Waiting on The World to Change

When I was in the fourth grade my mom took me out of the school I was going to in my neighborhood and put me in a school about forty-five minutes across town. She said I came home one day bragging about the 100% I had gotten on a test and when she looked it over, she realized it was full of errors. She kept it up for a few weeks and realized it wasn't a mistake... the teachers weren't grading my papers properly. So, she put me in one of the top private schools in a wealthy neighborhood where I was one of three brown faces in the whole school (the other two were twins).

I was nervous because up until that point I had gone to predominately black schools but my mom put me at ease assuring me that I always made friends quickly and everyone liked me. She even reminded me that my best friend from summer camp, Sarah, was white... and we weren't all that different. Sarah even got me a black Ken doll for my birthday - which in the eighties, was impossible to find. And - as a concluding reassurance my mom sang me a song. It went:

Make new friends

But keep the old ones

One is Silver and The Other's Gold.

So, with my stylish new hairdo and cute new uniform I started my new school.

And she was right...

... at first.

I made fast friends with two girls in the class, Leslie and Chrissy. I remember my first slumber party at Chrissy's house. We danced to Material Girls by Madonna and painted each other's nails. I loveddd Madonna but in my neighborhood, it was all about hip hop and my brother's wouldn't have me blasting a Madonna record. But hey - I taught them the running man, I taught them about my curls and cornrows and it was great. I stayed me - but became a better me, because I didn't have to just be one side of me - I could listen to my Madonna and my Salt N Pepper.

Anyway, Leslie's mom used to pick a number of us kids up from school in the afternoon. She would take most of the kids home but because I didn't live in the area, she would take me back to her house and my mom would come get me after work. It was a great set up because Leslie and I were great friends. One afternoon, I was running to get in her mom's van and I squeezed into the last set in the front row. I must have pushed passed another one of my classmates, Gaby, on her way to the van because when she got in the car she was maadddd. She wanted the seat and I took it.

Not one to be intimidated I said, "What's your problem?"

"You're in my seat." She snorted.

"It doesn't have your name on it." I responded.

She stared at me for a minute. Keep in my mind - back then, "not having your name on it" was a pretty awesome comeback.

I could see her struggling to say something.

If I close my eyes, I can still see her face as she struggled to say something.

And then she said...

"BLACK."

She spat it - like it was a dirty word. Like I needed to be reminded that I was different, less than, a transplant into her world.

I was quiet. No one ever said that to me before. No one ever told me I was black and made me feel bad about it.

A few months later, I had a crush on a boy named Glen, who was also my classmate. I wrote him a note.

"Do you like me? Yes or No."

He called me a Nigger.

I never cried so hard in my life.

I will always remember my kind music teacher who stood with me in the cubby closet until I stopped crying.

Funny thing was, I found out years later that Glen was biracial.

I bounced back but I was guarded. For awhile, I was scared to feel too accepted, sing my Madonna songs too loudly, for fear that everyone was just waiting... waiting for me to cross that invisible line and be reminded.

For the most part, I can look back on my days at that school fondly. I still keep in touch with many of my friends and afterwards, I continued to go to schools were I was in the vast minority and that was okay... I knew who I was... but I was guarded still - just a little.

I am an adult now and I move in many circles. I love everything that defines me and being a women of color is just the icing on the cake for me. I feel like so many things define me that I will never fill anyone's stereotype. I want Isaiah to feel the same way. I am 6'1, my husband is 6'4... Isaiah will be a tall, beautiful black man. For many - he will be scary, built for athletics... etc. I want him to always know that I love him completely - he can be whoever he wants and I will love him - he can be a clog dancing gay man and that's okay - I just expect him to be Isaiah.

Last week, I read about John Mayer's statements in Playboy and it brought me back.. If you haven't heard about it and don't feel like reading it - aside from some insane things about his ex girlfriends, he said that the fact that he has a large black audience gives him an "hood pass" or a "nigger pass." He also compared his penis to a white supremacist because he doesn't date black women. Sadly, I have always loved John Mayer's music. The first time I heard Your Body Is A Wonderland, I was in college and I heard him sing it acoustic on The Late Show. I thought... wowowow. I felt all tingly and I wanted to be in love. Apparently, I wasn't actually relating to the music when I bought his album... I was handing him a Nigger Pass.

I remembered that little girl again.
The one shocked in the carpool van.
Crying in the cubby closet.

I was just reminded that no matter how dynamic of a human being I am, no matter how complex and multi-faceted... for some people, my skin color will be all they see. Believe it or not, I forgot for a second - so caught it in my own class-ism... elitism... my belief that somewhere along the line, I crossed the line and no one cared anymore.

Hey - Barack Obama is President.

I thought everyone saw me.

It made me sad last week... because it hasn't changed and although I can handle it, I am painfully aware that I will have to feel the reality all over again through my children's eyes and I am pretty sure that will hurt worse.

_____

*Picture above is of the sun setting somewhere on I-95 (my second home).

