Letter to Martin 2023

Following MLK Day: Hope springs eternal…

My dearest Martin,

As I look back and reminisce, I can remember how passionate you were about our people and uniting us all. Today, I am grasping the hope that what is happening is leading us to a positive outcome. I am grasping. I am wishing. I am praying.

 I weep now because it seems like all the you did, and that your dying, were in vain. I weep at the hatred and hostility that is prevalent today. You believed in human nature, that people were innately good, and that we could overcome oppression by appealing to the good in everyone. You could not have known, just as we didn’t realize, that in white supremacist culture, in the white supremacist Christian religion, and even in the white supremacist bible, the only people who matter are white people and the god they worship the only god they know, is money. They serve their god by gaining power, not the power of the one true God, but the power to control and manipulate people and situations to what they believe is their greater good. The most disappointing thing about the world we now live in is something you consistently warned us about, something you described as “Man’s inhumanity to man”, and we see it daily as more and more Black and brown people become disenfranchised, homeless, helpless, unemployed, hungry, and angry. Because of their misguided beliefs, they believe they are doing what is right, and they have no way of knowing they are headed for eternal destruction. We try to warn them, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. Divine providence will indeed catch up to them, so we just work, watch, pray, and wait.

We have, in all the years since you were taken from us, been trying to combat the blatant racism that plagues every day. We have tried to get everyone to work together for the common good, to work toward a better world, while white supremacists have been spreading their hatred and vitriol. “The appalling silence of the good (white) people” has turned into denial and neglecting to correct and redirect their own people. We find ourselves now caught up under the leadership of people who are racist, hateful, and, more than anything else, dumb and ignorant, and even though we try to lead people to the peace and harmony that you spoke of, they have the belief that even the worst white people are far better than the best Black and brown people.

Dear Martin, they have spent years, and loads of money, trying to wipe us out, trying to make our children bend to their wishes by making certain they are distracted, undereducated, rude, hateful and resentful. In many ways they have succeeded, but the white supremacists have ignored the fact that we have passed on the knowledge you reinforced to us, the knowledge that we are KINGS. They accuse us of “grooming” the children, but they think we are ignorant enough to teach our children the attitude of servitude. We have “groomed” our children to understand that, although the odds seem to be against them, they must be prepared with knowledge, wisdom and common sense, and intelligently “best” them in order achieve our rightful position in the world. Because of the rules white supremacists have set, our children have become more educationally prepared than theirs, a condition that makes their children, their young, hate-filled offspring kill their parents, their children… mass shootings of people who have done nothing to deserve their wrath. They have filled their homes with weapons of mass destruction, and they have been diligent in teaching their children, and some of our children, that violence solves all of their problems, that they can conquer the world by spreading terror.

Oh, Martin, we truly believed that you and God sent Barack Obama, forty years later, to lead us to the Promised Land, and we were disappointed that, though he tried his best to help heal the nation, he was thwarted at every turn. He achieved many good things, but he was not able to overcome the prejudice and bias of the country. We knew, Martin, that you sent him, because Barack Obama knew and understood the audacity of our calling… the Audacity of Hope. We now know that his mission was a reconnaissance mission, a fact-finding, deep dive into the madness of their culture. Now, even with the odds against us, we have made strides toward having the leadership we need, to beat them at their own games, to steer us away from the foolish and deadly path we have had to walk for years. Our young leaders know now the boldness it will take for them to truly take the lead, to make our way out of the “pit” that is the way of white supremacists, truly Satan’s minions. Our young leaders are armed with knowledge and fired up, ready to go.   

In the fifty-five years since you were taken from us, we have had dynamic leaders and passive leaders; we have made advances and we have had setbacks; we have had positive results and we have had failures. Above all WE HAVE LEARNED, and WE ARE TEACHING the young ones. Please, Martin, keep inspiring us to greatness, keep encouraging us, keep sending us messages of HOPE AND PEACE AND LOVE. Even though we cannot see you, all these years later, we still feel your presence.    

Thinking randomly today...
not so quietly, nor mostly to myself...
It was my generation that screwed up. The generation before us got a whiff of what they called "upward mobility", and by allowing us to go to "ivy league schools" and experience affirmative action, we "moved on up to the big leagues". Unfortunately, we lost the concept that we had grown on since slavery... that we needed to look out for one another and help one another. Just as slave mothers and fathers looked out for whatever children were left "after the sale", we needed to keep looking out. With the help of "them" demonizing the drug culture and sending young strong Black men to jail, sometimes for NOTHING more than smoking a little weed, we moved into their gated communities, where we were not wanted nor accepted, where our "neighbors" didn't know our names and wouldn't allow us to know theirs because they were teaching HATE in their houses while we were trying to teach love in ours... but we had cut off Grandma and the cousins because they still lived in the "hood" and we had no family reinforcement. We started to worship money, brag about the high-priced, low quality stuff we could buy, and shame folks who couldn't afford what we could. We worked like DOGS to make that money and dared Black men to quit jobs where they were being disrespected by calling them dead-beats, especially when it came to paying astronomically stupid child support set up by government agencies that were already making us pay more and higher taxes than our "neighbors." We allowed child support enforcement to take men to court for "getting behind", taking away their driver's licenses so they couldn't work, telling them that they should take jobs "flipping burgers" to make money to "catch up", knowing they never would be able to. MY GENERATION let that happen, and taught "feminist" women to say they didn't "need a man"... when Black women have never needed to be feminists... We women messed up by taking femininity out of our own 'equation"... when we should have been adding "wifely." We won in the boardrooms but started denying satisfaction in the bedrooms. We men and women, made it necessary to take our children back, when we shouldn't have let them go in the first place. We expected "integrated schools" to help raise our kids, when those we were integrated with had no intention of raising theirs... They care more about their PETS than they care about their kids, and they prove it by opposing gun control while it is THEIR KIDS who keep getting shot up in school shootings. I will stop preaching now... but there is so much more I could say!!

You don't see Black kids shooting up schools... instead you see Black kids getting sent home, suspended from their "Christian schools" (what a laugh) because their hair is deemed "inappropriate" the way it grows out of their heads, and getting reprimanded for saying "yes ma'am"... for HAVING MANNERS!! Black schools don't get shot up because WE only kill people we're mad at... and unfortunately a few who happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. They don't go in inner city schools with guns because they'd get beat down or shot by guns bigger than theirs because our SURVIVAL INSTINCT kicks in and we protect our own. Even weakened as we have been by their influences, shamed and bullied by them because they are jealous of how beautiful we are, and allowing our children to commit suicide because they don't know how beautiful WE are, but they ought to know because every style they have adapted and adopted has been OUR STYLE. We encourage our kids to go to college, even when we know that some don't belong there (there is PRIDE in being a great plumber, electrician, bricklayer... and we OWE THEM RESPECT) and we set them up for failure in a big way. We allow our girls to place more value in fake hair and out of control bodies (big butts and fake boobs) than they place in strong minds, high ideals, and helping to encourage and assist our "boys" in becoming STRONG MEN.

