The Late Arrival

February's here. It's the shortest month of the year and it's designated to recognize all of black people's contributions to America. Shortest month of the year. All of black people's contributions . Ummmm...How do the historical contributions of an entire people get crammed into 28 days? (or 29 days, since this is a Leap Year) Is it obsolete? Granted, Black History Month came about because of Carter Woodson's desire to see recognition of what black people had done to build the country and build pride in a discriminated people group. But that was way back before voting rights, desegregation and all of the other civil rights stuff.  It made sense. For that time. Given the fact that so many boundaries have been crossed, is a singular month still needed to highlight one group? And what about the other people groups that have a made an historical impact on America? I don't know...maybe we still need it.  At the risk of outing my ignorance a

The television's volume was at Old Man Levels all the while I made dinner, which shouldn't be a big deal; but it is when you live in a small house whose living room is in close proximity to the kitchen.  And when making dinner is the first thing you do upon crossing the threshold after an eight-hour day, it's really a big deal. An even bigger deal when two people are talking to you over the television, which is now screaming, about two different topics. At the same time. While you make dinner. But I pushed through it because I'm a trooper. Who am I kidding; I pushed through the screaming television, the chorus of conversation and even occasional dog barking and got dinner simmering/baking or however I was cooking whatever I was cooking because I had to potty. And I also had to free myself from the man made constraint that we women call a bra. Finally I was freed, unencumbered and in comfy clothes (go ahead & call me George Costanza ). The momentary relief was en

No pontificating. No bloviating Just this from my nine year old daughter. "Mom, I just don't understand kids.  They...they...just follow.  They're like sheep." Group Think. Third grade is about the time when that stuff starts to emerge, so I guess it's normal...but not for Georgia. She's a square peg like her mother, and she finds it frustrating. And very confusing. It relieves me to a certain extent, because I'd rather this kind of "sheepishness" be her confusion -- not her aspiration.

Working for a nonprofit has many upsides, not in the least is knowing that, in some infinitesimal way I'm helping people who are living with hunger, homelessness, domestic violence, substance abuse and a whole host of other challenges.  Everyone is vulnerable to crises like these; and I feel blessed that our family hasn't fallen off the edge.  Knowing that I'm blessed: definitely an upside. But there's a downside to this nonprofit work too. Wallowing daily through the seas of stats about people -- including kids -- going hungry and being homeless and abused and drug-addicted can leave me with a certain darkness that crouches just beneath the surface.  And near enough to the surface to do this: I was talking to someone who works with homeless people the other night. In mid-conversation, I found myself getting glassy-eyed [this was supposed to have been a professional conversation!] The darkness was so close to the surface that all it took for a tear to eke out was t

Next week I’m attending  a seminar on defining racism. Should be interesting because: 1) I’ve been living in the skin I’m in for nearly 43 years and I’d like to hear about any advancements on the topic; and 2) back in college, some class I took defined racism as movement, advancement or otherwise being prevented and/or restricted based upon race .  Embedded in the definition was that racism took two parties – someone in power (the racist) and someone whose rights were being violated. So according to that definition, racism is an action , not an attitude . One is a disabling trespass while the other is prejudice . I tend to agree. It’s my belief that Martin Luther King and the thousands of civil rights fighters stood up against racism . They stood up against actions that prevented people from the pursuit of happiness – whether that meant voting, drinking from a common bubbler, or not ending up as Strange Fruit on a Poplar tree when all they wanted to do was get from P

To think that providence would take a child from his mother while she prays, is appalling  Who told us we'd be rescued?  What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?  We're asking why this happens to us who have died to live, it's unfair  This is what it means to be held  How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life  And you survive This is an excerpt from the song I listened to on the ride home from work. It’s a pretty song, very melodic and “singable” as my mother would say. But today the lyrics hit me especially hard after yesterday’s news about the drowning of a young man. His dad happens to have a pretty high-profile job in the community and Twitter was buzzing with well-wishes, prayers and condolences for this young man’s family. Rightfully so. I thought about how terrible, how nightmarish this must be for his parents. Then my thoughts turned again to the young man who was a victim of homicide in one of the city’s most i

She was sitting on the sofa this morning, contentedly watching Kick Buttowski as I finished up my primping and scraping together low-cal soup and a piece of fruit for lunch. I hope you've got your coat ready to go. She popped up and raced in her room to get it. Came back and plopped back down again. Well, I hope you've picked up those socks I saw on your bedroom floor. (I knew they were still there from when I told her to pick them up the night before) Rolled eyes. Popped up again. Back in a flash. Plopped back down. So, there aren't any clothes down that should be folded or hung up, right?  (Saw them on her shelf, still there from when I told her to fold/hang them yesterday afternoon) Sighed. Rolled eyes. Popped. Back. Plopped. Sighed again. Then we argued about her not wearing a thin nylon jogging jacket with her frog winter hat and gloves to school. (Seriously, she looked like a psychotic pink amphibian.) It wasn't the coat, the socks and not ev

