop showed up about twenty minutes later.

We ate. We talked. We laughed. Mama appropriated BF's newest son and put him to sleep. (He tried to fight it, too much was going on, he didn't want to miss a thing, but how could he resist experienced cooing and jiggling?) Mama made me tell the "Two men and a woman interviewed for the FBI" joke* to BF and her husband, who had never heard it before. They nearly fell out their chairs laughing. We all agreed it was an inappropriate joke to tell on Mother's Day (and yet it was the joke that the speaker for the day told at Mama's church).

In the family room, my nepphies, Goobs and BF's older children had pulled out the Wii. My sister, after much prodding and wheedling, talked Mama and Pop Pop into playing. Pop Pop caved first. He was really good at pitching, Goobs said, often reaching speeds of 95 mph, but wasn't good at bat. Mama, an exceptional bowler in real life, couldn't figure out how to Wii bowl.

I still think Mama's gonna get one of those Wii's.

My sister took her sons home about the time Mama and Pop Pop decided to go home. By that time, though, I was only an hour away from picking Juice up from work, so I told BF that we weren't leaving until then. She was too tired to fight me.

We watched the kids make Wii Miis (one named "Gine"), and then they all decided to watch Hairspray. Halfway through, Goobs and I had to pick up Juice from work. Goobs told Juice everything that had happened at BF's house. We got home and everybody except me jumped into their jammies.

Sometimes, Life IS Good.

Thank you, Jesus, my brother, for friends and family (again).

*Scroll down to about half the page. Or read the other jokes. Some are funny!

Desperate Daring

2008-05-09T05:32:00.004-05:00

Somewhere, a black person, no, not That Man, a nobody, just one of those 'Bots, is daring to hope. But because One Woman may be losing hope, because public opinion has attacked her from day one, this hope is being characterized as "schadenfreude," "smugness," "glee."

This black person's hope is "really" schadenfreude, smugness and glee because somebody else, somebody who knows that black person better than s/he knows her/himself, says so. Again.

Because how dare s/he hope for a piece of history that doesn't smell of the Chain and the Lash and the Dogs and the Hose?

Dear Jesus, my Brother, give us the power --and the desire-- to fight the forces that would keep us from seeing each other clearly.

For ALL the Mothers

2008-05-08T10:21:00.005-05:00

(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.)

This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with
sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up puke laced with Oscar Mayer
wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy ' s here".

Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing
crying babies who can ' t be comforted. This is for all the mothers who
show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their
blouses and diapers in their purses.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies
and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

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.

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections
are hanging on their refrigerator doors.

And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal
bleachers at football, hockey or soccer games instead of watching from
the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see
me, Mom?" they could say, "Of course; I wouldn't have missed it for
the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in
the grocery store and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet
and scream for ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who
count to ten instead, but realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with their
children and explained all about making babies. And for all the (grand)
mothers who wanted to, but just couldn't find the words.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their
children can eat.

For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a
night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to
tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers
who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook
and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically
when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their
own offspring are at home -- or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to
school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they
got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking
them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who
can't find the words to reach them.

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed
when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green [or pierce their lips.
Don't ask].

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school
shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting.

For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who
sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came
home from school, safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to
be peaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway?

Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to
nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same
time?

Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you feel when you
watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school
alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed
to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

The panic, years later, that comes again at 2 A.M. when
you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are safe again
in your home?

Or the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your
child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our
thoughts are for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and
sleep deprivation...

And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.

Single mothers and married mothers.

Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all. For all of us.

Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we
can. Tell them every day that we love them. And pray.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, thank you for Mama.

Two Black People Talking About Current Events

2008-04-29T11:46:00.006-05:00

I sent this to my favorite big brother (and others); we're trying to keep up with the Obama/Wright ticket. So far, only my favorite brother has responded. Here's our conversation (through email because we live in different states).

FBB: Saw this on the news this morning. I really wish he had not done it. I don't think it serves him or us well.

ME: Done what? Submitted to an interview? Answered the questions? What? What? What?

FBB: Uh the speech he did at the NPC mocking Kennedy. Not being able to see this link, I assumed that was the source of this conversation????

ME: "Mocking Kennedy"? Is that all you heard? PLEASE don't tell me you're satisfied with media soundbites!

Here. This is the entire thing, from the brilliant speech to the Q&A.* (Scroll down.) Take some time, when you get a chance, and listen to all of it. Then make an opinion: http://weblogs.chicagotribune.com/news/politics/blog/2008/04/rev_wright_stands_his_ground.html

Or, you know, not.

FBB(next morning):
Ok. I read it. The man is brilliant, and being so, he definitely should not have stooped to the level he did. His anger is overwhelming his principles.

ME: I don't see any anger. I see charity, pride, and an accurate sense of the ridiculousness of the situation. Y'all the ones stoopin. Exactly what principles are you talking about? What level? Do you know?

FBB: Yeah, I know. The principle of peace that he purports to believe in, the principle of patriotism that he mires in his cynicism, the principle of caring about his flock that he is subjecting to this ridicule.

Yes, the situation is ridiculous. Yes, the media are distorting reality - as they always do. Yet in his brilliance, he does not do them ANY damage. The one he does harm to is Obama, and ridiculous or not, foolish or not, that is the fact, and this he also knows.

His timing is atrocious. If, in fact, he considers the medias attack to be against the Black Church (not, I point out THE CHURCH - the body of Christ), then I say his rhetoric does nothing to alleviate that attack or its result - the 'most segregated hour in America'. On the contrary, it fires it all the more.

I was not angered by what he said, but saddened that this great man of God - and I do believe he is that - would stand in this forum to create more division.
Finally, his point that Obama had to distance himself from him because he (Obama) is a political move (though it is, it had to be), is directly damaging to someone he claims to care about. It is not like we didn't know that; it is something that is a part of our social strata - unfortunate as that may be, it is so, and what he has done here is 'tit for tat'. He could not have done more harm if the Clintons had orchestrated him.

ME: I see what you call Wright's principle of peace acted out in his church, by feeding the poor, educating the ignorant and otherwise manifesting Christ in this earth by recognizing and giving succour to the Least of These.

I see what you call Wright's cynicism as realism. The man sees what is and tells the truth about it. But he's doing what he can to make America a better country, as someone who loves it would. (See above.)

If his congregation's being ridiculed, it's not Wright's fault. It is the fault of those whose habit is to ridicule people of color, and the other disenfranchised, to make themselves look better.

Obama distanced himself from Wright; Wright supports that distance by explaining it truthfully. If Obama and his supporters can't deal with that, it's a sign of his and their weakness, not "tit for tat."

If you tell me somebody stepped on your foot and broke some bones, should I be saddened by the fact that you didn't mention the rest of your body? The black church is a limb of The Body of Christ. Don't despise it --or those who make mention of it.

Wright's is a "hard word": so were many that came from the mouth of his Savior. Mostly, the man reminds me of Jeremiah, speaking the truth in faith that some hearers will repent and serve the Living God. It's easier, though, to swallow the racist, elitist media spin. But we can agree to disagree.

FBB: I see the action in the church, I see the works speaking for themselves. I don't think he needs to blow their horn, nor use those works as a platform for his anger...and yeah, we can agree to disagree..."Obama and his supporters"?! Who are you supporting in this election???

ME: You don't think Wright needs to blow the horn of the church he's so proud of because you're clearly not paying attention. A slew of us do good things on the community level, and you seldom hear about it (unless we blow our own horns); folk say, "What are you people doing about your community's problems?" But let one, just ONE, of us do something wrong or "embarrassing" or "inappropriate," and we're all painted with the same brush.

And, again, I didn't see any anger. I saw amusement. Wright was clownin, signifyin, doing things which went over most of the audience's heads.

I haven't decided yet whom I want to support. I don't like Clinton. Obama (to quote a pastor I admire) scares me (especially his support for abortion). And McCain's out of the question: he's crazy.

I've even considered not voting at all. But the idea's abhorrent to me, as is the unadulterated enthusiasm some of us have for our respective candidates. Hey, can I quote you on my blog?

FBB: What on earth would you want to quote that I said?! Especially since you so clearly disagree with it?! I don't mind if you do, just am surprised that you would.

Still, I have to say that if you missed the anger and retribution, some of Wright's best work went over your head:-)!!!

HMM, seems to me that Christ was pretty adamant about blowing yo own horn - as was the Ecclesiater!

ME: Actually, I was thinking of posting our entire conversation, as a conversation, on the blog.

Again, in my opinion, Wright was not angry. He was defiant. And I feel that what he was deliberately and laughingly doing went right over YOUR head.

If I recall correctly (and I do), God the Father, Christ the Son, and Paul the Apostle blew their own horns whenever they thought it necessary.

[And there, for the nonce, the matter rested.]

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to see the events around us clearly, to understand their significance.

*NOT the whole thing. IIRC, the Tribune offered the speech, while Huffington offered the Q&A.

Money Changers and Whores

2008-04-21T17:47:00.008-05:00

A new friend of mine* suggested I say a little somethin about this (though not necessarily this quote specifically):

While this isn't directly related to the topic at hand, I'd like to take the opportunity to point something out. There are people like LaVern Jordan who run around with a bible in their hand and require political candidates to have religious beliefs that align with their own. They even go so far as to demean atheists as being amoral, and that they should not have a voice in this country.

Well, let me say this: I think you'd be hard pressed to find an atheist who would think that soliciting sex for education is appropriate. If you choose to be stubborn and feel otherwise, then read this story again and comprehend who's doing what.

Thing is, I don’t like the title to my little essay this time because I think it’s misleading. I know it’s gonna put that picture of Jesus, His sweet guns showin and all, wavin that homemade whip around in the Temple (and God, He knows folk like LaVern Jordan need a good whippin).

But moneychangers and whores, qua moneychangers and whores, are not the people Jesus had Issues with. The Gospel, in fact, describes The Man, more than once, more than twice, as hangin out with moneychangers, invitin Himself to they houses, feet all up under they tables, usin Those People in parables as object lessons, wildly invitin ‘em into the Kingdom. Refusing, even, to stone, accuse, condemn, or even avoid adulteresses and whores and what not. Including The Least of These, I’m sayin, at the drop of a yarmulke.

This is the Christ I know and love, the Christ my pastor preaches from Sunday to Sunday. But “people like LaVern Jordan*** who run around with a bible in their hand” are the kind of people who make moneychangers and whores (not to mention Kingdom people**) look bad. People like LaVern Jordan make, not only Christians, but also principals and financial-aid officers, and even do-gooding atheists look bad. Yeah, I said it. I need, like my pastor, to make a stark differentiation between LaVern Jordan and his ilk and people who actually hunger and thirst for the living God (even those who desire to do the right thing, without the hunger and thirst).

Of course it’s easier to claim that this reprehensible behavior shows up more obviously among the loudly fundamentalist, the priests and televangelists. They’re our favorite whipping boys, ain they? Ain they all over the television and newspapers? And it’s certainly easier to throw that “no true Scotsman” rebuttal at anybody who argues, “He’s not a Christian; he’s just in religion for the money (and/or sex).” It’s just easier to claim that, because there are no stings currently and publicly being applied to atheists qua atheists, therefore, atheism is just The Way To Go, honey.

If you read for comprehension, then you see that I refuse to make excuses for LaVern; but I can’t call him a Christian, either. Neither can you. Best any of us can come up with is "hypocrite". It’s easy for y'all on the outside to point fingers, to attack those of us who malign Christianity with our very behavior, and so despise Christianity itself, but you can’t attack pretend Christians without referring to The Plumb Line. No, we will not fail to point out that there are plenty of atheists and agnostics who reach out and love on the Least of These His Children; however, we also cannot ignore (as convenient as it may be to do so) what The Son of Man Himself said: That folks’ fruit identify them. That whitewashing only makes a rotten place a whitewashed place of rottenness. That thieves and whores who hunger and thirst, not after Him, but after money and debauchery (I’m looking at you, LaVern) are none of His.

So, no, (theoretical and/or pending) forgiveness notwithstanding, I don't claim LaVern Jordan. He's just not part of A Certain Family. If you choose to feel otherwise, Space Cowboy, then think on the dubious merits of any kind of sweeping intolerance, please, and comprehend who’s doing what.

Dear Jesus, my Brother, help us to resemble You in our thoughts, words and actions. Help us.

*not A Religious; just A Great Soul

**Because my pastor maligns traditional “religious people” and “church folk,” who can’t be bothered to love and help those who need love and help, those for whom Christ died, because they’re too busy tryin to avoid the Cross.

***Can you believe this name? Can we blame his proclivities on it?

Shameless Self-Promotion and Commerce

2008-04-13T17:47:00.002-05:00

Do you know of any first-time parents-to-be? Spread the word!

Lord Jesus, my brother, make this successful.

On Teaching

2008-04-03T11:14:00.006-05:00

You know I teach some literature classes, right? Well, what you may not know is that I read all the poetry in class, aloud, myself; I assign short stories to be read as homework; and I make my students read the plays aloud in class. Mine is not a drama class, but I am sensitive to the original purpose of Drama: that is, it should be performed, or, at the very least, heard (especially since a lot of The Good Stuff is poetry, too).