We allow our girls to settle for "sharing men" because that's what white women have been doing all along... they let their men make slave babies right under their noses and didn't say anything about them spending their money to buy the slaves they made babies with. We have young Black people talking smack about being "mixed" and being all confused when we all know we need not be confused...one drop of Black blood makes you BLACK!! We have people using us (have you noticed how many commercials have "mixed" couples... more with the man being white thanks to Prince Harry) because they know we spend money, and more and more, our economic value to them is being reinforced. We know that they might be upset with Black Lives Matter, but they know that it is TRUE... they NEED us. They need us to work, vote, spend, CONTROL... because that fool that they support is so out of control he's gonna get us all killed. It is time for MY GENERATION... the BOOMERS... to do something to fix what we messed up. Although we are thinking it's time to retire and sit back, we have two generations of young people that are playing "catch up" in the COMMON SENSE and GOOD MANNERS arena. We messed up... Now, we need to FIX IT!!

Is Disrespect Okay?

Luke 6:31 (King James Version)

³¹And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.

Thomasine Bolling Hill

                It is a current trend for people to outwardly disrespect others, with no regard for their feelings, or for correct behavior. Biblical teaching and the teaching of former generations precludes this trend, however it is a lack of training that allows this trend to worm its way into current practice. Correct behavior dictates that all people should be respected, simply because they are people, regardless of whether their beliefs, nationalities, and cultures are the same. Under the guise of the premise that one must give respect to receive respect, blatant disrespect is being practiced on a daily basis, and our society excuses, and it seems sometimes, encourages it. Even children in schools, as young as kindergartners, disrespect teachers and administrators on a daily basis and it is allowed because parents allow and even encourage it, calling it the child’s right… “Freedom of speech”. In a society that is so steeped in political correctness, why is it okay to encourage moral and behavioral incorrectness?

                Respect is free, as is common sense, but, unfortunately, everyone does not have it. It is a common sense practice to respect others as one wishes to be respected. The easiest, and most fulfilling, gift that one can give to another human being is respect, regardless of that person’s station in life. All are equal in the sight of the Creator, by whatever name that Creator is referred, and all deserve respect; whether that person is a teacher, a pastor, a janitor, a homeless person on the street, a mentally disadvantaged person, Protestant, Catholic, Moslem, or Jew.

Is disrespect okay?

Never.

Choices

Choices…

To Ronnie in memoriam

November 16, 2015

Before you disappeared down the scary addiction rabbit-hole,

You chose someone to take your place.

You didn’t know, nor did I,

That we did not fit into his model… that you and yours were not good enough for him.

If anything, because you knew he had been down that very same hole… without my even telling you,

You thought he’d understand, and be able to help yours, your son especially,

To navigate the darkness he would encounter,

And steer him clear.

You thought he’d help your daughter to appreciate herself,

And refuse to resort to looking for love in all the wrong places.

You thought he owed you that, at least, for all you were giving up for him.

Instead, his choices took him in a different direction,

And you were so disappointed, because by then, it was too late

The entrance to the rabbit-hole was closed, and you were forced to watch

The only available choice… one of which you did not approve,

One who took only and never gave, who required too much of us, because he thought

He deserved it. A true child of privilege, like you never were. You had heart.

You were not the only one who made bad choices… even if, especially when,

The choices were made out of love.

My Thoughts on Baltimore 2015

Although I have a "militant streak a mile wide", I have never been a promoter of violence. That said, I truly understand the frustration our young people feel, especially our young men. The odds are stacked against them. They are disrespected on every side, and they are angry. I know...

Ever since Roots aired in 1976, I have not been able to comfortably watch the mistreatment of my people in cinema. I get angry. I am angry and I don't try to pretend that I'm not. I realize, however, that anger does not, in and of itself, beget violence. Violence is a useless and unnecessary response to injustice, which is really what the Civil Rights leaders were trying to teach us many years ago. Anyone who has ever been in a fight will tell you that the issues that fight resolved were nothing compared to the inner issues that had to be resolved in our own minds afterward. If I believed that destroying other people's stuff would somehow make me feel better, I would have been tearing up the world, but I know it doesn't happen like that.

Violence from anyone is wrong, and the smallest, youngest children know right from wrong. Babies know when what they get ready to do is wrong, and they look to adults for validation. They wait, while reaching toward the shiny object that is off-limits, for parents (or any adults in the room) to say, "NO!" They reach more than once, and the "NO!" must be continually reinforced. It's a hard job, but the designation PARENT dictates the necessity for doing it. The job description of parent should contain the disclaimer that it is not a popular position... the employees hate you, the hours are long and grueling, the stress is oppressive, and the pay is lousy. However, the rewards, when a parent sees that a responsible, well-adjusted, respectful and respectable adult is the product, are phenomenal.

Last night was not the first night many of those young people had been out in the streets. Many young people go out every night, just waiting for something to happen, for something to "jump off". Sad, and angry at the world, they go out. They should have been at home reading and studying, but they were out. They should have been playing video games or reading to their younger sisters and brothers, but they were out. It was a school night, but they were out. They should have had something constructive to do, but they were out. They should have, at the very least, been peaceful, as the gang members even asked them to do, but they didn't think they had to, because they were out. They were out because they don't fear the police, although their parents do fear the police and the law in general. Their parents know about consequences, and they are not about to have to suffer them. Parents have learned, the hard way, to protect themselves, even at the cost of their children.

Anyone who knows me knows that I tell everybody I was more afraid of my mother than I was of the police. There were many times when I avoided dangerous situations (not always, but that's another conversation) simply because I was afraid of what my mother might say or do, and I respected her, my family, and my own reputation. I knew that, when she said she would kill me, or that she would leave me in jail because she would never have bail money, even if she had a million dollars, I truly believed her. She didn't lie. She had control, even when I was dozens of miles away from her. At 58, after she has been gone from my consciousness for almost 20 years, she STILL has that control. I catch myself looking around sometimes, to see if she is walking up behind me, and watching my language, which can sometimes get out of hand,  just in case she is.

Now, parents are not allowed to strike that kind of fear into their children. From the time children enter school especially, they know that they can depend on the law to protect them from their parents. I was made aware of this when my daughter entered kindergarten. She came home and proudly announced that her teacher had told her that, if I spanked her, she could dial 9-1-1, and the police would come to help her, and so I could never spank her. Because I cared that her teacher, for whom this was her first teaching job, be aware of this misconception, I contacted her and explained that she needed to explain to the children the difference between parents correcting children, in love, and parents beating and abusing children. I also laughed when she said my daughter came to her that morning and asked her when I was supposed to bring her clothes, because, if I couldn't discipline her, she couldn't live with me. She did a superb job, but she would never have known it was an issue if I hadn't bothered to tell her.

It was an issue for more parents than me, but parents just didn't seem to know it. They bought into the negativity of the media coverage of parents getting arrested for disciplining their children and the adoption of new laws that supported jail time for parents, even if their children did something as simple as missing days from school. They bought into the psychological and sociological data that condemns parents for promoting violence, if they discipline their children. They even bought into the hype that teaching children respect was somehow teaching them to be subservient and cowardly. They allowed their children to be rude and disrespectful, out loud, even if it hurt the feelings and damaged the self-respect of others, claiming "freedom of speech". There were parents like myself, who quietly taught our children, especially our boys, to be respectful, watchful, and disciplined in their deportment, but, gradually, we became the exceptions rather than the norm. We allowed that to happen, without really understanding what we were doing. It became an issue of education, or the lack of education and enlightenment, an education which should have come from our homes. Parents began to feel helpless and hopeless, not fully understanding that,  if they didn't discipline their kids, the streets and the justice system would do it for them, and that would be disastrous for all involved.      