Two Terrible

Today was one of those days.
Those Mommy days.
You know, the days that should come with a warning label, perfect for one of those eighties after school specials about the dangers of unplanned teen pregnancy...
I totally brought it on myself too.
This afternoon I was chatting with a co-worker. I caught her eyeing my belly. I knew she wanted to ask but wasn't quite sure...
"I'm four months pregnant." I chimed in. Relieved, she congratulated me.
She, a mom to a 20 year old, began unintentionally reminiscing about her own pregnancy days - how big she got, how hairy she got, how tired she was, how many stretch marks she got... you know, the whisperings of the secret pregnant women society.
"How old is your son?" she asked.
"Two." I said.
"Uh oh." She shook her head and laughed to herself. "That's going to be tough."
"No..." I began - and with a vision of my sweet little chubby cheek boy in my head, I uttered the stupidest, most annoying, delusional three words a mom can ever utter aloud:
"He is perfect."

Her head snapped back in disbelief, "Really?" she questioned. "My son was HORR-ible when he was two." She said as if remembering a vivid nightmare.
As soon as those words bounced off my lips, I want to suck them back in and swallow them whole.
I sounded like one of those moms.
You know the ones. Those moms whose kids are taking SAT prep classes at five, who interview for pre-school gestationally...
Needless to say, the conversation didn't last much longer.
And boy did the universe hit back...

Isaiah threw BACK to BACK tantrums from the moment I picked him up from daycare to the moment the spouse carried him kicking and screaming to bed.

"Isaiah, it's time to go home."
And despite running to me with open arms, he yelled "I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME."
"Isaiah, its time to get in the car."
"NO MORE CAR"
"Isaiah, no taking off your seat belt."
"ALL DONE SEATBELT."
"Isaiah, it's time to to eat ravioli and spinach"
"I WANT CHICKEN NUGGETS."
"Isaiah, do you have to use the potty?"
"NNNNNNNNNNOOOOO, POTTY."
"Isaiah, it's time to turn off the TV."
"WANT TO WATCH YO GABBA GABBA."
"Isaiah, it's time to sleep."
"WANT TO READ GOOD NIGHT MOON."
"Isaiah, first sleep and then we can wake up and have a wonderful day tomorrow."
"NO WANT TO GO TO SLEEPPPPPPP."

This last one bounced off the walls as the spouse carried Isaiah into his room screaming his head off - which he continued to do for TWENTY MINUTE increments (in between which we took turns trying to negotiate him into sleep - a side effect of having lawyers for parents) until he FINALLY fell asleep an hour past his bedtime. I swear I heard him screaming a faint, "NOOOOOOOO... " as his eyes finally closed.

So, I get it. No kid is perfect. Isaiah is funny, adorable, smart and damn near close. But, he is also just as Two-Terrible as the two-iest of any two year old. I know.

You think if I find my co-worker tomorrow and orally retract my earlier statement it will put things back in balance?

The Great Escape

So after the thirty three inches and the threat of twenty more...

After stalking the birds outside my window (and wondering why they didn't have the good sense to make use of those wings and fly south)...

After taking pictures of Isaiah doing cute things with his favorite monkey...

and letting him pose his monkey for pictures...

and of him just generally looking cute with his monkey...

and finally after the last daddy and son, football/race car moment I could take...

We fled.

With the promise of a snow-less city and clear skies...

But the snow followed us...

And we ended up right where we started.

Snowpacalypse 2010

Our area was hit with approximately 30 inches of snow since yesterday afternoon! We are hitting all sort of records and the weathermen seem so excited they might wet themselves. This afternoon, one such weatherman said, all we need is 11 more inches this winter to beat the all time record for snowfall and "Hopefully" we can make it.

Really, weatherman?!?

Hubby came in from trying to dig out our cars out a few hours ago and just shook his head unable to find the words. I just made him some tea and wrapped him a big blanket (big baby lol). I feel so blessed that my family is inside, warm, fed and with power! For some reason, I have been really concerned about the fed part. I made enough rice and peas today I can feed my whole neighborhood. Now I am baking a strawberry cake. What is it about being trapped inside that makes me want to feed and be fed?

The snow has also made for some absolutely beautiful (though sometimes scary) scenery. I took these pictures from the balcony and deck of our fourth floor apartment. We have been house hunting since January and I must say - I am sort of happy we haven't found anything yet! I don't know how we would deal with having to shovel anything more the spaces around our cars.

Snow, Snow, Go Away, Don't Come Again Another Day.