So in my lit classes, I insist upon "casting" the plays. We read aloud as much as we have time for. I have Suffered For My Vision, though. For one thing, there is always at least one student who is absolutely terrified of reading aloud. Said student, having seen the writing on the wall, usually takes me aside after class and begs me not to make him or her read anything aloud. I always commiserate with the stage fright (though we never even approach a stage), but insist that each student read SOMETHING aloud. "It's part of your 'class participation' grade," I point out, and then I offer the smallest parts available (like the stage directions or Selig in Joe Turner's Come and Gone).

One semester, after the class had read passages from Sophocles' Oedipus Rex, Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hellman's The Children's Hour, and Norman's 'Night, Mother, one student discovered that we'd be reading Wilson's Fences next, and she was horrified that one of her classmates would say the word nigger out loud. Ours was, after all, a mixed class, and she knew I was liable to "cast" at least one of her white classmates in the predominately black play. (I ended up casting quite a few, actually.) So, in class one day, she objected to reading Fences aloud. She didn't want, she said, anybody (particularly anybody white) saying That Word in her class.

I understood her stance; really, I did. But it was my class, and I could not see the --well-- rightness in excluding Fences from the semester's "performances." After all, Oedipus has four children by his mother and rips his eyeballs out. Shakespeare used the word polack. Hellman wrote about a lesbian who shoots her brains out at the end of the play. Norman talks us into rooting for another young lady who wants to shoot her brains out. There were any number of objections we could raise concerning any one of the plays I'd chosen to analyze.

So we were going to read Fences aloud, too, as we had read the other plays. That student protested by walking out of class on the first "Fences" day. But she came back. And the whole thing turned out to be a wonderful teaching opportunity: we talked a lot about the deliberate choices for diction (and other devices) that real artists make, and why they are so deliberate. I remember that class fondly, and the Protesting Student and I still correspond.

But a few weeks ago, I encountered a conflict I'd never met before and, in 2008, one I'd never even thought I would have to meet. We were reading Bullins' Goin a Buffalo aloud one day when I realized that the student I had cast as "Curt" was having trouble with the language. See, GAB's main characters are prostitutes and their pimps (part-time heroin dealers) and their ex-convict friends.* I don't need to tell you that when folk like that get excited, they do not say "Gee, willikers!"

Well, my student** began to stumble over the language. Then he started replacing the words. For "you bitches," for example, he said, "You girls." For "muthafucka," he said, "people." And so on. I had an idea why he was doing this: he's a lovely young man, and I thought he felt uncomfortable using such language in front of his old, gray-haired professor. (I assumed, you know, that the child, like others of his generation, cussed like Andrew Dice Clay outside class. I mean, he wears "dread" locks!)***At the end of the class, we all having empathetically sweated through That Student's discomfort, I shook his hand and said, "You're all right with me, [Wonderful Mysterious Name]." And he replied, "Ms. B., next time you have something like this, please don't make me read it." Deal. He had already acquitted his duty for the semester. He was done, and I was satisfied.

But the other shoe hadn't dropped.

The following week, the child met me in the hallway outside our classroom and asked me if he could address the class. Smelling another teaching opportunity, I have him permission to do so after we'd had our oral reports. Student With The Wonderful Name strode up to the podium with a slip of paper in his hand.

It was a formal apology --for "cursing in class" and "being a poor witness for Christ." When he finished, I thanked the young man and asked the other students if they had anything to say. I thought somebody would at least point out that reading the words on a page wasn't "cursing," but, instead, shamefaced and quiet, one or two students shook their heads "No"; nobody said anything.

"Well, I have something to say." I began by pointing out that The Student With The Wonderful Name and I had something in common: I loved Jesus, too, and I don't curse in my personal life. But I didn't consider what TSWTWN had done as "cursing." He had been forced, as a student, to read some words on a page. And then I did my little spiel on an artist's "deliberate choices." I talked about verisimilitude. I talked about reasonable expectations (adding my "Gee, willikers!" comment). My students sat up a little straighter after that, but TSWTWN probably didn't see my point at all. But since he didn't argue, I breathed a sigh of relief and we went on to for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf. (!!!)

But there was another shoe.

After class, I went to my office to think thoughts (and put them on display for Christina) when the division's student assistant dropped in to visit, as is his wont.

"I didn't know you had [Wonderful Name] in one of your classes," he said.
"Uh, huh," I said.
"You know he told his discipler****about the other day, when he had to read from that play," Student Assistant said. This is a lovely young man, too, big and friendly and smart. (No locks, though, but I don't hold that against him.) "His discipler was very angry with him about the language. He really chastised him."

"That's why he read the apology to the class," I finally said.
"Yeah." As Student Assistant told me the story of how he himself had gotten in trouble with his discipler (yes, over something he'd actually said, don't know what, turned my ears off lest they bled), I wondered.

What in the world are they teaching in these churches today?

Lord Jesus, my brother, forgive us for demoralizing The Least of These Your children. We don't know what we're doing.

*Not to mention JAZZ MUSICIANS.

**He has one of the most wonderful names I've ever heard. I'm so sorry I can't give it to you.

***A course, the rest of the class just revelled in the opportunity to cuss, openly and often.

****I wish I had an explanatory link for you, honey. Truly, I do.

More on Haircuts and Race than You Wanted to Know

2008-03-26T09:59:00.002-05:00

So a friend of mine sent me this essay from this blog, and I don't know how she thought I'd respond, but two of Cecily's musings (and then one comment) made me scroll down so I could comment, even before I'd finished reading everything.

Cecily begins by describing her ordeal at a hair salon. She, a white woman, takes her daughter to a black shop because it's in the neighborhood and (we discover later) because she wants to be undiscriminatory. Both commendable motives, IMO. And then the hairdresser ruins the baby's hair, explaining that she didn't know how to cut white people's hair (with scissors because blacks don't get their hair cut with scissors).

I had Issues with that.

See, I haven't always been (dread)locked. I used to perm and relax with the best of 'em. And when it was time for my stylist to cut off the damaged part or the split ends, or just to give my hair a sassy look, she used scissors. Every time. (Yes, she had to use clippers on the kitchen, but we're not talkin about the kitchen, now, are we? Can I move on now? Thank you.) And even now, now that my hair is (dread)locked, my loctician, at the end of every session, uses scissors to neaten my look. In fact, she has never used clippers on my head. So for Cecily's stylist to play the "I don't do white people's hair. Black people never use scissors on they hair" card ticked me off. The problem with the Cecily's stylist wasn't exposure; it was honesty. Here the woman brings her baby in, trusting her baby's hair to strange black people, in a gesture of good faith, and not only does the stylist ruin the baby's 'do, but she lies about it, too.

So I posted a comment to that effect. Then I read on. Cecily's ordeal in the shop is a kind of metaphor for her response to Obama's "Wright" speech, it seems: the stylist jacked up the baby's hair, you see, because she didn't "feel comfortable turning" Cecily and her baby away.

Discomfort is a powerful thang.

In a coupla emails back and forth, Cecily and I discussed the normal reaction to (someone else's) anger: discomfort. I said that discomfort was normal, but we need to realize that anger is, too. "Where I used to go to church," I emailed Cecily, "people quoted Ephesians 4:26 ('Be angry and sin not'), usually to mean, 'It's all right to be angry, but don't let your anger make you sin.' Over the years, though, I've come to think the warning ALSO means 'It's a sin not to get angry over the right things.' Righteous indignation (as opposed, say, to road rage) is in short supply these days."

While many in the black (and, apparently, white) community were waiting for Obama to respond in kind to Clinton barbs, just as many were uncomfortable about Obama talking "candidly"* about race. All in front of God and e'body. BUT, Cecily says, not as uncomfortable as we'd feel, say, if Clinton had discussed race:

There is a bit of, well, I don't know what to call it. What if Hillary, in reaction to Ms. Ferraro's comments, decided that SHE needed to give a 'major speech' about race?

Yeah.

Only Mr. Obama is allowed to give such a speech. Because he's not white.

I had Issues with that, too. Personally, I would not feel any "not allowed" in response to Clinton giving a speech about race. IF she hadn't been so sneakily racist in her campaign all along. And IF she wasn't liable to put her foot in her mouth while talkin about it. No problem. Let Clinton talk about race, too. Whatever. It's a free country.

Unlike Cecily's stylist, Clinton isn't unqualified. But, like the stylist, she might be too dishonest.

*As candidly as any politician can speak, that is, with a speech in hand before cameras.

Dear Jesus, my brother, help us to speak honestly with each other, redeeming the time (for the days are evil).

Christina again. Didn't Quite Work.

2008-03-19T17:49:00.004-05:00

INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Go to photobucket.com
2. Type in your answer for each question into the PhotoBucket search bar.
3. Choose your favorite photo to represent your answer.
4. Copy the html and paste it here.
5. Answer only in picture form.

1. What is your first name?

2. When is your birthday?

3. What is your favorite car?

4. Where did you go to school?

5.What is your favorite season?

6.What is your favorite type of shoe?

7. What is your status?

8.What is your favorite movie (this week)?

9. Who is your favorite Disney character?

10. What is (one of) your favorite song(s)?

11. What is your favorite clothing line?
Ann Lowe (not at Photobucket)

12. What is your favorite vacation destination?

13. What is your favorite dessert?

14. What is your favorite letter?

15. What are you most afraid of?

16. What is your favorite TV show?

17. What annoys you the most?

18. What is your job?

19. What is your favorite animal?

20. How old are you?

Christina Plucks My Last Nerve

2008-01-04T08:48:00.000-05:00

My younger dog, Frody, used to be named Kerberos. My daughters, somehow, managed to decapitate him, twice, while bringing him up from his previous home. (Boy, was Charon pissed at the mess.)

When we finally got Frody installed at home, he was a little confused: he wouldn't let anybody leave the house for a week. About that time, Loolie gave him some water she found somewhere.

("Where'd you get that stuff? It smells funny."
"Um."
"You're not gonna drink it, are you?"
"Um. I found it. I wanna put it in my water bottle for after band practice."
"Try it out on the dog first.")

After drinking it, Frody fell asleep, and the rest of us were able to go on about our bidness.

The older dog, Nimue, has only two heads and used to be called Orthus. She originally belonged to a very, very, very fat man (about the size of three men), and, still hung up on her first job, every now and then tries to herd us like cows. Some people think she's a male dog, but she's actually a former hermaphrodite. Seems she lost a few things, too, on her way to us, poor pup.

Jesus, please deliver me from these johnbrown memes.

Sleep Study

2007-11-30T12:37:00.000-05:00

It was an evil thing.

The day after T'giving, I carted my daughters off to Mama's. It was 830 pm. I had packed me pjs, extra undies, toiletries, and a book. I had to be at the sleep study lab by 9.

It was very dark and very windy by the time I made it to the lab. The outer door was locked, but I remembered my instructions to call up and get somebody to buzz me in. Upstairs, the clinic was quiet and deserted. The carpeting swallowed my footsteps, so when the technician opened the clinic door, looking for me and saw me right there, she jumped. She was a cutie: young, light-skinned with very black, shiny hair, regular black woman's shape (though she told me later that she was overweight), round, friendly face, square black glasses.

She took me to my bedroom and told me to put my jammies on. The room was spacious and clean, as was the full bathroom, and the bed was really big. But it still looked hospital-y. I changed into my sleeping clothes and left my stuff bag in the bathroom. I took my book with me, but when I got on the bed, I played around with the remote.

The technician came in and commenced to festoon me with probes? electrodes? sensors? I dunno what they were, but I hated 'em. First, she parted my locks in quarters, and then she scrubbed my scalp hard with alcohol preps in various and sundry places. Then she put some unidentifiable goop in the same places, so the electrodes? probes? sensors? would stay on my head. "This stuff'll melt in hot water," she promised. Then she rolled up my pajama pants and scrubbed my shins with preps right below the knee.

"Did you put lotion on?"
"No." (I had followed directions not to. Nearly killed me not to slather myself with lotion, emollients and unguents when I got out of the shower. I have a terminal fear of ashiness.)
"Well, you sure are shiny! You don't shave your legs, either, do you?" she asked (not because I'm furry, but because I'm so not. It's my theory that women of a certain blackness don't hairy much, for some reason. Light-skinned women tend to be really, really hairy, also for some reason. I remember one of my light-skinned gfs telling me that when she was last pregnant, and hairier than usual, her husband called her "Sasquatch." Good thing they were friends at the time).

She asked me about the book I was reading and endeared herself to me immediately when she told me that her favorite subject in school was literature. In fact, she had taken her undergraduate degree in English. (She is now a psychologist and a professor.) She is the only medical professional I've met who has professed a love for English. Every other doctor, nurse, technician or assistant has said, "I hated English in school!"