One thing I know for sure is that there shouldn't have been any fighting or looting or burning in the  streets. These young people should not have taken the risk of tarnishing the memory of Freddy Gray, or any other African American male who lost his life unjustly. They should have known that none of these young men would have wanted that... no person in his right mind would have wanted it. They should have started studying, thinking, coming up with ways to change this scenario, and obliterate this obscene and obsessive violence against others, especially our own. They should have, like the gang members who were trying to stop them, pledged to form a band of brothers... intent on making things right. 

Black Lives Matter: What has happened to our children?

On this past Monday, in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, students from Virginia Commonwealth University took to the streets and stopped traffic on Broad and Grace Streets during rush hour, peacefully, silently. It was their seventh march since Thanksgiving, and the march that prompted the Richmond Police Department to ask urgently for dialogue to commence. The students who were interviewed cited the differences in the treatment of VCU's white students who "misbehaved", who were not arrested, harassed,  or given any reprimand from the police or the University.  The students were incensed and passionate, but they were peaceful. I was proud of them.

            The appalling issue was that there were no students from Virginia Union University or Virginia State University present. Surely, so I thought, they must be aware that this matter affects them, too. They compete against each other in athletic events, and party together on the weekends, and the press which defames and degrades affects the HBCU students even more than the students at VCU ( a PWI.. predominantly white institution) should spur them to action or at least support. The schools are in close proximity, and because of social media, it would have been fairly easy for them to communicate their intentions and elicit support  from their peers, but that didn't happen. I was disappointed.

             I knew that the current dilemma over funding and administrative inconsistency was prevalent in the minds of many of the VSU students, but I also knew that the funding issue was part of a larger political effort to further disenfranchise Black youths, who, in the eyes of the public, are unruly miscreants who really don't deserve to get assistance in raising themselves above the poverty level.  So, because of my weekly contact with over 75 VSU students, I decided to ask them about Martin Luther King Day, and what it meant to them. I expected them to at least know about the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960's, and to have some idea about the marches and sit-ins which gave them many of the simple freedoms they now enjoy. What I discovered was that they knew fairly nothing about the movement, nor what it actually did for them. It was not presented as a part of their history lessons in school, or in church, nor was it taught in their homes. The only thing they knew about was King's "I Have a Dream" speech, but not even when or why he made it, and that was only presented to them during Black History Month in their schools. I was saddened.

            Because I am an English teacher with a passion for history and a keen interest in African American studies, I launched into a history lesson that went back to slavery and what it meant for and to us, and proceeded through reconstruction and the Jim Crow era, into the Civil Rights Movement  and finally into Black Lives Matter and what prompted the current movement. I made it a multi-media presentation, by utilizing websites to find pictures, videos, and recorded accounts to make it more interesting for them. I did this "on the fly", since I had no idea that morning that there would be a need for the lesson, but I'm always flexible, and I could relate this to the autobiographies they were scheduled to submit as part of their weekly assignment. I asked them what the people who lived through each era could possibly include in their autobiographies. I was reminded that, at the last Black Alumni Weekend, the first I had attended at UVA, I learned that we were pioneers in many ways and we had no idea of our impact on the students who followed us.  Many students were interested, or at least they pretended to be, but some were convinced that I must have been fabricating some current issues. I knew that I had to prove to them the realities of being Black in America. Knowing that the journal reading/response for this week was "Literacy Behind Bars", by Malcolm X, I knew I had opened a door for further instruction, discussion, and learning.  I was inspired.

            In order to refine my presentations, I have access to the thoughts, opinions, and input of some more "seasoned", non-traditional students at the community college, in my African American Literature class. I am depending on their insight and experience to point me in the direction I need to go for the latter half of the semester in my freshman writing classes... the half that deals with critical thinking and writing. To get them started thinking, I planted an idea. I asked them, as they walked through Southpark Mall, and shopped in the only stores that many of  them have access to, to pay attention to the fact that there were security people who follow Black people around as they shop... moving when they move and stopping when they stop. A few of them had already noticed, but many of those who hadn't, vowed to pay attention. The few who had noticed had also noticed that there were white kids, in the mall, who were loud and disruptive, and some who were even observed shoplifting, but no special attention was paid to them. I asked them how they felt about it, and they were quick to recognize that it didn't just happen at that mall, but also in the malls and stores close to their homes. They talked about Black kids getting busted for doing nothing more than staying in one place together for too long, and white kids just being told to "move along". I explained to them that Black Lives Matter is what that is all about... that Black people, especially young Black males, can get busted, beaten, and even killed, and it didn't seem to matter to anyone... until now. I'm on a mission!    https://www.facebook.com/thomasine.b.hill/about

Ordinary Care: I listen far better than I talk...

I just love listening to my elders. They can teach me so much.
I have become the driver to my septuagenarian family matriarch, and she has no idea how she blesses me every time we go somewhere, even if it's just to the doctor's office.
Take yesterday, for instance...
First, let me say that, when you roll with older people, you must be prepared to talk about any and every thing, and switch subjects at the drop of a dime. Also, know that, even the most educated, elegant, and refined of them, when they are passionate about something, their language tends to get a bit "bawdy". And, they READ EVERYTHING!!
She asked, "Have you been reading about Bill Cosby?"
Before I could answer, she said, "He's as old as hell.... Why do you think they waited this long to bring this mess up?" Pointing her finger at no one, she said... "Follow the money!!" She proceeded to talk about entertainers and athletes, and how it is common knowledge that they  have followers, hangers-on who have a need to find their place in the limelight, so they go to a grown man's hotel room, late at night, alone, to have drinks and do "whatever else", and they get paid in the process. "They know what's going on, and they know what's going to happen, but they go anyway..." Her voice trailed off, while she thought for a moment. When she spoke again, she said, "He is about to reinvent himself, to do something big again, and they're trying to stop him!" Satisfied with her assessment of the matter, she stopped, and I pondered what she had said. I thought about her, and how she had, in the course of her 57-year-career, reinvented herself, upgraded her skills, studied to make her skills marketable, and moved up in her field... and even though she swears she has retired, I sense only a transition.
During our comfortable silence, she had been thinking, and suddenly she said, (and I felt like I was coming in on the middle of a conversation she had been having in her head), "and those girls who have come forward at UVA... What were they thinking when they went to fraternity parties alone, drinking?" Since it is both our alma mater, I wanted to hear what she thought. I had had this conversation with my "daughter-in-law" (my son's best friend, who I adopted as my own, married a Wahoo) the night before last, and we both agreed that it is a rule never to go anywhere alone, especially at night, in Charlottesville. That was true, even in the '70's, and she assured me that it was still true when she was there, and she graduated in 2013.
"What are mothers teaching their girls these days?"
I thought back a couple of weeks to my daughter's return to ODU for Homecoming, and realized that, although she left home alone in the middle of the day, her entourage was waiting for her in Norfolk, and they were together the whole time. The same thing goes when she goes to D.C. She even nixed a trip not too long ago because the friend who wanted her to go was an unreliable companion... and she wasn't about to get left by herself!!
So... why didn't these girls know that?
My septuagenarian mentor said, "ORDINARY CARE... that's all they needed to know. Mothers have been failing their own children, boys and girls, by not teaching them ordinary care!"
You heard the lady... Ordinary Care!      

What are we teaching our kids?