Sure I've railed about the annual onrush of diet plans and unbelievable celebrity endorsements, but I'm not bitter. Okay, I lied. I'm bitter. Or jealous. Or a combination of the two. Or just plain freaked out because, at this point, the only things that look semi-acceptable on me anymore are stretchy pants and empire waist blouses. The thought of Pajama Jeans has even entered my mind. So like a zillion other people, I've decided that 2012 will be the year that I lose the weight I wanted to lose last year.  And the year before that. On January 2, I dusted off the long-dormant Wii Fit and fired it up. It proceeded to tell me in its own snarky way that it had been a long time since it "saw" me. I cussed at it.  On the inside of course. Then I let it weigh me. Yeah.  That. It's now been seven days of eating like I should, eschewing the stuff that I know is bad, throwing in a little movement for good measure and logging everythi

This month, I’m taking the NaBloPoMo Challenge .   The challenge is to write every day for the month of January in your personal blog, which is a great exercise for me as someone who’s new to personal blogging.   Each day writing prompts are provided, and you post something in your blog. Today’s prompt is: What is the hardest part about a beginning?   As the reigning queen of procrastination, my first inkling is to write a post long enough to rival War and Peace…tomorrow, of course. Today’s local newspaper featured an article about Milwaukee ’s fifth homicide in the first five days of the year . 5 people in 5 days: that’s one family per day suddenly, violently losing someone they love.   Today’s casualty was a sixteen year old boy.   I looked at his picture and my stomach churned, because I thought of how horrific it will be for his family and his friends to see him lifeless on the day of the funeral.   I don’t know whether he had history of problems, trouble at home or school; al

Broken mirrors, black cats, spilled salt and other superstitious don’t faze me.   Broken mirror? Someone’s going to end up with a teeny glass shard stuck in a bunion. Nothing peroxide and tweezers can’t handle.   Black cat? Heeere, kitty, kitty… Spilled salt?   Meh. But then again, there is my left eye. It blinks and functions just like its partner on the right, but sometimes…it twitches . Oooh!   Gives you shivers just thinking about it, doesn’t it? If you felt no shivers, it’s probably because you didn’t grow up with a mother who, despite being a sane and balanced person, would let an eye twitch – a left eye twitch -- rock her world.   For her, the Left Eye Twitch was a portent of The It. The It was sure to cause the Twitchee to become deeply grieved or vexed with frustration in the very near future. How she came to believe it, I’ll never know. Yet here I am at forty-two years old, and when my left eye twitches or tics, I can’t help but think of mom’s goofy superstiti

Have you ever not wanted to flip the calendar page into the new month?  It's a strategy akin to burying your head in the sand, or in the old month, if you will.   That's what I do sometimes. Something in my brain says to leave the old month exposed because it will magically postpone the board meetings, volunteer commitments, teacher conferences, days off school and doctor & dentist visits scribbled in on each of the new month's rapidly approaching days.  It's just some silly psychological game -- just like hitting the snooze button so you feel like you've gained a whole extra nine minutes of sleep. A silly strategy if ever there was one. If Dr. Phil was here, he'd probably ask in that Texas drawl of his "So how's that workin' for ya?" and I'd have to hang my head and tell him that it doesn't work at all.  Ready or not, those days still come -- and most of the time, I'm more Not than I am Ready . So two days before Chri

At thirteen, I wanted it.  My mom said I didn't need it; and in the hindsight that only middle age can give, I realize that she was right.  Nonetheless, I got it; and I abused it for the next twenty nine years. Now, I'm dependent on it.  Addicted.  And slightly resentful of it. I'm talking about make-up . It isn't that I'm applying fake lashes or other appendages, just the basics: foundation, cover-up (oh yes, the cover-up), a little cheek color, lip gloss and Mascara Almighty.  Once upon a time, the transformation process used to be fun.  I reveled in the Before-Plain-Jane to the After-VavavaVoom.  Nowadays, once the foundation's on,  I look in the compact mirror and think "oh, my word...there's so much more that needs to happen here." Over the past few weeks, we've gone to every function where both people of blood-relation and strangers alike have gathered; which of course required me cracking the compact and proceeding toward Vava