After putting electrodes on my shins, she had me draw the lines? cords? through my pant legs and under my pajama shirt through my neckline. Then she put electrodes on my chest at the collarbone. Then she wrapped me tightly around, at my bosom and my waist, with thick, white, velcroed thingies that would, she said, record my breathing and heart rate. She put thingies in my nose to detect snoring. And she put a clamp on my index finger for my pulse. She put thingies all around my chin and one thingy on my face near my right eye.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep with all this stuff on," I said.
"I've never seen anyone who didn't eventually fall asleep," she replied. She took my blood pressure. It was higher than I'd ever seen it. I hoped it'd go down when I began to relax.

I went to the bathroom for "the last time*" and she hooked me up to the computer (I assume). Then she went out of the room and spoke to me through a speaker above the bed.

"Lie on your back, Ms. B, and flex your feet forward, then back. Good. Now take some deep breaths. Again. Good. Now snore for me, please. Okay, good. Now grind your teeth. That's good. Now blink your eyes ten times. Okay. Good. Thank you. Now, any time you call me tonight, I'll hear you. You don't have to push any buttons or anything. Would you like some water or something?"

"No, thank you."

"Okay. I'll be in at eleven to turn the lights out." I channel-surfed and found the end of a Nick Cage movie, The Family Man. At eleven, the technician came in.

"You find something to watch?"
"Kind of."
"Okay. Time for lights out. You want it really dark?"
"Mostly." She turned off the lights and went out, closing the door.

I. could. not. sleep. First of all, the evil technician wanted me to start by sleeping on my back. I had stopped sleeping on my back long ago because I snore and that wakes me up. I told her so.

"That's why I want you to do that," she said. "Most apnea happens while people are on their backs." Well, honey, I snored, but I didn't sleep. That's how it works with me. After a while, though, the technician said I could turn over. Problem was, because of the length (short) of the cords I was attached to, I could turn over only on my right side. I sleep on my left side or my stomach. My stomach was out of the question. So I just lay there, looking into the darkness, not sleeping, yawning occasionally, and wishing I was at home, with the girls and the dogs sleeping in their rooms down the hallway. At one point, I asked the young lady the time, and she said she wasn't supposed to tell me.

I had figured as much. The long night wore on.

Finally, finally, finally, I drifted off, and I dreamed: I was standing at a table with a sheaf of forms before me. I had filled them out. And I was being interrogated about them by somebody over a speaker. I remember answering one question, "I wrote, in three places on this form, my brother! What about that don't you understand?" Then I heard laughter from several people from the speaker. I was winning points somehow. And then I woke up.

The technician said, "It's 5:40 am. Do you want to get up?"
"Yes!" I said, and immediately hoped I hadn't hurt her feelings. I felt so down. I was exhausted and unhappy. As the technician un-electroded me, she told me what else she had been doing all night: grading the "research" papers of her students and getting ticked off. Yes, she's my favorite of all the med-heads I've ever met.

Thank You, Jesus, for sleep.

*The first time, really. I had to get permission to go pee three more times that night. Well, I'm 46. So sue me.

So This is What Took So Long. . . .

2007-11-21T09:32:00.000-05:00

I lost my home this past summer. I've Been Told that I have to tell this story before I can post another blog for y'all, and the stomach-rattling humiliation's almost dissipated, so I'm gonna quit stalling.

The short version of the story (the version I've been giving squeamish friends) is that my experience with mortgaging, refinancing, and foreclosure began with stark ignorance and ended with stupidity.

The slightly longer version is that, because of my (poor) credit, when I wanted to refinance my home at a particular time, I allowed myself to be talked into an interest-only loan. And then when, because of my (better) credit, I was able to apply for an FHA loan, I allowed myself to be talked into an ARM.

See the ignorance turning into stupidity?

When my mortgage rose $500 more a month, it took me a minute to figure out how I'd pay it. I could, but by the time I knew I could, I was behind. And the mortgage company wouldn't work with me. For months, I ran between home and Western Union, trying to catch up, getting farther and farther behind. Finally, the mortgage company wrote me off and gave me about a month to move out.

The girls and I, when we weren't at school, scoured the classifieds for rentals, townhouses, and apartments. Nothing I could afford panned out, primarily because of the dogs. Nimue would fit any landlord's criteria, but Frody definitely would not. And then, of course, there was my (sucky and getting suckier) credit. Eventually, the mortgage company enlisted one of its realtors, aware of our financial situation, to find somewhere for us to live.

The best prospect, for a while, was a townhome about forty miles away from our current home. And in a city zoned for different schools. But (I was told at the time) that the neighborhood would take our dogs. The girls and I had to decide where our priorities were. Actually, the schools in the new place had a much, much better reputation, better network, and better facilities than the ones Juice and Goobs were currently attending, but Juice and Goobs, of course, did not care: Juice is in her penultimate year of high school, and Goobs is in her last year of middle school. Both of them are cultivating a dubious and nebulous concept they call “rep,” which, apparently, would have to be redesigned, or something, if we moved to another school zone.

Discussions about priorities became rather heated.

We finally agreed that it was more important that we not have to put Frody back in the animal shelter, and we met with the property manager about the townhome. And then the property manager told us that Frody would have to go if we moved in: he was too big. Goobs immediately burst into tears. The property manager asked me how I’d feel about having to give up the puppy. I pointed out that we had just rescued him, and so it’d hurt to abandon him, “But beggars can’t be choosers,” I added. Then the property manager asked Juice what she thought.

“I’m angry,” she said. And many other things did she say before I cut her off. And then the property manager said that since I was going through a foreclosure, my security deposit would be substantial. And then, two weeks later, the rent would be due. "Will you be able to handle all of this?" He asked. We all decided that the girls and I needed to get together and talk everything out again. We did it in the car. Somebody (I think it was Goobs) suggested that we apply at another apartment complex, one that would take big dogs.

So we went to one, obviously a last resort. I began filling out the application. I had no hope, to tell you the truth. I knew my present credit would get me blown out of the water, we’d have to put Frody in the Young Dogs’ Home, and we’d have to start all over in a new school zone. But the girls and I, for some reason, were in a good mood. Personally, I believed, in spite of everything, all appearances to the contrary, that everything would be all right. I finished the application and gave it to TPTB,* waiting to be rejected.

And then my cell phone rang. It was the property manager. He said, “Ms. G., I’ve decided to take $800 off the security deposit.” He didn’t explain why he’d decided to do that. Of course, he wanted the townhome rented, but it was really, really nice, in a lovely neighborhood, with great schools in the vicinity. It wouldn’t be on the market long. I thanked the gentleman profusely and hung up. Told the girls that the security deposit wouldn’t be as huge as originally planned.

We waited some more for the application to be rejected, laughing and joking. We were sitting in a lovely, spacious lobby, the furniture all white and plush. The sliding door opened onto the pool. It was a beautiful day. All was right with the world.

My cell phone rang again. It was the property manager. He said, “Ms. G., God is on your side. We have a house in your city, a three-bedroom, two bath, that will accept both your dogs. I just remembered it. I had been saving it for someone else, but that person keeps jerking me around, so. . . .Here’s the address. Here’s the directions. Go look at it and call me back.”

Tears actually filled my eyes. I thanked the property manager more profusely. Hung up and thanked Jesus even more profusely, told the girls, got up and began walking out of the lobby. The apartment landlord was walking our way.

“We can’t take your application, Ms. G. Your credit history. . .”

“Thank you, then, for your time,” I said, and the girls and I ran out to the car. We found the house. It was wonderful: a little smaller than the one we were leaving, but big living spaces. Siding and brick. Quiet, clean neighborhood. Huge back yard, with pear, apple and fig trees (first time I’d ever seen one of those).

Of course we took it. And now y’all are up to date**.

This is my advice, if you're ever in the fix I got myself into:

1. Contact these folk. Early.

2. Ask somebody ELSE for help if the mortgagor won't work with you. I realized, too late, that this kind of trouble is what family is for. But I was too proud to ask.

3. If all else fails, sell your house before you get too far down the road. It's better than having a foreclosure on your credit. But be careful: don't sell it to just anybody, or you might find yourself still obligated to the mortgage, though somebody else has your house.

*The Powers That Be
**Because I’m not telling you about moving. Nobody should have to suffer through that story, much less the experience.

Thank you, Jesus, for Your brand-new mercies and countless do-overs.

Women Just Don't Understand Cars

2007-05-03T21:07:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, temperatures reached the 90’s, and it became more obvious than ever that my car’s missing its air conditioner, but, honey, not more than I’m missing it. My rolling mechanic tried to charge it up (or however you mechanics put it), but, while the air coming out of the vents was cooler, it wasn’t true air conditioning, you know? My rolling mechanic couldn’t find a leak. He didn’t know what the problem was.

So when he texted me that some other mechanics were offering “Free A/C Checks,” I decided I’d run up there (it was only a little ways from home) and see what they were talking about.

Now, you may ask, “Why didn’t your rolling mechanic do the check?” And it’s a good question. The reason is that my rolling mechanic, while a professional whose employer owns several garages, does not have a garage in his own possession. Also, his employer services and repairs only gigantic trucks exclusively, not Buick Rendevouses, so dragging my Buick to his place of work, asking specifically for “My Rolling Mechanic, who reveals the sacrosanct mysteries of automechanutiae to me” would be unutterably inappropriate, don’t you think? Any more questions? No? Can I go on with my story now? Thank you.

So I went to this joint, found it by the “Free A/C Checks” sign on the van outside the joint, and went in. The “lounge” had double rows of comfortable seats, but to the left of the comfortable seats was a door marked “Enter,” through which I had to go back outside: the service desk was adjacent to the service bays. And it was cold and raining out. And I had a sore throat. But the guy at the desk was nice looking and personable, at least.

I had decided that I wasn’t comfortable with asking only for a free service. I hate taking something for nothing. I get to thinking about folk feeding their families. So I made a stupid decision. Kind of. I decided to get an oil change. This joint offered a $19.99 oil change, and, frankly, it was time I got one, so I told the gentleman, “I’d like an oil change and the free air conditioning check.”

“Which oil change?” he asked. “’Good,’ ‘Better’ or ‘Best’?”
“Prices?” I asked.
“’Good’s’ $29.99, and ‘Best’ is $69.99.”
“I’d like the $29.99 one, please.” I should have said, “What about the johnbrown $19.99 one? The one on the banner outside?” but neither Christina nor Elayne was with me, so I didn’t. Stupidly.

“How many miles you got on your car?” he asked.
“’Bout 50,000,” I said.
“Well, then, you need the 50,000-mile oil change,” he said. This was, of course, the $70 change. So I said, “No. I want the $30 change.”
“All right,” he said and took my keys.

I went back into the “lounge” and sat down. I pulled out a novel I had brought just for such an occasion and tried to stay awake. But I was exhausted and sore throated, and I kept zoning out. One time, I dreamed I had run into a passing friend and she waved at me. I woke up and found my hand up, waving back.

“How ya doin?” said another customer in puzzled response.

I went back to my book. It’s a pretty good detective story, actually. About fifteen minutes passed, and the young man at the desk came into the “lounge” and told me the mechanic was having problems figuring out what was wrong with my air conditioning.

“If we can’t find out what’s wrong by looking at it, we’ll have to put it on The Machine, which will cost you $70,” he said. “But the good thing is, the cost of repair will include the $70. It won’t be extra.”

“No,” I said.
“All right,” he said and went away.

Five minutes later, another, older gentleman came in, bearing a clipboard.

“Did somebody talk to you about your car?”
“Yes.”
“We haven’t found the problem with your air conditioning. We’ll have to use The Machine, and, since it cost us $10,000, you have to help pay for it. It'll only be $70, and that's included in the repair.” I really appreciated his candor, but I told him no, too.

Five minutes later, another, gentleman, black, came in, bearing a clipboard.

(I was beginning to imagine the bay conversations: “She won’t listen to me. Maybe you, Joe. You’re older and have more presence.”

“She didn’t listen to me, either. Maybe she only trusts black mechanics.”)

“Did somebody talk to you about your car?”
“Yes.”
“We were about to do the oil change when we realized [Greek], which meant [Chaldean], which will result in [Mandarin]. You need the 50,000 oil change.”
“Are you talking about the Buick?”
“Yes.”
“No. I want the $30 change, like I said when I came in here.”
“Yeah, well, they won’t wanna—“
“Are you telling me that you’re not gonna do the oil change?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Well, give me my car, please.” I hoisted myself up and went back out to the bays.
“What do I owe you?”
“Oh, you don’t owe us a thing, ma’am,” the first young man said. “Did he, uh, tell you that you can go to Jiffy Lube, and they’ll do the change, but only because they don’t care?”

Oh, brother.

I could see the third man backing my car out of the bay, so I just thanked the first man and walked away. When I got into my car, I called my rolling mechanic and told him everything. He snorted and scoffed at all the talking (and the little work) those mechanics had done, and then he asked me, “Did you have a book?”

“What?”
“Did you have a book?”
“Yeeeessssss. . . .”
“Good, cuz I'd hate to see the kind of hell'd break loose if you hadn’t brought—“
“Shut up,” I said.
I think I should’ve charged that joint for the hour they’d stolen from me.

Dear Jesus, my brother, thank You for the book.