Do our kids REALLY know what learning is all about? Sometimes I think we have concentrated so much on testing and regurgitating facts that students miss the point.
The first few days each term are difficult for every teacher. Between trying to get all the registration paperwork done and trying to learn names, it can be really stressful. Once you get to know students' names, it is easy to get them in check, and once you really get to know them, you can, most likely keep them that way. At least that is the way it was in the "olden days", when students respected teachers and discipline problems were few... the days when a call home was all it took to get students in line and ready to work. Those days are gone.
When I retired from the middle school/ junior high scene, I just knew things would be better. It is no different on the college and university level than it is in middle school, although one would think that it would be easier since the students are pretty much grown and have paid to be there. Most students are no problem, but each semester I encounter at least one "challenge". This type of "challenge" is usually female, and, most often, these students are the laziest and least motivated. I don't think I'd mind too much if they were the most prepared... the ones eager to get the show on the road... but they are usually the ones who, although the syllabus is printed out, complete with the course calendar which tells them which days which things need to be done, have the nerve to ask "What are we supposed to do?" Their in-class posture generally alerts you that they are going to be the ones who will offer resistance. The newly-adopted behavior of keeping their cell phones out after you have begun teaching is a quick "tell", and you must actually TELL those students to put their phones away... unless they have a copy of the text downloaded on the phone, which some of them actually do have, but you can tell which ones don't. Then, after they are clearly not listening, they raise their hands and ask..."What are we supposed to do?" The urge to say..."NOTHING" is clearly in my mind, but I struggle not to let that thought come out. I simply turn around, count to ten in my head, turn back around, and go on with the lecture/lesson.
A new development on the college scene is the "challenge" who "claims" that class discussions make them feel scared, apprehensive, or offended, and they will go so far as to try and "report" (or write on evaluation forms) that something must be wrong with the class or the teacher for making them "think or feel some kind of way", instead of just having facts thrown at them. Typically, they just want me to stand up and lecture... they don't want to participate. In order to participate, they have to listen, think, and contribute... and that is way too much to ask of them. If I stand there and lecture, they are free to let their minds drift into the meaningless zone. Some of them have not read, which makes it hard for them to participate. When they contribute, their classmates and I expect them to have something worthwhile to say... and their classmates will call them on "talking stupid", being naive, racist, or simply ill-informed.  I simply monitor the discussion, so that it doesn't get out of hand.
It is then that they are THINKING!
   

Addictive Love

Addictive Love

Part I

July 26, 2013

            Addiction is never a good thing. Whatever you are addicted to becomes your master… and you become a slave. Some addictions are better tolerated, but all can be deadly. As much as I have talked about my addiction to food, and how I had to change my mindset… and “Eat to live instead of live to eat”, I have rarely talked about the other addiction I had to face up close and personal, partly because it wasn’t MY addiction. I have never been much of a drinker. In fact, I am usually the “designated driver”, because one drink is enough for me. I do drink more, at times, but rarely to excess, especially if it is going to make me sick. I hate throwing up more than I hate anything in the world… and that knowledge keeps me in check, and has kept me in check for years. I have never seen much point in doing drugs, not for me or for anyone else. Unfortunately, my partner, my lover, my better half, my husband, was addicted, first to alcohol and then to drugs, and only a few months after his 47^th birthday, that addiction caused the massive stroke that ended his life.

            His life ended long before that… the last seven years of his life were pure hell, and although I could see it, I couldn’t stop it. He had removed me, and our children, from his life, so that we would not be party to his downward spiral. Although it was a noble gesture, I will forever wonder if there was something I could have done. He assured me, many times that there was nothing that I could do. We were friends to the end, and the only fault I could ever find in him was that he made some bad choices and had some really bad breaks.  That never stopped me from loving him or him from loving me. As sad as the situation was, our children survived and thrived because of the support of both parents… and the self-imposed quarantine of one parent who loved them too much to allow them to get involved. Addiction is a bitch.

              When I think of Ronnie Hill, I will always remember him as my “go-to guy” in a lot of ways. Last year, for the first time in my life, I had to purchase a vehicle without Ronnie Hill’s help (I always called him by his first and last names, before and after we were married… it was a term of endearment.) I got help from a friend, who was able to help me navigate through the paperwork and the approach women must use when they visit dealerships, so they won’t get hoodwinked into buying cars based on the vanity mirrors and the number of cup holders, but he could not do what Ronnie Hill could do… make me feel absolutely confident about buying a vehicle. Nobody could do that, except Ronnie Hill. After November 16, 2004, Ronnie Hill would never be able to do that for me, or for anyone else. Ronnie Hill was gone.

            Anyway, ever since I bought that first Pontiac Bonneville, only days after I signed my contract with Dinwiddie County Public Schools, Ronnie Hill was my go-to man when it came to vehicles. I test-drove it to Jim Whelan Exxon, and Ronnie Hill, who was working as a mechanic there, listened to it run, opened the hood and watched the movable parts, closed the hood and told me to buy the car. I did. I trusted him that much. It ran like a dream, and the only reason I traded it, for a much smaller car, was that, during the gas crisis, buying gas for the car became more expensive than the car payments. When I first met him, he had some relationship things going on in his life, things that would play an integral part in the rest of his life, and so did I, but we managed to maneuver our way through those things. After that, he was faced with the comments of his interfering boss, who assured him that a woman with a college degree and a teaching job would have no parts of a man like him. Some years… and a couple of cars later, Ronnie Hill finally got up the nerve to ask me out, and I said I would go out with him. He wasn’t that bashful… just a bit cautious and it didn’t take long to find out why.  

            Ronnie Hill called me every evening for weeks, and we talked and talked. He never talked much when I saw him, but he told me all about himself over the phone. He talked so candidly about himself that I couldn’t help but like and respect him. He wasn’t the kind of person who lied, and when he did, it never worked for him, so most of the time; he chose not to do it. He talked about his previous relationship and about paying child support for his daughter, but not really getting an opportunity to see her, since her mother was against visitation. I loved the way he spoke about loving her, and in my dreams, I thought about how good a father he would be. I was becoming addicted to this man without really even knowing him. I asked him if my weight bothered him, and he told me that, if it had, he wouldn’t have asked me out. Ronnie Hill couldn’t have cared less about how much I weighed. He liked me for me. He talked about not having finished high school, and asked if that bothered me, but he knew it didn’t. He was one of the most intelligent people I had ever met, even though he thought I was joking when I told him that. He had learned what many college graduates had never learned… he knew the language of people. If he felt awkward talking to people, he never let it show.  He was always himself. We were a perfect match.

            When Ronnie Hill asked me out, he informed me that I would have to drive, since his license had been partially suspended, for driving under the influence. He told me about the events in his recent life that had caused him, he said, to drink and drive… drive dangerously at that, and that he was only licensed to drive to work and back home. A mechanic without a license is usually unemployed, so he felt lucky to be allowed to keep his job, and he wasn’t about to get caught driving at any other time, which would cause him to have his license suspended totally. I assured him that it was alright with me. I liked him enough to accept that he had made a mistake, and he was paying for it, and I wasn’t going to punish him. He was attending meetings regularly, trying to deal with his drinking problem. He didn’t, at that time, admit that it was alcoholism, but he did admit that he had been drinking for most of his life… probably started around age ten, and drank even more after his brother, his closest brother and best friend, died while they were swimming, an event that haunted him for the rest of his life. He should have been the one who died, he kept saying. Even his mother thought that, and voiced it in a moment of pain. She didn’t really mean it, but all that registered in his mind was that she had said it. It devastated him.