Dressed in blue athletic shorts and her husbands t-shirt, Wife stares down at her slowly cooking meatballs feeling pleased. Heeding the warnings of the impending winter storm, her, her husband and her son had all made it home safely before the heavy snowfall. She inhaled, breathing in the spicy air, swaying slightly to the soft music playing on her computer.
The sweet sound of her son's bare feet smacking against the kitchen tile brought a new rhythm to the room. He handed her a banana he had gotten from the dining room table.
"Open, please" He said politely. She opened it and handed it back, bending down and kissing his golden cheeks.
"Good asking." She praised. Feeling proud, he sauntered out of the kitchen holding the banana firmly in his small hands.
Wife smiled as she opened her white cabinets and pulled out a package of uncooked spaghetti. The water had begun to boil and the steam teased her pours as she broke her spaghetti in half and placed it in the boiling water.
Good food, good family, Wife thought. This was the way to start a snowed in weekend.
Just then her son's startling cry jolted her from her thoughts.
He probably fell, Wife thought. Just as she was about to leave the kitchen to tend to him, she heard Husband soothing his cries.
"It's okay..." Husband said softly. "You're okay."
But Husband's efforts went unnoticed as Son's cry grew angrier and angrier.
Concerned, Wife exited the spicy and steamed filled kitchen to see Husband holding Son as the tears flowed freely from his face.
"What happened?" Wife asked concerned, stroking her son's curly hair.
"I ate his banana." Husband said.
Surprised, Wife turned to her husband.
"Why?" She asked.
"He was taking too long to eat it." Husband said with an embarrassed smirk.
"Ugh." Wife grunted as she returned to the kitchen to tend to the meatballs and get her son another banana.

It's going to be a lonnngg weekend.

Have some Marley. (Happy Birthday, Mr. Marley!)

They Come... and They Go

My brother in 1970 something waiting for My Mom to pick him up from daycare.

I am the new kid on the grief block.

I have been to plenty of funerals, but thankfully, for 28 years, I have never loved the person that I came to say Goodbye to.

That is, until I said Goodbye to my big brother.
Now here I am navigating completely uncharted waters, without so much as a map to guide me.

This week has been tough.

I have been drowning in memories of my brother - from the significant to insignificant. I am remembering him teasing me with my husband for something silly I said, to him moving me into my very first apartment in DC, to him wheeling me up to NICU to see my son after my c-section. I am wishing I could relive my memories and look at him a little harder - study the way his face moved when we talked or the hear his voice just one more time. It was as familiar as my own... saying hello on the other side of the phone, yelling at me to stay away from his stuff when he was a teenager, and telling me of how tough of a cop he was, kicking criminal butt on NYC's mean streets.

If only, but...

...it's quiet now.

Grief has a still.

In the beginning, there was so much to do.

Make sure my mother ate. Call friends and family. Pick out his casket with my dad and brother. Plan the funeral program. Pick out and dry clean his suit for the wake.

And the people.

On the phone, at the door, in the mail... It was like an assembly line of mourners.

They came in categories:

The feeders: who brought shit loads of food as if your grief had a big mouth and insatiable appetite. Bagels and donuts seemed to be the food of choice.

The believers: the Christians, the Jews and the spiritual, all armed with bibles and literature, reminding you of God's infinite plan and that if you can just see passed your pain, you will see, that it is all better now and that you, too, will also die one day, and your loved one will be waiting.

The cryers: the people who yelled, cried, and balled their eyes out.

"How could this happen?" they yelled.

"He was soo young," they cried.

These are the people I ended up comforting

"Its okay," I reminded them.

"We will all see each other again," I said convincingly. (I am a believer too).

And finally, the mutes: These are the people that sit around and say nothing. They eat the food the feeders brought. Watch TV in your living room. And say nothing more than, "I'll probably stop by again in a day or two" when they leave.

They were EVERYWHERE.

Then they stopped.

You know that feeling you get when you have been spinning?

Isaiah and I sometimes spin.

I lift him up and we dance and twirl and spin until we are so dizzy we collapse onto the floor in giggles.

I feel like I have collapsed but I am not laughing.

I am left with bewilderment and I am dizzy and confused and I am not quite sure what just happened.

This is alot. And admittedly, this is a pretty heavy post. Its funny, I have made new friends since my brother passed but I have also lost a few. I am not sure if it was their shortcomings or my expectations but either way they weren't what I needed during this time and frankly, I don't think they really had desire to be. I have tried not to be too hard on those people. Pre-joining the grief club, I am not sure I would have known how to be a friend to me either.

Not that I am particularly difficult.

In fact, I think most people see me and probably think, I have been handling it all quite well. But when you know someone, there are different expectations. You are supposed to hold them when they cry... until they cry, listen to them rationalize the irrational and be there... no matter how uncomfortable. I am not sure if I could have been that to someone had I not felt this pain.

My new friends seem to have an ease with me. They listen when I talk about my brother, laugh with me when I am not and check out me... without me feeling like I am being observed. I often wonder if as our friendships progress I will hear their stories. I have already heard a few. My son's teacher's father died during 9/11... a woman I spoke to just about everyday finally told me she lost her son when he was six years old... one of my classmates in law school who was a close friend of my husband told me she lost her sister just a few months before I lost my brother. Suddenly, I am in this secret society of grievers and I am hearing stories of their first goodbyes..

So, anyway, I am the new kid on the grief block.

But, as lonely as it is... as hard as it is... I know I am not alone.