LisaCurl's Curse

2007-04-23T12:55:00.000-05:00

A friend reminded me today of this here thang, which is brilliantly gorgeous:

Forasmuch as thou hast offended me …

Mayest thou stub thy toe; yea, most grievously mayest thou stub it.

May the stars of heaven observe thee, and snicker. May thy knees swell mightily, even unto the size of watermelons. Mayest thou lisp.

May the telephone marketers of all the world be as a buzzing perpetually in thine ears. Mayest thou be the butt of the humour of small children.

Mayest thou develop a slight, nagging itch in thy crotch. As thou scratchest it, mayest thou realise that thou art being televised live to an audience of millions.

May typhoons strike thy home; may meteorites strike thy pets; and may hiccoughs strike thine aunt.

To the utmost ends of the world, yea, even unto Pittsburgh, may thy creditors pursue thee. If thou hast no creditors, mayest thou acquire creditors. May thy creditors be seven feet tall, and weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and be named “Bo.”

Let the flowers that delight thy nose wither. May thy toaster always overcook thy bread. May thy cheese develop mould, and thy beans small, suspicious-looking hairs. May thy gherkins leak.

An hundred years after thy death, yea, even a thousand, may people hear thy name and think, “Verily, he was a right rutabaga.” May Congress pass laws against thee.

Drat thee.

Dear Jesus, my brother, remind us daily of the power of our words.

Ranuel Works My Last Nerve

2007-04-22T19:38:00.000-05:00

The rules are as follows: You start off with writing down ten weird things/habits/little known things about yourself. People who get tagged have to then write ten weird things/habits/little known facts about themselves in their own blog or LJ. At the end, you pick ten people off your flist and tag them so as to continue the game. No tagbacks, and the rules must be stated clearly in your post.

1. My left leg, ankle and foot have swollen larger than my right, daily, for more than fifteen years (yes, since my pregnancy with Juice).

2. I actually enjoy grading papers, much more so than I do lecturing.

3. I once learned how to play the recorder (as part of getting a degree in education, which I didn't finish because there weren't enough lit classes in the curriculum).

4. I'm irrationally frightened by some large constructions, like figureheads. The very thought of President's Head Park makes me very uncomfortable.

5. My younger sister, in her forties and an attorney, actually believes that I "know a little about everything." (But maybe that's something weird about her.)

6. I hate these "meme" thingies.

7. People are always telling me I sing well enough to be recorded, but no one has ever offered to record me (well, in the last twenty years, anyway).

8. Somehow (despite any formal obedience training), I managed to train Nimue, my dog, to respond to (right many) hand and head signals.

9. I *heart* Kevin James.

10. For a good part of one year of my life, I was addicted to an electronic version of Yahtzee.

Like Ranuel, I'm not taggin ten friends. Here's three:

Elayne

Christina

Trin

Dear Jesus, my brother, remind us daily that whatever our weirdnesses, You love us muchly.

Middle-aged Woman’s Fancy Turns Lightly to Thoughts of Office Supplies

2007-04-09T20:42:00.000-05:00

Because I love those, too.

I have a Thing for pencils, pens, notebooks, typ—I mean, printer paper, paper clips, staples, staplers, Post-its, hole punchers. . . .I could go on for days. It’s a writer’s thang, I reckon. I've got pens and pencils choking that middle zipper pocket of my purse, pencils and pens choking various and sundry pockets of my bookbag, pencils and pens choking various and sundry cups and mugs around my house. It was my pleasure and honor to meet a cyber-friend face to face --right at the time that her father was teaching himself to make mechanical, wood pens! I hadn't planned this, of course: it just happened, to my joy and delight.

One morning, walking to class, I found a couple of pencils on the dew-covered ground. Nearly brand-new, they looked, a red one and a yellow one, each with nice big erasers still. And I’m not talking about mechanical pencils; these were your plain wood and graphite classics (though probably not Ticonderogas. I don’t remember). I just thought, Somebody’s done dropped some perfectly good pencils and has no idea they’re gone. Probably won’t miss ‘em, either. And aloud, I said, “These are mine, now.” And, because I didn’t have time to find the pencil section in my bookbag, I just put the wet, precious things in my coat pocket. When I got to my classroom, I surreptitiously slipped them into that pencil section of my bookbag. That was a long time ago. Those lovely pencils’ve shrunk with use and their erasers're nea’bout gone.

Years ago, I had a beautiful dreadlocked student who used paper clips on his essays. Though I tell my students in writing (on the syllabus) that they can use either paper clips or staples, I prefer that my students use staples to keep their pages together. In fact, when students do use paper clips, I usually keep the paper clips and staple the papers myself. But this guy had round, metal, colorful paper clips. I coveted them. It bothered me not to say so.

“I’m keeping these paper clips,” I told the pretty child, looking right at him. He wouldn’t look back at me, but he smiled as he looked down at his paper and handed it to me.

“You’re the one who has to face yourself in the mirror, Ms. B,” he said. I kept the paper clips. Still looked at my reflection, too. No, I have no scruples about Office Stuff. I’ve been known to openly covet the Office Stuff belonging to other people, right in front of their faces –primarily because, about 50% of the time, people will give me their pens and pencils if I just say I want them.

Now, I like fancy paper clips, but I prefer those plain wood and graphite classics to mechanical pencils. With the classics, I always know where I am, how much pencil I have left, how much writing I can still do. Mechanical pencils are sometimes pretty, but they’re always untrustworthy.

I get tempted, though. Former Student has a mechanical pencil that looks like an oft-sharpened Ticonderoga. It’s about as long as my thumb, yellow-gold, with a red eraser on top and a metal nub at the end. Former Student made the mistake of letting me hold it in my hand.

“That’s just as cute as it can be!” I said. “Don’t you leave it here; you might not see it again.” I was working my magic. Former Student looked sharply at me and then put his hand out for his pencil.

“I won’t leave it,” he said. But he did. He left it. I wanted to play with it and keep it among my other Office Stuff, but the very idea smote me in my heart. I emailed Former Student, “Guess what I found? You’re not getting it back, either.”

“Oh, it shall be mine again,” he emailed me back. It was, too. I saved it for him, and I didn’t use it once, even.

Ah, it was too short anyway.

Today was a red-letter day for office supplies. One of my current students, a wonderful lady of 57, who rightly calls herself “Tap Dance,” came up to the desk tonight and apologized for accidentally going off with one of my pencils. (See? You reap what you sow.) In February, on Valentine’s day, Mrs. Tap Dance organized my 6 p. m. class: my students bought me a card and every one of them signed it; it came in a little bag with candy and gaily-colored pencils and a fat pen. I was genuinely overcome with joy.

Anyways, she apologized for walking off with one of those pencils. But because she had, she noticed that (it being April now) my gift pencils were getting shorter and shorter. So today, she brought me three brand new black pencils. Classics, but new: Mirado Black Warriors.

Great day in the morning.

See? Mrs. Tap Dance had peeped my hole card, seen me from afar off.

Dear Jesus, my brother, have mercy on those of us who make little, tiny, silly idols.

Middle-Aged Woman’s Fancy Turns Lightly to Thoughts of Young Men

2007-04-04T09:45:00.000-05:00

I am loving me some spring this year. (Virginia has only three seasons, you know: winter, spring, and The Other One.) The sun returned, for one thing. And, even with terrible hay fever, I love the smell of spring and the way trees and flowers talk that brazen talk to the birds and bees (but especially the bees): "DO ME, BABY!" You know I’m telling the truth. Trees and flowers (but especially flowers) are shameless promiscuous. But come spring time, I can’t blame ‘em.

I had a student, a young woman, who claimed that she preferred black men to white men “because they smell like cookies.” No joke: that’s what she said, and she said it to women (mostly) who knew she wasn’t talking about some new kind of cologne. It’s that pheromone thang, and in my mind, it should “smell” like the thang you like. Girlfriend like cookies? Black men smell like cookies. Me, I just like the smell of Male, period. All men, regardless of age, race, occupation (or the lack thereof), orientation, or previous condition of servitude. I can’t designate any particular fragrance to those pheromones. Just plain, homemade goodness.

(Where really little boys are concerned, however, I content myself with rubbing their heads. I’ll chase a little boy around for that. Ask any of those who attend my church. Poor little fellas.

But the big fellas? Jesus, help me.)

The other day, it was about 80 degrees out, and I was walking to class when one of the students who usually walk me to class came up to me, wearing a white towel on his head.

“Is that supposed to be cooling?” I asked.
“Yeah, Ms. B. Plus, I don’t want a lot of sun.”

I looked at this milk-chocolate-brown young’un in wonder. A lot of black people are still tryin not to get “too black.” That just amazes me. So does this young’un: at least a head taller than I, wiry, full-lipped (the kind of lips that cause you*, against your will, to wonder what a kiss would feel like) and bright-eyed. He works hard –outside of school, at least, to pay for school himself (unlike many of his peers). He’s funny and possessed of a fierce, no-matter-what intelligence, a drive to Do Better. One way he thinks he can do that is by walkin Ms. B. to class or knocking on the window of the classroom and pointing at his watch as Ms. B passes, crackin her up. Every little helps, you know. And, of course, Ms. B. appreciates all the attention.

An ex-student** also hangs out with me on the regular. He comes by the office, any time, and devours the time. During the times I worried about him, used to be he’d claim he needed to see me to “feel better” during the day. Now he’s just there to entertain Ms. B. He walks me to class because, he says, he doesn’t want me walking there alone. This is Your Average Man’s Man, a twenty-something Army vet, well-versed in jiu-jitsu and charm, with a teeny-tiny, unutterably cute law school girlfriend. (He showed me the pictures he keeps in his phone.) He’s got brown hair, brown eyes, and a sexy little John Travolta cleft in his fuzzy chin. (I know y’all thought he was a knock-kneed, thick-glasses-wearing, friendless, book-sucking dweeb --like me, in fact-- and I ain’ mad atcha, but y’all are wrong, as LuAnne Platter would say.) Though he’s a white guy, the black guys give him a pound as he passes. (And all the women look at his butt. Or so he tells me. I haven’t given myself permission to look, if only to determine whether it’s look-worthy, even.) Yesterday, I remembered that it was Tuesday, and so there was no reason to expect Ex-Student to come by. (In college, most folk have MWF and TR class schedules; they vary. Not everybody has the exact same, soul-squeezing schedule every johnbrown day the Lord sends.) I sighed and told myself that I’d probably get my walk the next day, shouldered my book bag and stepped out the door. There was Ex-Student, about to come in.

“I just came over to walk you to class,” he said. I grinned all over myself (and, I think, frightened him a little). I didn’t get the walk all the way to class because I was driving. But I got a walk to my car, and I treated myself to a look at the back of his legs, hanging out under his shorts, as he walked away. Nice.

After lusting over every young man I saw yesterday, I thought it’d be a good idea to go to bible study that night. (The topic was having faith enough to let your God-given self-control kick in, among other things. Appropriate.) After bible study, I went downstairs to pick up the girls from their bible study. My girlfriend and her husband run our church’s Youth Department, and they each teach one Youth Department bible study class. (Truth to tell, they have loads more fun teaching those classes than they do running the department. Ain that the way?) While I stood in the hallway, I could see that their class wasn’t quite over. The teachers and students seemed to be cleaning up plaster, plastic bags and other students, the aftermath of Girlfriend’s Husband’s life-mask project. Husband looked up at me standing in the hallway, pointed to his own face and grinned big. He had shaved every hair from his face, and he was remembering my (to him, hilariously) negative reaction to that metamorphosis last year: “I don’t like it. Grow that hair back.” Now, this is what I said at the time, but it wasn’t what I felt. He has always been a beautiful man, but then, and now, he looks like a 2009 copper dollar, all shiny and wonderful and improbable. Last night, I just shook my head at him.

When the teachers finally dismissed the youth, I came down (ostensibly) to look at the youth’s masks. (Juice had been brave enough to do one.) Girlfriend gave me a big hug. After those classes, she always looks lit up inside. (And she is always a beautiful woman, as I am sure I have said before, so it’s just not fair that she have inside lighting, too.) I felt happy that she’s found something else happy-making. Husband greeted me, and I replied, “Who are you?” as he pounced upon me for a hug. He asked me (for the thousandth time, I think) to do a life mask, too, and I replied that I didn’t even know who he was. He laughed and then preached at me: whether I knew him or not, I should love him, like a good Christian. I countered that it was entirely possible that I would come to love him, but right now, I did not know who he was. I turned on my heel and had begun to walk away, when he pounced and hugged me again.

I suddenly remembered the beginning of the conversation I’d had with Ex-Student, earlier that day: “Have you ever seen somebody that you just can’t take your eyes off of?” I squinted over at his pretty face in the spring sunshine and answered, “Yeah.”

Dear Jesus, my brother --mmph! You sho' look good today!

*Yes, you!
**No, my maiden name is not "LeTourneau."