            The first night we went out, we had a marvelous time. We had dinner and then went out to a local night spot to dance. Ronnie Hill couldn’t dance, and he readily admitted it, but we stayed on the dance floor because I liked to dance. The more I joked him about the way he danced, the more he danced, just to make me laugh. Although we had a couple of drinks, we didn’t drink much. As time went on, and we dated more, Ronnie Hill drank more. He could handle his liquor, I supposed it was because he had been drinking for so long and had gotten into the habit of drinking a lot. When we were around his family, I noticed that all of them drank more than I was used to seeing people drink. Then again, although my mother was not a drinker, she had family members who drank, but the party always ended before anybody got too drunk. That was the only time there was alcohol in my house. I never spent much time around my father’s family, but I knew they drank, too. My daddy drank almost every Friday night, but he never brought it home, except inside him, and he came home singing and went to sleep. He had relaxed himself.

            It is funny (unusual) how we, as a society, accept the consumption of alcohol, and even alcoholics, without condemning the drug (and alcohol is indeed a drug) or the user. It is only when alcoholism disrupts the family that we even take notice. If an alcoholic works every day, pays the bills, takes care of home, doesn’t fight or shoot or cut people or beat people up… we allow them to be alcoholics, and we don’t rush them off to treatment facilities. Calm alcoholics seldom get any treatment at all. We simply let them be. It is only when alcoholics become abusive that we even think twice about their illness. In the African American family, the male (father figure) is almost expected to take a few drinks, knowing the abuse he has to suffer, the demeaning treatment, the debasement he suffers, usually at the hands of white employers and colleagues.  Alcohol is his release. It is quite different when women drink… there is more of a stigma attached, but still there is no real condemnation. If she drinks too much, she is described as being sick, and it is acceptable for her to get help. Still alcohol is acceptable. Alcohol is a social drug, and there are even parents who give it to their kids without thinking about any later effects. Everybody drinks.

             

Heritage Poem

Heritage poem… This is MY country!

2 February 2013 

I know not when my ancestors came to this country

No dates, no names, no family crests…

I do know that they came at different times, and some

            were already here when the first settlers landed on Plymouth Rock.

How do I know?

I know by looking at the pictures from as far back as forever

Rainbow-black family… some light enough to pass for white, some as black as the night

            with every shade in between.

And so I know

            in the squalid, nasty bellies of slave ships, came some

            aboard the bright and promising ships from the shores of Europe some came

            and they were welcomed and cared for

            by my nature-worshipping, resourceful ancestors whose country this already was.

So, when I hear selfish, self-centered white Americans

            speak of “taking THEIR COUNTRY back”… I want to scream:

THIS IS MY COUNTRY! AMERICA IS MY COUNTRY, TOO!!

            and perhaps because of my heritage, it is more MY COUNTRY than yours!

My ancestors’ blood built this…

            My ancestors planted and harvested the crops that made this country the richest nation in the world.

            My ancestors taught your ill-prepared and ill-advised ancestors how to survive in harsh and changing climates, and how to protect themselves from famine and disease

            My ancestors, the descendents of kings and queens, allowed your devious, thieving ancestors to rob them of their rich and colorful heritage, to take away their freedom, their language, their stories, their pride… to help your ancestors build a country they stole from my indigenous ancestral line.

            My ancestors bought into an American dream that was never theirs, because every time they got close to claiming it, to claiming even their forty acres and a mule, the dream was snatched out of their reach by your deceptive ancestors… claiming to take their country back.

            My ancestors believed that your lying ancestors were going to deliver on a promise for which my ancestors marched and sang and fought and died…were fired upon with guns and fire hoses, and had the dogs set upon them… not knowing then that the assistance they were promised required the surrendering of what little pride was salvaged to pass on and be instilled in the children and grandchildren… required that the young ones buy into the slave mentality, money hungry, label grabbing, bling-oriented culture that had been created as a trap, just in case, by some chance, our children had managed to salvage some Black pride, Black love of self, Black is BEAUTIFUL-ness.   

America created me… by giving me all the heritages that are mine. I inherited America.

America allowed the beating and raping, polluting my ethnicity then blaming me for the chestnut color of my skin, the milky/ creamy color of my sisters and brothers, the boot-black shine of my cousins, aunts and uncles

America

            created my crinkly, nappy hair, my thick lips, my high cheekbones

            created my naturally curly hair, European nose, translucent skin tones

America created me and all the things that I am… and am not.

America seeks to deprive me of some things they can never take from me:

            my indomitable spirit, my natural beauty, my deep rich voices, my bodies’ rhythmic sensual sway, my ability to look young and be energetic until the day I die… even if I live a hundred years.

THIS IS MY COUNTRY. AMERICA IS MY COUNTRY, TOO!!

            and because of my heritage, it IS more my country than it is yours.

I AM AMERICA.

It's Amazing... He said WHAT?

It never ceases to amaze me, the things people say and do, and think it's okay.
People seem to have "selective memory" when it comes to the things they say to one another.
Didn't it hurt, when we were kids, to have other kids say nasty things to us? We learned to laugh it off or come up with hurtful retorts, but the pain was still there. Why, then, do we, as adults, feel that we can say and do anything to others. As blunt as I can be, I learned long ago that I can think anything I want, but if it isn't nice, or at least helpful, I should keep it to myself... and even though it isn't easy sometimes, I try never to comment on what people LOOK LIKE! It is secretly gratifying, and has been for the last 20 years (since I started on my weight-loss journey), to see many of the people who felt the need to tell me, every day when I was a fat teen, that I was fat; get and stay, bigger than I am.
Speaking of the things people say...
People are coming down on Vice Pres Joe Biden for saying that the middle class has been buried for that last four years. They say he is dumb for saying it. I say, he is right, but he and the POTUS are not to blame for it. The Republican "party of NO", is responsible. The blocking of every helpful policy, just to make sure the President fails, has been responsible. If people, republicans, tea-partiers, and all those who trash the President, don't see it, then they are really blind and perhaps a bit "slow". (I was about to say "they rode the short bus to school", but that is mean and truly an affront to those people who actually did ride the short bus, who know what the POTUS has been doing... working for health care for them and for you and me.) 
Sticks and stones can hurt no worse than the stuff that comes out of our mouths! Let's remember that the next time we get ready to say something that isn't nice. It might just come back to bite you in the butt!!

Spouses-R-Us: The Ronnie-Test

Spouses-R-Us: The Ronnie-Test

Lord knows I’m not a relationship expert, and I never professed to be one, but I am never reluctant to comment on what I see as relationship issues—even my own. Most of my good friends are male, for many reasons, not the least of which is that men hate drama, almost as much as I do. Fortunately, however, they have taken the role as “brothers” rather than “boyfriends”. Brothers I can deal with; boyfriends, not so much. I have a few friends who are women, the best ones are just as drama-free as I am, and the others turn to me to dispel the drama from their lives. They bring it, and I dismiss it for them, sometimes by just telling them the truth about themselves, and sometimes by just telling them they’re being stupid. Either way works.

The fantastic thing about Ronnie was that he was a bit of both, a friend/brother and a lover, and there was a reason for it. Ronnie had four, all-the-way-live sisters, who taught him a lot about women, and he learned the lessons well. My male friends who seem to have the most relationship problems are the men who only have brothers. Men, especially men who are raised in a family of boys, seem to have very little workable knowledge about women. Part of it is the fact that the only woman they really know about is their mother (or perhaps aunts and grandmothers), and they either idolize her or they fear her. At the very least, they learn to dismiss her. Face it, women. Our sons, who have no sisters to keep it real, are “clueless” when they leave us and enter the realm of dating and marriage. They have not had the opportunity to watch their sisters, who are groomed from birth to become wives and maybe even mothers, grow into adulthood. Barbie dolls really do have a function, and that is why they are still selling today. They teach women how to be “girly”, a concept that men have no clue about.

 “Girly” girls exhibit the image of womanhood that men really love to see in a woman. There is this mystical “feminine-ness” about them that men just adore. I learned about this (and it’s one of those things that trips me out) when, as a child, my mother only let me stay outside and climb trees and play kickball for a while, then I had to come in, get clean and pretty, and sit down and play dolls until my dad came home. Don’t get me wrong… my dad, who had five sisters, wasn’t fooled because he indulged my love of doing not-so-girlie things by teaching me how to change the oil, and to change tires, and to cut grass. Even though he taught me those things, he still expected me to look and act “girly” at times, when it was necessary. My grandmother taught me other things about being girly, but those things relate more to my sensual views (the say no to “no nookie” things) than to simple, feminine behavior. Consequently, I learned to turn the girly behavior on and off, a sort of code-switching, which sometimes drives men crazy, and certainly makes relationships difficult. My “inner diva” likes to do this, just for the fun of it.

The woman who gets out of bed in the morning is rarely the woman that men are allowed to see, and for some, the transformation is phenomenal. It involves not only a “look”, but also an attitude… and men are shocked to death when they finally meet the real woman. Most of the time, they don’t find out until after the wedding, though. A guy friend of mine once told me that he was a groomsman at the wedding of a friend of his. The bride, during the courtship was always all over the guy. At the wedding, however, as the groom leaned in for the kiss, the bride hissed through clenched teeth, “Don’t you dare smear my lipstick!” The relationship went downhill from there. That marriage didn’t last long enough to pay off the wedding expenses.

If Ronnie were alive today, he would tell you that the most valuable lesson he learned from his sisters was how to “shop” for the woman he wanted in his life. Because his sisters were so alike, but so different, the “shopping technique” he learned was to delve as deeply behind appearances as he could before he actually made a choice. It is a technique that everyone needs to learn, but that women, in the past, learned to master more quickly. Because we played with Barbie dolls, and Barbie had a beautiful house, a nice car, great clothes, and a good-looking man (Ken for some… my Barbie had G. I. Joe but that’s another story) that was what we were taught to look for and work toward. Too many women, however, chose “pretty Ricky” over “rugged Ronnie”, and ended up with “a mess”. Many others chose “bad-boy Bobby”, who turned out to be a handsome, selfish abuser, leaving a lot of Barbie’s bitter and abusive to other guys who try to enter their lives, guys who still believe in “girly” girls. Unfortunately, guys who believe they only want girly girls cannot be told, or even shown, that what they really want is a real woman… the kind of woman they tend to fear; a woman who is always real. She is not bitter, conniving, or selfish, and she is also not rugged or domineering. She’s just not “girly”.

Ronnie and I used to always shop together for toys for the kids, and it was a riot! If you’ve ever shopped at Toy-R-Us, you know that they have a lot of great looking toys, toys that look like they’d be fun to play with. The packaging says that these toys do lots of things, have all the bells and whistles, and are the ultimate in providing an excellent play experience for the buyer. Because he knew how to shop, Ronnie would insist that we be allowed to play with the toys before we bought them. More often than not, the toys that had the most “hype” were the ones which did not stand up to actually being tested. They would break, right there in the aisle of the store. If a toy stood up to the Ronnie-test, we bought it. If it didn’t, we left it in the store. The packaging never fooled him.

Women had to pass the Ronnie-test, too. When Ronnie and I started dating, I had already been teaching for a few years, and he had only seen me “dressed up”, looking girly. Not long into the relationship, Ronnie had a car to work on that required two extra hands to get the job done. I volunteered to help, and showed up to work in old jeans and a sweat shirt. It was chilly outside, and he tried to insist that I stay inside, where it was warm. I went outside because that was where he was. I don’t remember exactly what the job was, but I do know it involved the wheels, and that the bearings had to be greased before he could put them in. You should have seen the look on his face when I dug my newly-manicured nails into that can of grease and proceeded to work the grease through the bearings like a professional. He was thrilled. I could go from Barbie to grease monkey effortlessly. I had passed the Ronnie-test. We got married a few months later.     

Too many guys who want girly girls, and girls who want “Ken”, have been shopping for spouses at Wives-R-Us and Husbands-R-Us… maybe it’s a unisex store called Spouses-R-Us. As Pete, who says he has no idea why some of the guys he knows married the women they married, who has been married for thirty-two years, and who also has a bunch of real sisters (five), says, “Body by Fisher, Brains by Mattel (I say Fisher-Price)”.  Not all of them married for looks, but their reasoning still seems a little faulty (they married for the wrong reasons). The real reason for getting married is always to have someone who cares about you, who always has your back, who loves you, who is always concerned about what you need and willing to be there whenever and wherever you need them to be, and who always has time for you, even if they’re not Barbie or Ken…. That’s who Pat (Pete’s wife) is.
If you don’t have that, it’s time to go shopping.    

The “No-Nookie” Clause

The “No-Nookie” Clause

I guess my friends know I like to listen, even though I hate to give advice, so they come to me or call my phone, just so I can listen to their problems. The reason I don’t give advice is that I was raised a bit differently from many of them. My friends, especially the women, but I have found the men, too, were taught some relationship rules that I didn’t get. Like…I learned, in college, that many of the young women were there to find a suitable husband, so, their education was secondary. I went to college to get my degree, and to learn how to make it on my own, after I left mama’s house. That husband thing went right over my head. That’s another whole story. Sometimes I still feel dumb about the things I don’t know, but I don’t mind. Sometimes it trips me out!

A few years ago (quite a few now) when I was teaching in the county, a few of my colleagues and I were sitting around, just talking. There were all women in this group, and they were talking about the things they expected their husbands to do. One said, “My husband cooks every day, and he knows he’d better have my dinner on the table soon after I get home.” I knew her husband worked the night shift, so I thought it was really good of him to make sure she had a hot meal ready when she got home. Ronnie was working noon to nine, so he wasn’t even at home when I picked the kids up and got home. I’d feed the kids leftovers from Ronnie’s lunch, play with them and, later, check homework, and make sure they took their baths. By the time he got home, he only had time to play with them a little while, and then it was time for them to go to bed. During that time, I was cooking the meal that would be Ronnie’s lunch the next day, the full course meal that he ate just before he left for work. He never ate heavily at night, which was why he stayed so slim, but he could put away some food during the day. Many times, the kids would be almost asleep by the time he got home, but that was okay. It just gave him more “mommy time!”

The next woman said, “My husband cleans the house. After I spend all evening dealing with the kids, I’m not even trying to clean anything. He knows it had better be clean.” I thought about how hard it was to keep the house clean, and how sometimes I just gave up and settled for “straightened up” because I never really got to “clean”. Besides, teaching had made me a “pack rat”. I collected school supplies and all kinds of things to use in my classroom, and I hated to throw anything away that I might be able to use with my students later. I tried to picture Ronnie trying to clean all that mess up, but really couldn’t go beyond just getting him to put his clothes in the hamper to be washed. The only thing that amounted to cleaning that Ronnie did was clean out the refrigerator at the end of each week, eating all the leftovers and washing all the dishes from that cleaning. Ronnie often left work to go to work, driving a wrecker truck on-call overnight. I never expected him to clean.