Ghost Rider Commitment Opportunity

2007-03-21T22:02:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, my girlfriend was out of town on business, or pleasure, I forget, so I ran off with her husband –---to see the Ghost Rider movie. (We took our respective kids.) Girlfriend’s Husband and I had been looking forward to this movie since it came out, but Girlfriend wasn’t at all interested in seeing it. And nobody, but nobody, makes Girlfriend do what she isn’t at all interested in doing. Especially if it’s just goin to a movie. From her point of view, life’s just too short.

And she is my best girlfriend, excepting my sister, so it surprised me that we didn’t see eye to eye on this movie. We see eye to eye on nea’bout everything else: politics, religion, literature. . . .For example, when LOTR hit the theatres, our families hit the theatres, too, bought the vidjos and watched them over and over again, analyzing every symbol, deconstructing the grave critiques of literal-minded Tolkien groupies, and, incidentally, lusting after Orlando Bloom’s Legolas. When The Return of the King was on its way to us, we planned a LOTR party, so as to refresh our memories with the first two movies just before hittin the theatre again.

God, we were the blackest LOTR geeks I knew. And we didn’t care.

But Girlfriend was right when, at the beginning of our relationship, she termed me a member of her husband’s “July Babies” club. We were born in the same month, and, as Girlfriend had suspected in the beginning, we had similar tastes in foolishness. Just a sad thing when said foolishness is scrutinized (I mean, if you can bring yourself to believe it, it looks even more foolish under scrutiny), but there it is. For example, I think all of us were waiting through the trailers before one of the LOTRs showed up on the screen when the Transporter 2 trailer showed up. Girlfriend’s Husband leaned across Girlfriend and looked at me. I leaned across Girlfriend and looked at him.*

“You see the first one?” he asked.
“Aw, yeah,” I replied. “Sweeeet fight scenes.”

The commitment to Transporter 2 was established, albeit to separate viewing and the vidjo version. (Life, after all, is too short, and money too important, by the way, to spend on Transporter 2 in the theatre.)

Way, way, way more important than my newish “July Baby” membership is a Thing I have for Nick Cage. He’s not a BABE or even a great actor, but I just love him. I can't explain why. I just do. Loved him nonstop since Raising Arizona. Been watching Raising Arizona, on the regular, in fact, since the thang came out on vidjo, and then forced my kids to watch it (and, as a result, Goobs is intermittently addicted to it**). Forced myself to watch National Treasure, too, but was, ultimately, glad of it, because I’m an extremely loyal person. Even so, when I saw the trailer for Ghost Rider, I was a little surprised. Now, Girlfriend’s Husband is the comic-book nut, and knew the Ghost Rider story, so I felt justified in my surprise when it was clear that he shared that surprise about casting. Regardless, though, we were committed to seeing this movie. The trailers hinted at way cool special effects, Nick Cage seemed as loopy playing Johnny Blaze as he’d been playin H. I. McDonough, and . . .well, it was the next thingy in our comic-book-to-movie collection. We had to see it. And at the theatre. This wasn’t one of those flimsy Transporter 2 commitments you hear tell about.

Problem was, every time I mentioned Ghost Rider to my friends, Girlfriend would sigh and roll her eyes. She was clearly not committed. And I had known and loved this couple long enough to know that if Girlfriend dug in her heels, Girlfriend’s Husband was not interested in changing her mind. That’s just not the way they relate to each other. Which is prolly one of the reasons why their relationship works. But then Girlfriend went away to New York. And got snowed in.

This was the Ghost Rider Commitment Opportunity.

Girlfriend’s Husband made a coupla thousand calls to New York***, we snatched up our kids and, placing them around us in really good stadium seating, we saw the movie. Nick Cage had new hair (has had new hair since Nat’l Treasure, in fact) and looked only about twice Eva Mendes’ age, but, overall, I was pleased. The story was new to me as a non-comic-book reader, but archetypal (one of those soul-sellin dealies), so also comfortably familiar. Cage was weird and wonderful and hilarious. The special effects delighted and scared me. (Y’all know I’m a wuss where the cinematic depiction of True Evil is concerned, and the folk sittin at the PCs during the making of this movie really had Chops. And I ain’t mad at ‘em. I mean, think about it: if you must have Lucifer and a few of his minions in a story, don’t you want them to be all you imagined them to be?) Sam Elliot was just a transcendent BABE, as per usual. And the Good Guy triumphed in the end.

I did have some issues about the movie, though. For one thing, the ending was just silly and overwritten. Girlfriend’s Husband and I listened to the final speech Johnny Blaze makes to Lucifer, and I whispered, “That makes no sense.” Girlfriend’s Husband whispered back, “Naw. That’s deep!” and then, after a beat, we both fell out laughing.

Listen. You do not want to sit in the row in front of us, any combination of us, at a movie theatre.

*This exchange, by the way, just this minute reminded me of the several and various exchanges between girlfriend and me, later on, every time Legolas showed his uh. . . .chops.

** I’m a Bad Mother.

***Actually, this fact has nothing whatsoever to do with the logistics of watching a movie with the girlfriend of one's wife. Nothing to do with movies, at all, unless one needs material for a True Romance.

Dear Brother Jesus, I thank You for properly supervised fun with friends and family.

Two Games

2007-03-21T20:19:00.000-05:00

Two Saturdays ago, I got to see two basketball games –FREE. Of course, one involved Auntie’s First Nepphie’s team, and the other involved Goobs and Juice’s team.

Basketball has always fascinated me. Or, rather, basketball players --but only since little family members’ve started playing. Professional basketball, because I’ve seen (snatches of) it on TV, the world of fantasy, doesn’t enthrall me the way watching kids I know reach out and grab that brown sphere from the air. And (since I’ve been watching little family members play) it’s not just those kids. Those middle-aged referees glance over at the ball for a nano-second, and then the old hands, seemingly of their own volition, find and palm that thang and throw it at some kid, whose hands can do likewise. You know, in most contexts, it’s considered cruelty to throw things at kids, but here, apparently, it’s some kind of art.

It’s called hand-eye coordination, and it’s a foreign concept to me. In fact, the only coordination that I’m the slightest bit familiar with is ball-head coordination. Until fairly recently, any ball in the vicinity was magnetically attracted to the lump a coupla feet above my butt.

Back to the games. In the organization for which AFN played, the boys wore expensive shoes, matching uniforms, prescription goggles and mouth guards. The boys played in a spacious, spotless community gymnasium. AFN’s team was extremely skillful, especially AFN, who always knew where the ball was and what to do with it. What impressed me more than that, however, was his new skill: working the team. He wasn’t as focused on Taking the Ball to the Hole as he had been the last time I saw him play. I was so proud of the way he passed that ball to other players, guarded his man and quickly advised members of his team during the smallest of breaks between skirmishes.

But even AFN wasn’t as entertaining to watch as one of his teammates, whom I’ll call Spud2. That child. He was about three feet tall, but instead of seeming to worry about being taller, Spud2 brilliantly used his lack of stature to score points. Instead of trying to throw over the heads of the taller boys guarding him, he dove down and dribbled under their arms. He passed between the legs of his opponents. Once, when he was knocked down, he still managed to sink the ball. He was a Bad Man of twelve (and I told him so after the game).

I would’ve enjoyed the game more, though, but for the behavior of some folk. One guy did some extra-loud coaching throughout the game. Somebody else, upon hearing a comment from a stranger, rose from the bench and seemed about to physically harm said stranger, but a couple of men held her back (with quite some difficulty). There was cursing and insult-throwing, second-guessing of referees’ rulings.

All from the parents, you know. The kids (with one notable, foul-crazy exception) were great sports. They grinned and helped each other up off the floor, whatever the jersey's color, and never complained about what the refs said. They just kept playing the best game they could. And, most importantly, AFN’s team won big.

The second game was held at a cramped court in a Baptist church. Team members wore white tees and various-colored shorts. Their coaches brought pullover jerseys and distributed them to whatever players happened to show up. Once everyone had suited and warmed up, all the players got into a circle and prayed while spectators kept silence. The teams of the organization Juice and Goobs played for were co-ed, and some of the sneakers the kids wore were raggedy. (In fact, Goobs keeps a pair of raggedy kicks just to play in. Her “formal” pair is for church.) These kids also had that hand-eye stuff, and they were also ingenious with what folk used to call “mad skills” and common courtesy.

But the parents encouraged all the players, laughing at mistakes (as the players did) and cheering every basket made. We nudged each other and made fun of our kids, regardless of the jersey's color. The kids, of course, were great sports, and when Juice and Goobs’ team lost, they shook hands all around, prayed and ran off the court, grinning, to Capri Suns and proud parents.

I pondered the dissimilarity in atmosphere between these two games. Why were the parents in the first game so ugly to each other, such bad examples for their children? Why were the parents in the second game so accommodating and easy-going? Was it the religious trappings in the second game that made the difference? When I was at the community center, before I went to the church game, I thought so. But later, when I watched the game at the church, I realized: the players at the church, all the teams, were black. At the first game, AFN’s team members, all but two, were black. And there were only white players on the opposing team. A racial rivalry in the air of the first game seemed to be expressed in the animosity among the adult spectators. The woman who had to be held back from throttling the stranger? At the end of the game, she said, with relish, “White people hate to lose to black people!” The folk with her murmured in agreement.

Personally, I don’t believe she was right. But she –and many of the people around her—believed she was, and I believe that made the difference among the grownups.

Fortunately, our children didn't seem to be affected by that difference.

Dear Jesus, brother, teach us adults to become as little children. Soon.

Ten Acres and a Mule

2007-02-12T21:25:00.000-05:00

My car filled with the smell of old cigarettes. The young man wasn’t smoking at the time (and I’ve never smoked), but you know what the memory of cigarettes in your clothes does to the general vicinity regardless. I was taking him home from class. The brakes had gone out on his car, and then somebody’d had his car towed from the place where he had left it.

“God’s tryina tell me something,” my student said. “Takin everything away so I can see straight, get my life straight.” I pointed out that God had been known to do that sometimes.

“But He hasn’t taken Himself away, remember,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Life’s good right now,” he added, “even though it’s hard to raise a child without a good job when you’re just young.” He was right. I pointed out that raising children was hard for anybody, but I congratulated him for wanting to make something better of himself. He wants to be an architect. He told me about a home he saw by accident while standing on a roof, working on another house.

“I could see the ‘no trespassing’ signs. My boy said, ‘I don’t care how pretty it is,’ but it was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen.” I pointed out that the ability to see beauty was a good thing, that We needed more young men who wanted to create things.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. His dream, he said, was to design beautiful homes and then hire his friends and family to build them.

“The plan's in place. I just have to get there. I just want my ten acres and a mule,” he said.
“What? Ten acres?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That’s all I want. Ten acres is a lot, you know. That’d be enough for me.”

Lord Jesus, my brother, bless our young brothers and sisters who aren't greedy, no, not even when they dream.

Terms of Endearment (an old essay!!!)

2007-02-07T21:59:00.000-05:00

As I left forty to arrive at forty-one, I reached a few startling revelations. I found myself surrounded by men who slather me with endearments. This I found “startling” in view of another disquieting revelation: the man to whom I was once married for nearly eleven years never called me by an endearment (but, for a while, I was so in love, just the sound of his voice using my name was endearment enough). Later, in yet another revelation, I remembered that even before I was married, I lived in a more or less No-Endearment Zone, along with most of my family members. These revelations have had an extraordinary effect upon me.

Because I’ve been a Christ and Bible devotee for nearly thirty years, I believe in the authority of the word. According to Genesis, God the Father spoke everything into existence. The writer of Proverbs has said that the power of life and death is in the tongue. One St. James said that the tongue is a fire (kindled probably in Hell). St. Paul, arguing that Christians should be just like God (something apostles are always saying), pointed out that we have the power to speak things –good and bad-- into existence, too.

In my then-twisted mind, this meant that, maybe, my former husband never called me “honey,” “sweetheart,” or “dear” --simply because he did not find me endearing. So was it really his fault? The man seldom called me anything except “Regina” (the name by which my family members and many close friends have called me all my life). When the man who used to be my husband was feeling particularly passionate and feisty, he might playfully call me by my first, professional name, but no endearments. He was rarely inclined to compliment my cooking, the way I took care of our children, the way I made love, or my looks (these last of which, admittedly, were rapidly deteriorating at the time), regardless what other people thought or said about me. But, to tell the truth, unless we were in the bedroom, I never endeared him, either.

Except for one horrific drive home during which I realized –because he showed me deliberately—that, far from recognizing my need for validation, he was beginning to take great delight in wounding me, insulting me, and otherwise offending me. In response, during that drive, I remember, I called him “dear,” “honey,” and “darling”—albeit through my teeth. Maybe, on some level, I thought I could speak his dearness into existence. My belief in the power of the word, in turn, also made me think, way down the road, particularly after our
marriage disintegrated, that I had no endearing charms –that, for example, my hair, my singing, my degree, my clothing, my values, even, had little or no worth, simply because the man who used to be my husband had never behaved as though they were.

Further down the road, years after our marriage had disintegrated, when I was condemning the man for his dearth of endearment-use, I realized that my family had never used them, either. My parents called each other (at least, in my hearing) only by their names, “Agnes” and “Lassie.” (Daddy used to call my little sister “daddy’s baby,” and after we grew up, he’d call me “daddy’s big baby,” and he often called his second wife, while employing an ironic tone, “sweetheart,” but that was about it.) Don’t get me wrong, though: the absence of endearments did not, therefore, mean the absence of love (in the very least manifested, I always think, by the prodigious struggles Agnes and Lassie made to shelter, feed and clothe us).

Today’s preachers make a big deal about God’s naming habits. I especially like the story of Abram and Sarai. These people were a century old, apiece, when God started talking about them making a son together. But how, after all the lies (“Naw, man, she’s not my wife. She’s my sister. Take her”) and betrayal (“Yes, Abram, I know I told you to take Hagar, but I blame you for her new stank attitude, you dirty old coot”), would God get this couple back in bed together? He changed their names. And every time he called her “princess” --Sarah-- and she called him “father of many” --Abraham-- the ancient juices started flowing. Before they knew it, they had made laughter –Isaac-- together.

But times change. Feminism seems to frown on sexual interdependence. Women are not supposed to need men any more. Even among us Fundies, it’s all right to want, desire and get one, but women are told never to say, “I need a man.” But a startling thing happened to me on the way to forty-one: men started finding me dear. I think it was my pastor (the man I call my father in Christ, though he’s a couple of years younger than I) who called me “my dear” first. And although he complains loudly that ours is a church full of “dysfunctional” people, when total strangers embrace him at the prayer altar, he embraces them right back: for some reason, he finds everyone dear. (I think he’s trying to be like God.) And the endearment
continued: the older men asked me, “How you doin’, baby?” and complimented my clothes. The younger men, the men my age, called me “boo” and “diva” and complimented my singing. A colleague called me “angel.” A cyber-bud called me “darlin’.”

And then some sisters started calling me “shoog” and “dollbaby,” and “Aunt Regina.” They complimented my hair.

So what I found out about my brothers’ endearments is probably politically incorrect. But it’s true. While those endearments have turned my mind inside out, they have also opened my heart. Some men, for some reason, found me dear. I started to feel dear. And then I saw the cherishable all around me.

I started endearing people myself. Beginning with my cyber friends, who first became honeys, darlin’s, and sweeties, I then showered my daughters, first with nicknames (maybe the first in my family since my little sister started calling me “Gine”) Loolie and Boolie, and finally with “darlin’s” and “sweeties”. My pastor’s oldest son, who sings next me in the choir, who “babied” everybody (because he’s an old soul, like his daddy before him), I now “baby.” The landscaper, with whom I used to correspond and talk, I “sweetied,” as I do my girlfriends now. A man who was once becoming very special to me I found the courage to “honey.” My students are all “dear,” “beloved,” and, in mass e-mails, “my heroes.” (A chosen few are “dollbabies.”) My nephews are “pookies”. My brothers, especially when they get on my last nerve, are “sweetie-pies.” One of my best girlfriends is “bubbala.”

When I began speaking these endearments into existence, I had no idea of “paying it forward.” But I know what Jesus says: give to those who have nothing with which to repay you. Somebody, somewhere, found my brothers dear, and they gave the dearness away to me. And the more I give it away, the more I find preciousness all around me –and within me. So I thank you, Felton, Fletcher, Kevin, and Ron. I’m grateful to you, Raphael, Hollis, and Sam. God bless you, Arlee, Ernesto, Hector, and Leoghann. You did me a world of good.

c.2004 Gine

Brother Jesus, bless those who openly cherish those You have sent to surround them.

Elderberry Mice (A Story!!!)

2007-02-07T20:31:00.000-05:00

Jeri didn’t object to mice on principle. When Mikkee, her twelve-year-old horticulturalist, came in and announced their presence in the garden, Jeri replied, “Well, you live in the country, you gotta expect mice. Long as they don’t come in the house, we’ll get along fine.” To ensure separation of mice and women, Jeri allowed Mikkee and Temple (the nine-year-old) to pick out two kittens from the neighbor cat’s most recent litter. The calico kittens, christened Merlin and Nimue, took to the girls and the house immediately, and Jeri stopped thinking about the mice.

Until they got into the elderberries. Now, it wasn’t that Jeri felt stingy about the berries. They fell out of the trees all the time during the season. Nobody could pick and eat, or pick and can, or pick and ferment all of them. More likely than not, somebody ended up tracking purple into the house. In fact, the first time she saw one of the field mice sitting in her garden, among the marigolds, azaleas and mums, watching her sit on the porch as it daintily munched upon an elderberry, Jeri said aloud, “More power to ya. Enjoy. Tell a friend.” She was kind of dismayed that, at the sound of her voice, the little creature immediately dropped the berry and disappeared, but, later in the week, she was pleased to see another (the same?) mouse, in almost the same place, enjoying another berry.

Their eating wasn’t the problem. Maybe problem wasn’t even the word Jeri used when thinking about it. The issue was the effect of the elderberries on the mice. At first Jeri thought the new color was a trick of the light, or even proof that she needed a new prescription for her glasses. But then one evening, as Mikkee, Temple and Jeri were sitting on the porch enjoying the breezes and the lush smells that came with them, Temple asked, “That mouse ain blue, is it?” Jeri stared, first at Temple and then at the mouse in question; Mikkee, without looking up from The Amazing Maurice, said, “Don’t be stupid.” But when she didn’t hear her momma respond in support, or at all, Mikkee had to look up, too --at Jeri, at Temple’s indication, and finally at the mouse.

“It is blue!” Mikkee conceded, “Or bluish,” ever loath to admit that her sister might be right. This mouse seemed to have changed its coat from velvet gray-brown to velvet gray-blue. And something else occurred to Jeri: during the entire conversation, in which neither Mikkie nor Temple had lowered their voices (because they never did), the mouse simply sat there, training its translucent, delicately-veined ears on them and wiggling its wet-paint nose. It didn’t flee.

“This is an interesting development,” said Jeri.
“We oughta catch it,” said Mikkee, putting down her book, as if she were going to leap upon the creature right then and there.
“Yeah!” said Temple, standing up. Of course, at this point, the blue mouse’s courage? curiosity? dissipated, and it darted into the marigolds.
“Awww!” said the girls, devastated.
“You need to leave it alone anyway,” said Jeri. “Leave all of them alone. How’d you like it if some huge person took you away from your family just because you were brown –so she could study you?”
“Awww,” said the girls.

The Elderberry Phenomenon changed the complexion of everything (not just the mice). Mikkee and Temple started leaving little piles of elderberries all over the garden, hoping to entice little blue creatures out into the open. Blue mice was the first thing Jeri thought of every time she went outside. The second thing she thought of, obviously, was the kittens.

And then the matter was settled. One evening, while the family sat in the living room, watching An American Tale, Merlin appeared with a gift which he laid at Jeri’s feet. It was a blue mouse.
“Awww!” said the girls, devastated.
“I knew this would happen,” said Jeri. “Oh, well. Such is life.” Mikkee, wiping her eyes, gingerly picked up the little creature and put it in one of the plastic containers in which the Szechuan Inn delivered take out. The three of them had a quiet little ceremony in the back yard that evening.

Shortly after the “amen,” Temple gasped. Staring at Merlin and Nimue, who were frolicking among the clover under the moonlight, she whispered, “Those kittens ain blue, are they?”

c.2007 Gine

Dear Jesus, brother, bless the single mothers who have made up their minds to answer the tough questions --as best they can.

Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap

2007-01-31T21:16:00.000-05:00

When I became a dreadlockaphile, that is, even before I started actually wearin locs on my head, I did the research. I wanted to know the mechanics of the things, the philosophy/ies, the history, and, of course, the care and feeding. I got kinda worried when I kept reading about the necessity of keepin stuff out of my locs. Ain nothin s'posed to be in locs except tightly-rolled hair. Unfortunately, the shampoos and hair dressings I'd gotten used to --thick moisturizers and creamy conditioning treatments, for example-- when I was chemically straightening my hair (and even during parts of the Natural period), I was told, would get stuck in the locs and gunk ‘em up.

What I needed was a really good clarifying shampoo, something that would clean my hair, but not dry it out.

After reading this book (I told y'all about that one before, didn’t I?), I was overjoyed: Lonnice told us about Dr. Bronner’s castile soap, and, bless God, I found it at the health-food store up the street from my house!

This was some time after I had started lockin my hair, some time after I had tried a lot of stuff. I was really excited to find Dr. Bronner, but also, after having been disappointed many times by advertised-“natural” stuff, ready to be proven wrong about said excitement. I love these products, but didn’t like this, which was a shame. This was a tad steep. But Dr. Bronner came through, honey (which is a good thing because the first thing I bought was the absolutely gigantic, 32-oz peppermint bottle).

I love it. It’s concentrated, though it doesn’t say that on the bottle (and more on what it does say on the bottle later), so I can actually dilute it by 50% and still have the most wonderful, rich, lathery, clarifying shampoo (and, by the way, shower “gel” and/or bubble bath) I have ever encountered. I work it out to about $6 for 64 oz. of pure liquid gold, and that ain nothin to sneeze at. And it smells heavenly. For me, there is something about showering and shampooing, when I do it right, that puts a whole new face on things outside the bathroom. (And since, like most black people --who usually have really dry hair-- I bathe daily, but shouldn’t shampoo quite as often [unless I want my hair to behave like kindling], I manage to keep the experience fresh with a weekly or bi-weekly Shampoo Ceremony.) And, as I barely mentioned before, I buy the peppermint (cuz Dr. Bronner’s comes in peppermint, eucalyptus and lavender), made with organic oils, whatever they are.

As amazing as the inside of Dr. Bronner’s castile soap bottle (or more amazing) is the label. The late Dr. Bronner, I understand, was a “Soapmaker, Master Chemist and Essene Rabbi,” and he used –well, uses, beyond the grave yet—his bottles to propound his beliefs, like “Enjoy only two cosmetics, enough sleep and Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap to clean body-mind-soul-spirit instantly uniting One! All One!” The mantra “All One! All One!” appears over and over on every bottle’s label, nearly every inch of which is covered with various and sundry ideas and principles (144, and numbered, in fact, on the 32-oz. bottle). The “facial pack” instructions end, “Within 9 minutes, you feel fresh, mint-clean. . . .ready to teach the whole Human race the moral ABC of All-One-God-Faith!. . . .ALL ONE! ALL ONE! ALL ONE!”

Dr. Bronner’s label refers to Jesus Christ as “[Einstein’s] Hillel-taught carpenter,” quotes Thomas Paine and incorporates Kipling’s “If”; it invokes Buddha and Mohammed. Good readin while soakin in the tub, huh? But bring a magnifying glass, along with your regular reading glasses: the type in spots is really, really small.

Of course, I noticed the bottle’s eccentricity right away, before I’d bought one. But Lonnice swears by it. As do right many people, apparently. The owner of the health-food store where I bought it replied, “Girl, I don’t know. I don’t even try to read it,” when I asked her, “What in the world??”

“But,” she said, “it’s some good soap!”

Well.

It is.

Brother Jesus, bless those totally committed to leave a legacy of humanity behind them.

Harrowing (but [finally] in a good way)

2007-01-31T21:07:00.000-05:00

I had about decided that one of my best girlfriends was angry at me. She hadn’t called in a long time, and when I called her, she was rather abrupt. And, of course, instead of just askin the woman what was up, I figured it’d be better to give her some space till she could tell me what was wrong.

But, see, we go to the same church, and we’re in the same profession, and our children attend the same middle school . . . .so “space”? What’s that? Tuesday night, after bible study, folk were hugging and talking, and I noticed that she was on one side of the room, and I was way on the other side. She did, too. Gave me a big ol’ exaggerated wave. I crossed the sanctuary, and she gave me a long hug.

“I was just tellin the girls, ‘Miss V’s angry at me about something,’” I confessed.
“No,” she said. “I nearly died.”

She was serious. It’s her job. Or, rather, not the job itself, but the Halls of Higher Learning (HHL) where she has to do her job. Her job she adores, but the Halls? Hell hole. And I use the term advisedly. Where my friend works, demons and their minions hang out. Truly. You know the kind: folk you’ve known for years in one or another capacity, who protest that they have your Very Best Interests at heart, and then, inexplicably, spend most of their waking moments and energy trying to thwart your every attempt at grownuptitude and success. The kind of folk who hang out in the joint described in The Screwtape Letters. Most of us encounter folk like that only in our families, thank the good Lord, but, alas, that is not the case with my friend.

For one thing, my friend was once a student in these Halls. Some of the very people who are attacking her today were once her professors, her mentors, the folk who stroked and nurtured her intellect, guided her in the way she should go, away from that place to even higher places, and then welcomed her with open arms when she returned to give back some of what she had received.

What happened to the love?

In my not-so-humble opinion, it dissipated in the abrasive air of the place. In that place is a miasma of bitterness, greed, ridiculously ratcheted-up ambition, control-freakishness, and, I’m sorry, but pettiness. TPTB at HHL are really, really, really small. Especially inside. Because my friend is extremely large --but only inside-- (yeah, she’s one of those pear-shaped beauties who actually forget to eat), being around petty folk makes her physically ill.