The third woman talked about her husband’s love of clothes and how he meticulously did the family laundry. She said that her husband didn’t like the way she ironed, said that he did it better and faster, and told her that she could fold the clothes if she wanted to, but most of the time he didn’t let her do that either. She told him that he’d better do the laundry if it had to be perfect. She didn’t feel like it was making an unusual demand on him, even though he worked a full time job, just like she did. I sort of chuckled at the thought of having Ronnie do laundry. He did collect his uniforms, tie them in a ball, and take them to work to get them laundered. I had to hang any clothes that were not his work clothes, in the order he needed to wear them, to make sure they weren’t mix-matched. It was sort of a “garanimals” arrangement for grown-ups. I shuddered to think of the mixture of fabrics and colors the laundry would contain with Ronnie doing it.

The thing that interested me about these declarations was that, if those husbands didn’t do what they were expected to do, these wives would withhold sex. No work, no nookie. I was appalled. When did they add a “no nookie” clause to the marriage agreement? I surely didn’t know about that. In fact, I thought that was the real purpose of marriage, to be able to have sinless, legal nookie as often as you liked. At least, that was my reason for getting married. I loved Ronnie and wanted to spend be with him, but marriage wasn’t really a necessary thing, except that we both wanted to be legal… to get legal nookie. They looked at me like I was from outer space when I told them that “no nookie” would be a deal breaker for me. I told them that I got married for the free, sinless, unrestricted nookie. I asked them why they thought I put the children to bed so early, and made sure they were good and sleepy… so Ronnie and I could have some adult recreation time. Ronnie never objected, and neither did I. Now, it appears that a “nookie” clause must be added, and if it’s not, the couple agrees that there doesn’t have to be any nookie involved. Sometimes, I think the men don’t know it until after the marriage, but that is also another story.   

As I have gotten older, and have talked to married people, I see that there must be an unwritten “no nookie” clause in the marriage agreement. So many people my age and older, some who are working on second and third marriages, have amended the marriage agreement to almost totally cut out the nookie. Well, I guess that works for them, but I’m not buying into it. As I have contemplated re-marriage, I know that the “no nookie” clause will not be a part of my marriage contract. In fact, my last relationship was long distance, and it mostly worked, but two trips, months apart, that yielded no nookie, because he had gained weight and wasn’t interested in sex, made me reconsider our proposed marriage. His last trip to see me yielded no nookie either… so it was the end for me. Little did I know he was already seeing someone else, whom he eventually married, but I know that, other than some good phone sex, she ain’t getting the nookie either. Too bad for her… but glad it isn’t me.

When I talked to my “brother” (from another mother) and sister-in-law, I asked them to share the secret of their thirty-two (as of today) year, “happily having fun with each other” marriage. They both said that they like each other, they get a kick out of hanging out together, they always have something to talk about, but most of all… the nookie is still great. I rest my case.    

Heroes, Sheroes, and Other Myths:

Why Superman Ain’t So Super when Disaster Strikes

I always liked the term “sheroes” because, although my daddy was a good, honest, hard-working man, he was never my hero. Since he died when I was only thirteen, before I could ever refer to him as a friend, he was the closest thing he could ever be to me, without being a hero. He was my daddy, and as Pearl Cleage said, he looked at me “as if I had hung the moon”. I would love to say he was my hero, and to many people, he was a hero. He rescued people who were stranded, fixed their cars, towed them out of snow, sleet, and whatever else they shouldn’t have been out at all times of night in, and he was a hero to them. To me, he was just daddy, and that was enough.
My real “shero” was my Granny. As I sit in my dark house on my birthday, September 22nd , without lights for the fourth day in the wake of hurricane Isabel, I realize just why Granny was my shero. Heroes are men who rescue women from imminent danger when they are the “damsel in distress”. Although I have spent much of my life in distress, there has been no hero to rescue me. I have, by the grace of God, managed to get by with a lot of prayer and some basic “mother-wit”, and that is where my shero enters the picture.
My Granny died when I was only 11 years old, but she taught me so much in the first 11 years of my life that I have used all these other years, that she could be no less than a shero. People ask me all the time how my sister and I know so much and know how to do so much—how we had the courage to have gastric bypass surgery and succeed at it when most people fail—how we know so much about computers and technology when most people in our generation are still wary of it—even how we, last Sunday, managed to make it to church looking stunning in our church hats, yet saying that neither of us had electricity in our homes. Our reply—we still had hot and cold running water and a Coleman stove to make coffee—“Aren’t we blessed! ?”
The truth is that, from my birth to my grandmother’s death, she taught me things that I could use for a lifetime. She used to say “how to make do”. We didn’t have any power to use the blow dryers or electric curlers, so we washed our hair and slicked it down, dug out some hats, and then found clothes to match the hats we found. Granny would have loved that. I could almost hear her cheering and saying, “You go girls, show them how to work it!”
Granny had a second grade education, having been born in 1884, in rural South Carolina and not allowed to go to school, but she read well and taught her nine surviving children (including my mother who was the youngest) and later my sister and me, how to read. She knew that knowledge was power, and she stressed that every day that she lived. Even now, if I want to know how to do something, I read about it, or get someone knowledgeable to teach me. When it’s beyond me, as my financial problems frequently seem to be, I find an expert. One thing about being knowledgeable that most people overlook is knowing when some problem is too great for you to solve all by yourself. Granny taught me that, too.
Using my sports walkman and some mini-speakers I took off an old, cheap, broken radio, I have listened to accounts of the devastation of Isabel. A lack of electrical power is no real reason to “trip”. Houses, cars, and other possessions were demolished, but very few lives were lost. Then, in news reports, I hear people whining about things that I consider trivial—like places running out of ice. I know that people can’t afford to lose their food, but I also know that there are ways to deal with all of that. The food from my refrigerator and freezer are in separate coolers, and I’m not sure I can find ice for either of them. If I don’t, there will be another freezer cleaner barbecue big dinner. Friday night it was fried chicken, fixed in a cast iron skillet on the barbecue grill. Saturday night it was all manner of meat that could be grilled—chicken, fish, and even turkey wings and drumsticks, and, of course, corn on the cob, grill style. Sunday, we got rid of the ground meat—ground beef, ground pork, ground turkey—in spaghetti sauce, and thawed bread, brushed with melting butter and sprinkled with garlic powder. The next sacrifice will be a pork shoulder roast, once frozen solid, that wouldn’t fit into either cooler. Then, I turn on the battery-powered radio, and I hear people complaining about the lack of power, with the power company apologizing profusely about the inconvenience.
Now, there is no love lost between myself and the power company, who, I imagine, would not have to apologize so much if they didn’t overcharge tremendously for electricity during good times (then give imaginary rebates that consumers never see because they just apply them to the next tremendously outrageous bill). However, on Wednesday, when Isabel was imminent (there’s that descriptive “hero” word again), bucket trucks and power lineman convoys were already being strategically placed so they could rush in and become heroes. It didn’t work because God had other plans about the devastation and damage, and so they have had to apologize for not being able to be heroes.
Sorry guys, but it’s sheroes week, and we are working it. All the beautiful, decorative candles that we used to try to create a romantic mood, are now being used as night lights to make our babies feel safe and secure in electrical darkness. All that food we stockpiled is making family get-togethers a daily occurrence, possibly to the dismay of the men-folks. Who wants all those people around all the time…She does. Our kids are continuing their studies, since there has been no school, by lamplight. It was good enough for our mothers and grandmothers, wasn’t it? A gallon of spring water means cleanliness and good hygiene for a whole family. “Birdbaths” my Granny used to call them. Family interaction, with or without pulling the dusty board games out of the closet or off the shelves, has replaced PS2, Gamecube, and Xbox, and the constantly droning, as-close-as-you-can-get-without-being-X-rated videos that has become a way of life for most of us.
Thanks, anyway heroes. We’re sorry that Superman has a bit more than even he can handle right now. We applaud your efforts. However, while you are working, we “sheroes” will continue to keep things together for ourselves and for our families.