So she’s had to psych herself into goin to work on the regular (and managing it, too, because she comes from a long line of strong women), bitin her tongue, and, incidentally, yeah, leavin by the back way. She’s finding it difficult to be sociable, even after leaving the Halls at the end of the day. She’s finding it difficult to keep her head up. She’s finding it difficult to be optimistic, to keep a sensible perspective on things, even to see herself clearly. She’s dying inside. This week, she actually thought she was gonna have a heart attack. As she told me this, I noticed that she was also trying not to cry about it (that generations of strong women thang). I wanted to cry myself, but I believe in moral support, so I fussed at her about her potassium.

I liken committing one's self to work in Education to the harrowing of Hell: willingly entering the darkness, raising high an unquenchable light; recognizing and nurturing intelligence, pushing learning and wisdom and, let's face it, thinking; lifting up the damned, the alienated and the underprivileged. (You know there are many ways to define that last word, many having nothing to do with money.) The last thing we need is our colleagues underfoot, creating quicksand.

My girl's gonna be all right, though. She’s praying, she's accessing the tall, dark, handsome, and loving resource that her husband has always been, she’s looking into her potassium levels, she's re-committing herself to her students, and, most importantly, of course, she’s secured a nice grant. Because she knows exactly what the problem is. That’s always the beginning of the solution. Even now, the minions of Hell Hole feel her slipping out of their clutches.

Lord Jesus, my brother, please help the people who hate their jobs and believe they have no options.

Closed-Captioned for the Hearing Impaired

2006-12-31T17:23:00.000-05:00

I don’t reckon I’m any more hearing impaired than the normal 45-year-old, but, then, I’ve listened to music At The Appropriate Level for at least thirty years. Yeah, it was gospel music, but it was loud, just the same. As soon as I understood what an equalizer was, I was fiddling with every one under my authority, and, of course, before that, fiddling with the volume, lookin for a particular, personally satisfactory sound.

I remember drivin a new friend around in Virginia, tryin to find MacArthur Mall, and shoving one of my home-made homages to Fred Hammond in the tape deck. Friend was half asleep, having planned to sleep on the way to the mall, but he quarter awoke long enough to say, “See? This is why I don’t like the new gospel: too much emphasis on preaching, and not enough on the music. I don’t hear anything but drums and bass.”

(Passing lightly over the fact that “gospel music” without the Gospel is not gospel music, but something else entirely) I have to point out (though I didn’t then) that the reason Friend heard only “drums and bass” wasn’t necessarily because Fred Hammond loves drums and bass (and, actually, I think he does), but because Friend was riding in Gine’s car, and Gine, though a vocalist by lineage and inclination, likes drumbeats and bass licks (and, we might as well admit, is attracted to drummers and bassists). So, to make a long story even longer by one clause, when it’s just the girls and me in the car or the house, the music’s LOUD.

Which may offer, in a roundabout way, one reason why, when I watch TV or a DVD, I prefer captions.

So I was watching Bishop T. D. Jakes this morning, who, if you’ve never heard of the man, is a really entertaining preacher of the Gospel to listen to, even featured once on the cover of Time, and while reading (and marveling at) his charismatic, seemingly off-the-cuff delivery of a message about the unborn babies Jesus and John the Baptist “meeting” for the first time, I noticed this: “[glossolalia]”.

And, honey, I got tickled.

See, glossolalia is a term (mostly) used by atheists/agnostics/other Protestants to describe “yet more bizarre behavior of Pentecostals.” So I got to giggling at the idea that some captioner, no doubt in the employ of The Potter’s House, working hard to be conscientious (or “manifest excellence,” as we put it) in every aspect of her job, tryin to find a nice, professional, non-churchy term for the occasion when, during the sermon, her pastor would get excited in a particular way*, going to thesaurus.com, and, God bless her, finding glossolalia, thinking, “What a professional-sounding word!” and plugging it in the captioning every chance she got.

Okay. It is just funny to me. Never mind. Ignore this post entirely.

Lord, Jesus, my brother, a blessing, please, upon the folk who work those captions.

*No, honey. Not that way.

Nepphie's Holiday Jazz

2006-12-13T18:36:00.000-05:00

My sister is very good at alerting (and reminding) me about important family functions. This time it was Favorite Nepphie’s Christmas concert, at a local elementary school.

“He’s singing a solo,” she said.
“Oh! Wonderful!”
“Did you hear me? He’s singing, and he can’t sing.” Some parents get stars in their eyes and ears where their children are concerned. But my sister and I, right good singers ourselves, from a short line of right good singers (Mama and her sister would’ve gotten a recording contract if Grandmama hadn’t been xenophobic), are yet not very idealistic about our own children. We see well. We hear well. We hope, but we won’t hope for longer than is reasonable. I held out some more hope for my sister.

“Maybe he’s growin into his voice,” I said.
“Nuh uh. [Auntie’s First Nepphie] could sing at that age,” she said firmly. [Favorite Nepphie] reminds me of Alfalfa when he sings.”
“Alfalfa was characterized as a crooner,” I pointed out.
“Mmmhmmm,” my sister said. She wasn’t goin for it. But I pulled out my calendar (a really cute purple dealie I bought at Barnes and Noble, which I decided, during the last month of the year, to start carryin around) and made a note of the date.
“We’ll be right there,” I said.

And we were. Despite my jacked-up directional skills (and ignoring the fact that my sister had begged us to leave in good time because the auditorium is as small as the elementary school auditoriums everywhere), we got to the school in good time. My sister had saved seats for everybody, including my mother, whom we all knew wasn’t coming.
“You know she doesn’t drive at night,” my brother-in-law said. (Grandmama had Xenophobia by Proxy, and it manifests itself in surprising ways.) It was a small auditorium, the cafeteria, actually, and it looked like every parent, grandparent, auntie, uncle and sibling, each wielding disposable cameras, digitals, and video cams, was in attendance that night. A babble of conversation ended when the chorus filed in and stood on risers; each child was dressed in a white blouse or shirt, of various and sundry fanciness, and black pants or skirt, depending upon the gender. All kinds of fancy do’s and fresh cuts were the order of the day, as well as many versions of the Glassy-Eyed Expression.

Auntie’s Favorite Nepphie caught the eyes of his family members, grinned, and then tried to stop grinning. His chorus teacher signaled to the first child. Every song had a reading, an introduction, and at least one soloist. The first song was “Jingle Jive,” and the children sang a version of the “Christmas” song I hate most. Between “Jingle Jive” and “A Time for Peace” --AFN’s solo-- were six other songs, most written by someone named Jennings. At $40 a “kit,” Jennings makes me consider writing children’s music instead of children’s stories. Doesn’t seem that difficult: the lyrics to “Hannukah, Hannukah” were mostly “Hannukah, Hannukah, Hannukah, Hannukah. . . .” The lyrics to “Oh, Kwanzaa” were “Oh, Kwanzaa, Kwanzaa, Kwanzaa. . . .”

Y’all think I’m kidding.

My sister began to get nervous.

“Is he nervous?” I asked.
“He said he wasn’t,” my sister said. “I hope he’s not hoarse by the time his solo comes up. Look at him. He looks like singing hurts. Pray for him.”
“Already did. He’ll be fine.”

The reading ran the gamut from quite lovely to utilitarian, as did the solos. But the Hannukah song had a dance (with four embarrassed dancers)! “Whacky Old St. Nick” (yes, arr. also by Jennings) had ten boomwhackers! Throughout the program, I wondered (at least once aloud) how the chorus teacher had gotten this kind of more or less enthusiastic participation. Bribes? Threats? This was becoming quite an exhilarating evening. (The video upon which my brother-in-law was immortalizing this milestone would be filled with the sound of his chuckles.) Finally, it was time for “A Time for Peace.” Three children had solos, and Nepphie’s was first. His voice sounded a little strained, but he was right on key and sounded. . . .sweet. It was a sweet song. My sister and I looked at each other when it was over, smiling.
“He did good,” I said.
“Yes!” We turned away and wiped tears.
“Are you crying?” Goobs, on the other side of me, asked incredulously.
“I always do, at these things.” Goobs turned to her cousin and her sister to spread the incredulity. During the last song, "We Wish You a Swinging Holiday," a song in which the entire chorus had to scat, Nepphie, relieved of his burden, away up on the top row and in the middle, danced a little bit. All by himself.

I dare you to go to a fifth-grade Christmas program and come away without the holiday spirit. I dare you.

Jesus, my brother, a blessing, please, upon elementary school teachers.

With Apologies to Those Who Thought I was "the SANE One"

2006-12-06T19:40:00.000-05:00

As I told one of my girlfriends, I don’t know if I’m awakened and/or frightened by the sound of my snoring, which is pretty phenomenal, really, or it’s a twilight-sleep thang, in which I’m dreaming, but actually believe that somebody is speaking to me from the shallow depths of my mattress, but I’ve decided that I have night terrors.

I guess I have to explain the mattress comment. Yes, the voice comes out of it. (And that’s all the explanation you’re gettin, honey, because that’s all I’ve got.) I’ve heard “Now, this is what we’re gonna do” and “Take a look at this” and folk knockin on the bedroom window, which is nothing to what I’ve seen. I’ve seen a man standing idly by the bed (I can describe him in detail even now because, that night, he showed up twice but did absolutely nothing interesting besides that), and various and sundry critters, including a tiny black and white cow (which turned out to be a non-mammalian, plastic gift bag), lyin around on the floor near the bed; even I think it’s hilarious when I’m awake and remembering it, but in the middle of the night, when I’m half(?)-asleep and half(?)-dreaming, it’s unutterably horrifying.

You know, back in the day, folk blamed these kinds of terrors on witches, whose pastime, inexplicably, was ridin half-asleep people in the wee hours of the morning. This I don’t understand, because unless an absolutely amazing capsheaf is forthcoming, I’d reckon ridin different and unwilling people in the wee hours of the morning (instead of sleepin, which is what I’druther) would be just. . . you know. . . awkward. Grown woman pretending a total stranger’s as good as a mechanical bull (or some other mechanism)? Awkward.

And wouldn’t no witch ride me long, either, I might’ve told you before, but sayin it again this time because of my normal reaction to night terrors: I LEAP out of bed. All the way. OUT, and then leap again, this time to my bedroom door, the better to hit the light switch. Only two leaps to the light switch, considering my girth and the distance, is pretty good, you know, and that tells you just how terrified I am at the time. My light switch is a remote, usually perched in its holder on the wall, but on nights when my imagination frightens me, I pull it down and take it to bed with me. Often with the TV remote.

One night, the night I had the really icky nightmare, I just kept the TV on all night long after I woke up. All night long. Nick at Nite, if you have to know, because, in addition to the fluffiness of the fare, the commercials are safe, too. (I’d like to, but cannot describe the near-heart attack I experienced one night when after wakin from a fitful doze, I opened my eyes upon a “Scariest Movies Ever” trailer. All because I thought Cartoon Network'd be safe. And right after, because I’d programmed it to, the TV turned itself off, and the room went black. Fortunately, my trusty light saber was on the floor by the bed at the time. Shudderworthy.)

Which brings me to the fact that my friends tell me my problem is my nightly Vinnie D. fix. (Christine's even gotten into the habit of askin, "What was the last thing you watched last night?") But I’m not givin him up, Trin, till the bios I read about him become a great deal less ambiguous, if you know what I mean. (And, Elayne, darling, this is not a challenge. Leave a sista her dr --fantasies.) I think, however, I need more exercise. Or, to be totally honest, some exercise. What with Thanksgiving break and the After-Thanksgiving Mystery Illness (you do not want to know), I’ve been missing my ellipticals (which took the place of my spinning class when pickin up Juice from band practice cut into that).

All this not sleepin and/or weird dreamin has me wonderin (yet again) about the meaning of dreams. But I still can’t say that the jury’s out on mysticality; I’m only mystical-minded when we talk about religion, thank you very much.

Gotta draw the line somewhere.

Jesus, my brother, You who neither slumber nor sleep, speak peace to the hearts of those of us who cannot rest.

Nightmare!

2006-11-28T09:09:00.000-05:00

Last night, I remembered how well I used to sleep when I put a chenille throw on my pillow like a pillow case. So I wrapped my pillow in the throw and went almost immediately to sleep.

And I dreamed that the girls (who seemed to be my sisters, for some reason) and I went down to Franklin to visit Daddy (who died ten years ago. In the dream, he was just fine, though). We visited for a while, but when I was ready to go home, the girls refused to go with me. They wanted to stay.

I cannot express the frustration I felt when all my threats, whining, and even tears did not change their minds. Even awake, I can feel it. Ouch.

I finally gave up tryin to persuade the girls, but I was goin home. Now, I don't know how we had gotten to Daddy's house in the first place, because then, I had to get a car from Daddy to go back home. Fortunately, in the dream, he had a big ol' car lot, in the field where Grandmama (Daddy's mama) used to plant peanuts. I could have any of the cars; all I had to do was fill out a form.

Thing was, each and every car had a dead body in, and/or on, and/or beside it (like a dealer havin died in the process of tryin to sell it to somebody havin died while about to do a test drive). Dead people. In various stages of decay. I decided, since a car with a dead person in it was my only choice, to pick one where the deceased had been so for quite a while. Dry bones only, please. And that's the only description of the car that I can remember, y'all. Sorry.

After choosin my car, Daddy said, "Give me your form," and I couldn't find it. I knew I'd put it in the Bosom Bank, but when I dug around for it, I couldn't find it. Finally, I felt a papery crunch down lower. I happened to be wearing one of those one-piece, whole-body girdles, and the form'd slipped down into the front of the "panty" area.

I turned away from Daddy, reached into my crotchal space, and pulled out the form. It was covered in a thick, grayish, slimy, disgusting crud, apparently a discharge. Ew. At this point, the form had become one of those disposable plastic and paper thingies hospitals use to help keep beds clean. I didn't want to give it to Daddy, but he wasn't disgusted at all, simply took the thang and sent me on my way.

But I was sick of this dream, so I woke myself up. It was so unsettling, I didn't want to go back to sleep, for fear of continuin the dream. (Would I have to pull that dry skeleton out of my new car myself? Or would I have to drive around with it?) I turned the lights on, turned on the TV, fought sleep until about five-ish this morning, when I had to get up and prod the girls into school-readiness.

Do dreams have meaning? I don't think so, unless it's just the mind tryin to figure out a problem that it couldn't solve durin the day. Lookin at it that way, then, I could see that my dream might have something to do with a spiritual relationship I've been worryin about. Worryin because I've been messin up. A lot. Askin forgiveness, you know, but not sure whether I've really repented. And, therefore, not sure I'm really forgiven.

Something in the dream, if this is its significance, bodes well for my relationship, then. I think.

But still. No chenille on the pillow tonight, honey.

Merry Thanksgiving!

2006-11-24T15:19:00.000-05:00

My best gf, V3, owns a gigantic brandy snifter. Cracks her up every time she looks at it. Yesterday, I told her, “You’re s’posed to put fish or flowers in it.”

“I wanted it for a punch bowl,” she said. And that’s how she uses it. Yesterday, she pureed a huge bag of frozen fruit and poured the puree and nearly two liters of ginger ale into the snifter. This was our T’giving punch. V3 and her mama cooked nearly everything for our dinner –and from scratch: the turkey, the pork roast with cranberries, the macaroni and cheese, the giblet gravy, the dressing, the rolls, the sweet-potato pies, and the carrot cake. And, in case you’re not sure, when I say from scratch, I mean the “Good God, aren’t these the biggest sweet potatoes you’ve ever seen?” from scratch, not the “Are these all the canned yams we bought?” from scratch. And V3’s husband, S, wasn’t satisfied with merely makin bread; he had to serve his braided and painted with an egg glaze. He also fried the second turkey in peanut oil. (This one was treacherous: havin been born and raised in NO, S felt he had to inject copious amounts of liquefied heat into the turkey, the kind of insidious temperature that doesn’t start to bite till you’ve said, “Hey! This is good,” and walked out of the kitchen, away from water, bread and anything else that might save your tongue, until it was too late. If you like, you may picture S, 6’6”, dark and resembling a taller, more athletic Luther Vandross, grinning with evil anticipation as he fried this turkey. You won’t be far off.) Goobs and I, V3’s daughter, supervised by V3’s mama, made a yellow cake –again from scratch.

My own mama was serving dinner to the homeless at her church, from about 8 am till 1 pm, when she felt her 74-year-old legs and feet couldn’t take anymore, and then she went home and rested.

I contributed the collard greens to V3’s dinner. V3 bought the greens, the prettiest I’d ever seen, and we two picked the hard stems off, while V3 searched vigilantly for worms. Nobody likes worms in their collards, but V3 is right neurotic about it. We found one and a half tiny, brand-new-leaf-green worms during the picking, and one worm after the first washing. Now, if it’d been my kitchen, there’d been no “first” washing, just one washing, but during my (I have to say meticulous, leaf by leaf) washing, V3 kept lookin over my shoulder into the sink full of water, her huge, long-lashed brown eyes worriedly searching for hiding worms, her thick brows bent in a frown of suspicion.

“See any more worms in there? They hide, you know. Sneaky things.”
“No,” I said lightly and amusedly. (I can’t help but think that if it was anybody else but V3, I’d’v been annoyed. Huh.) Unfortunately, after that wash, I was stupid enough to show V3 another tiny worm, pressed on the lip of the sink stopper. This is when the washing became “the first washing.”

So “If I find another worm, I’m just gonna eat it and not tell you,” I said, as my fingers became ever more pale and wrinkled. V3’s mama fell out laughing. V3’s mama was a tad dubious about my collards recipe (salt, pepper, butter, and steam: “No Southerner worth his salt puts butter on greens!” she said), but she was pleasantly surprised, to my relief.

V3 had invited her parents (who brought three of their grandchildren, twin girls and their brother), my sister, her husband and their sons, a colleague and her mother, a couple from our church, my daughters and me. Over the phone, a neighbor* whose oven had to be borrowed, said, “This isn’t like you! You don’t like a lotta people!” Kind of embarrassed Neighbor to find out that she was talking to V3’s mother (who loves a lotta people), and not V3. This characterization, however, is not strictly accurate: V3, like me, hates spending a lotta time with total strangers (and she has to, on the regular, because she’s a published author, and her husband’s a well-known artist). But most of these folk she knew and loved, so . . . .Anyway, the colleague and her mother couldn’t make dinner. Colleague’s mother lives in NC, which was havin horrible Weather on T’giving. Colleague decided to stay home, too. And the church couple didn’t show up, either. We don’t know what happened with them.

So we arranged the tables in the kitchen and the dining room to V3’s satisfaction (which is sayin somethin: she’s not The Artist of the family but she has an artist’s eye, certainly), got the food on the tables, and V3 put the punch at the very end of the table in the dining room, where the adults would sit. The sixteen of us joined hands and the evil S gave the blessing, thanking the living God for His presence in our lives, for each other, for the food, and then we all said “Amen.” V3 forestalled our children’s bum’s rush for the food with instructions on how to feed:

“You will take one plate from one table in the kitchen. Come in here (the dining room) and get what you want to eat, moving to the right. Take your full plate back to the place where you found it, take one cup from the same place, come back here and get some punch. Go back to the kitchen, sit down and eat. You don’t have to try to get everything you want at one time. You’re welcome to come back for seconds, but remember that you may want dessert, too. ” My sister’s younger son, M, ten, bright eyed and always commentary ready, raised his hand. (My sister, on my left, nudged me: this was gonna be good.)

“Yes?”
“Is the punch alcoholic?” M asked. I think my jaw hit the floor.
But “Yes,” V3 said, without missing a beat. “We’re all gonna get drunk.”

*This is the neighbor who once owned, then fell out of love with, the dog currently named Frody.

Overheard in the Ladies'

2006-11-16T12:47:00.000-05:00

So I'm sittin in a stall (yes, that's what I was doin, like it's any of your bidness), and I hear three giggly younguns come in. One says, "My hair. . . ." Another says, "I got on a girdle and my bra's cuttin me."

"Really? You're wearin a girdle?"

"Yeah, girl. I'm fat."

I flush and come out, makin for one of the sinks. Without lookin around, I say, "NONE of y'all knows what 'fat' is."

Stunned silence.

Then gales and gales of laughter, upon which I made my exit.

"The Heart Wants What it Wants"

2006-11-15T21:08:00.000-05:00

I was talkin one of my former students into reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods, and after I'd told him a little about it to whet his appetite, his eyes brightened and he asked, "Have you seen What Dreams May Come?" I hadn't (though I own the DVD). So we struck a deal: he'd read AG if I watched WDMC. (Former Student swore the parts about Hell wouldn't be really scary.)

Took both of us a while to get on with our several parts of the deal, and he even started reading before I'd found the johnbrown DVD. But I finally watched the thang. While I was tryin to get into it, one of my gfs called to give me an update on her day, and I mentioned that I was tryin to watch this movie. "I hated that stupid movie," she said. Apparently, she and her husband saw it when it first came out, in a movie theatre, with a huge group of friends in Maryland, and (as you've just read) they hated it.

"Well, lemme see what I think about it," I said, and gf rang off. Actually, I thought it was a sweet little movie, though ignorant. Or disingenuous. And when I told gf that, she said, "Well, you have a right to your opinion, but don't expect me to go to hell for you. I remember tellin S [her husband], 'Don't believe the hype. I ain goin to hell for you,'" she laughed.

"Ah, it's a movie about love. All it means is 'If you need me, I'll do everything I can for you. Because I love you.'"

"Yeah, but I ain goin to hell for you."

"Hey, it ain like I believe in the stuff I saw in that movie, but Jesus did it. He went."

"Exactly. He already did it, so why should I have to?"

"Well, it's a story. I like stories." Gf gave me the verbal equivalent of a shrug and we hung up.

Thing is, this is a movie, though full of mythological elements, that is not about religion. It's about the omnipotence of love, a favorite H'wood theme I've had a lot of philosophical trouble with since I became a grownup. Because, in most H'wood stories, this omnipotent love is eros, or even epithumia, not, say, phileo, or even storge (although, of course, I've seen movies about the omnipotence of a mother's love, too).

Years ago, it occurred to me that we love family members, not because they are so sterling of character or because they have done so much for us, but because our culture tells us we should, nay, we must. (That very truth, rat thayah, is the reason so many people are in therapy and/or on medication in America rat nah.

In my opinion.)

And while our culture teaches that we must love our family members (why? because they're our family members), it simultaneously tells us that we have no control over the feelings we have for other, extra-familial people. We're supposed to love Mama, Daddy, Sis and Bruh, but not necessarily our spouses (for example). Them we're allowed to fall in and out of love with. In fact, it's completely understandable, also, to fall in and out of love with other people's spouses. Well, not understandable, exactly, but certainly excusable. Why? Because we have no control over whom we love. Love is something that just happens to us. We fall in love, like it's a hole we couldn't possibly have seen, no matter how well we pay attention when we walk around in this life. Unless it's family, of course, in which case, we make up our minds that we're gonna love each other till death.

Doesn't make sense to me anymore.

I mean, if I can make up my mind, be obedient to to my mama and love my sister and brothers, respect my mama until I die and honor my daddy my whole life long, then don't I have some responsibility about how I feel for other people?

I've begun to think I do. So for the past decade or more, I've been deciding that I would take responsibility for the way I feel about other people. If I say I hate somebody, I say it with the decision that this is how I've made up my mind to feel. Same with love. Or "falling in love." If I become attracted to a man, I do it with the quality decision to be honest, to admit to myself on the regular, that I'm behaving a certain way towards a man deliberately --either acting on that attraction or not acting on it. I'm a grown woman. I have a graduate-school degree. I am more or less sane. I have a say in my own destiny, johnbrownit.

So (for example) when I look back on the beginnings of my relationship with the man I eventually (and unfortunately) married, I deliberately remember talking him into kissing me for the first time. You're right: at the time, I didn't have to talk long or hard. But, honey, as horny and predatory as I want to remember him back then, I was just as much in control of the situation. I made the kiss suggestion. And when he just barely, perfunctorily kissed me in response, I make myself remember that I told him I wanted another. That (not, for example, his quality decision, years later, to work against our marriage, not for it) was the true beginning of the end. Because I knew then, had known for a while, that the man had a girlfriend and a son. What difference does it make that, when I asked him, "Do you love her?" he responded, "No"?

I didn't have to ask, you know.

Some a y'all are gonna say, "Stop bein so hard on yourself." But I'm not, really. I'm just tellin y'all the truth, as I see it. As I look back on our relationship, I see several places where I made decisions for that disaster I used to call "my marriage" in spite of all good advice, my graduate-school-bolstered intuition, and actual facts against every one of those decisions. Because, in the very beginning, I had chosen to love that man. And if things had gone differently, I believe I still would be lovin that man.

I seem to have gotten away from the johnbrown movie. Let's go back. It's about the omnipotence of love, I said; it suggests that if there is a hell, true love will make you leave heaven to rescue the person you love from hell. If you are true soul mates, then you cannot live without each other; you will choose to live in hell if your true soul mate can't leave hell. In Shyamalan's movie The Village, William Hurt's character says, "The world stands in awe of love. It bows down to it." (It is love, after all, that sends Bryce Dallas Howard's character Into The Woods. But it is also a kind of love, after all, that creates the crisis that makes her feel she has to go.)

Well, in movies, it certainly does. In real life, the world actually stands in awe of the mere claim to falling in love. If you love her, it doesn't matter that she's married; you have to follow your heart. You just have to. All the movies and fairy tales and other stories say so. Ain no way around it. You have no control over it. Let yourself off the hook. Who's to say you aren't True Soul Mates? What if he's with the wrong woman? You love who you love. Go for it.

Except, I, for one, ain goin for that particular fairy tale anymore.