It's Saturday morning... again

Saturday mornings have special memories for me...

When I was a little girl, we played "church" on Saturday mornings, in preparation for Sunday. My mother played for several "country" churches, in addition to working with the choir at our church. We stayed in church ALL DAY on Sundays, so you would have thought that we wouldn't even want to think about church on Saturdays, but we did. My sister played the piano and directed the choir (me) in singing the hymns. I never learned to play the piano, even though I took lessons for years (but that's another story), so Anna could have that job! Mama and Granny listened, but they weren't really a part of the service. Daddy escaped by going to work! We "sang with fervor" all the hymns that Anna could play, and even those that she couldn't! We sang loud... and on summer Saturdays, we had all the windows and doors open!! (We didn't have air conditioning) People who were catching the city bus (the bus stop was right in front of my house) would turn and look, shake their heads, and probably hope the bus would hurry up!

After we had sung so many hymns that even Mama, who never tired of hearing and making music, said "enough", it was my turn to give my contribution to the service. I was the preacher, and I had always prepared a sermon. If course, the Bible stories that we were used to hearing had to have my own special "spin"... after all, I am a writer, and it is my duty to compose new and different works of literature, but I'm not really sure it wasn't complete blasphemy, the way I told the stories. "Suffer the children to come unto me" became... "and Jesus said, 'bring them children on in here'"! And they woke the children up, who were sleeping because that's what they did in church when they got bored, listening to the grown people talking, and not being able to say anything because their parents would whip them if they made noise in church. They brought them in and looked them over. And then Jesus said, the grown people would have to be like children if they wanted to get to heaven... and then he laughed, and the children laughed, because He knew the grown folks couldn't be like children. They were just too old!! And then Jesus told them to go on home and try to act like children!!

When my sermon was over, we sang a hymn and "went out and got some olives"! (We didn't have a clue about what The Mount of Olives was... but we had Mt. Olive pickles and olives in the refrigerator!)LOL

Those were great days and great times!

Have a great day, people!!

Approaching "Double Nickels"

In September, I will celebrate my fifty-fifth birthday... and I am really excited!! I am so happy to have lived as long as I have, and have no aches and pains to speak of, that I wake up every morning thanking God for such a wonderful life. Sure, I'd love to have more money, and I'd like to publish at least one book, but all-in-all, it has been pretty good!

Why, then, do I have some former classmates who list their birthdates as the year of our graduation from high school/ entrance into college ( as undergraduates)? Why do they lie? Why not just leave the year off? I guess they think that, because they dye their hair to appear on screen (the two that I'm thinking of are both in areas of entertainment) people won't think that they're as old as they really are. Is there really something wrong with being over fifty? I figure that, if Oprah doesn't mind admitting her age, I don't mind admitting mine!

This past week, I began the process of stepping up my workout schedule by adding at least one, maybe two more days... Water aerobics on Monday and Wednesday (adding Monday instead of just on Wednesday), Zuumba on Tuesday, and I may even add a low-impact workout on Thursday. I'm not really interested in losing weight; it just makes me feel good! There are lots of people in my YMCA classes that are older than I am, and none of them believe me when I tell them my age (they think I'm younger!) I do not dye my hair because I don't want it to thin or fall out, and, besides, someone once told me that even if I did, I couldn't de-age my face and neck! My face and neck look pretty good... but I'm still not coloring my hair! Gray is a color!

Anyway, I just love being fifty-four, and I will love fifty-five even more! My children are both in their twenties, and they're intelligent (maybe even a little "nerdy"), independent thinking, and getting to be self-reliant! I feel very blessed! Will I ever deny my age? Don't count on it!

Saturday mornings... random thoughts

My thoughts this morning center on Saturday mornings of the past...

I guess connecting with a cousin I haven't seen in a long time has caused me to reminisce... since he and my daddy shared the same name (along with his daddy and granddaddy). Family has always meant a lot to me, although I lost contact with many of my father's relatives after he died. I have thought about them a lot... I don't know as much about them as I know about my mother's family for two reasons... my mother's family was around all the time and they were big "talkers". My father's family was less talkative, but then, they were much younger (my mother was the baby of her family and my father was one of the oldest in his family) and more active. They were always on the move. Now that we've all settled down a bit, we have time to reconnect.

Saturday mornings in our house were full of chores and music. I know that sounds like a strange combination, but anyone who knows us knows that my family is a musical family. When we cleaned house on Saturday mornings, we cleaned to music. My mother introduced us to all the great musicians, by way of our "high-fidelity record player" while we polished the hardwood floors, scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom floors until they were so clean "you could eat off them", and did the laundry.

The laundry was my favorite thing because it was my job to hang out the clothes (we had a washer, but no dryer... nobody did in those days). As soon as they came out of the washer, I headed out to the clothesline; winter, spring, summer, or fall. I insisted on hanging all the clothes by myself, because I loved being at the clothesline, outdoors in the fresh air, alone. The smell of fresh laundry is still my favorite smell in the world! I would sing to myself as I hung the clothes, and sometimes I must have gotten pretty loud, because people on the street would pause and listen. As shy as I was then, I would quiet down and they'd move on.

Saturday was, and still is, my favorite day of the week, and that should be no surprise because I was born on a Saturday. My life has been ruled by the saying: "Saturday's child has to work for a living"...

I guess I need to turn on the stereo and get to work...

Spring Break

It's Spring Break, and I know if it was a work week, it would be Monday... but, of course, the days are flying by! I know... I'm retired, so what does it matter? It seems as if I have more to do than ever... since I retired! I've been working two part-time jobs, both teaching jobs, and they have really been tiring, but not stressful. Thank God for a good rep, I guess! This guy I know, who has tried to get teaching jobs, just can't seem to get one. He has taught before, but I guess his reputation as a teacher isn't as good as he thinks it is!
I am taking the spring quarter off from one of my jobs... the one I probably shouldn't have taken anyway... and I was seriously considering not going back for the summer quarter. I was planning on resting... that is, until the dean of the community college where I work recommended me for a summer program at Harvard. I don't know if I'll get the chance to do it, there are many applicants, but we'll see! I am so blessed!!
Anyway, spring break has been a chance to do some "spring cleaning"... not of my house, though it does need it (especially my closet)... but of the negatives in my life that need to be gone. Sometimes we "old folks" hold on to things we just ought to let go, and people we need to just bid a fond farewell to because they weigh us down. I guess we hold on because so many of the people we once knew have passed away, and we feel like we ought to hold on to those that are left. Let me tell you, that's not a good thing to do! People who treat you like trash are themselves trash, and need to be thrown away!
Spring cleaning time is a time to put out the "trash" and breathe in some fresh air!!