My friend E joined a club that is a sad one to join – those who have lost a parent.
Her mother, whom I called “Mrs. C,” passed away on November 18 from an infection following surgery to repair a torn ligament in her knee. She was 63.
Mr. and Mrs. C had been married 40 years and raised five children – two daughters, three sons. E is the oldest. Her sister Em is the youngest. I visited E at her parents’ house yesterday, and she and her siblings were struggling with the loss after Mrs. C’s funeral on November 28.
“It’s like my life has gone topsy turvy,” she said over dinner.
Having lost my mother 11 years ago, I completely understand. I told her that one doesn’t get over the loss of a parent. One learns to live with it.
The difference between my loss and theirs is that, other than her torn knee ligament, Mrs. C was very healthy. Last year she gave a party for her retirement and was joking, laughing, being the perfect hostess. Her favorite sayings included “Did you eat?” “Here, eat this.” She tended to the needs of her family and friends.
Her family, friends, and I had envisioned Mrs. C living into her late 80s or 90s. She was very active. She had owned her own business and spearheaded a fundraising drive to build a church in the province of Ilolio in the Philippines.
After conferring with my siblings, here are some suggestions for E and her family to get through these trying times.
Take it one day at a time.
Lean on each other. Share memories of your mother. Remember, it’s OK to laugh. (Hey, Mrs. C was a funny lady.) Be with family and friends.
If you get angry and need to let it out physically, walk, run, play tennis, swim, hit a punching bag, give a pillow a beatdown. Just let it out.
If you feel depressed, seek counseling. If the counselor prescribes antidepressants, consider taking them. From personal experience, they got me going again.
There are plenty of books on losing a parent. (E, I’m sending you one, so you don’t have to buy one if you don’t have to.)
Take up a cause that was dear to your mother. Since Mrs. C was helping raise money for the church in the village of Passi, take up her cross and carry it. Also, let people know where they can send their contributions in your mother’s memory.
Finally, be available, physically and emotionally, for your father, Mr. C. He lost the love of his life. Do what you can to give him comfort and a sense of purpose.
That’s all I can think of right now. Your mother will always be a part of you. You may channel her mannerisms, her courage, her work ethic, her love of music. And you can take comfort in those things until she sees you again.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
More Facebook Rules for Single People
I just deleted someone I dated from my life for the second time. This time the deletion was via Facebook.
I made the stoopid mistake of befriending someone I used to date via Facebook. In a moment of weakness and loneliness, I sought him out and sent him an e-mail saying "Hi." He, in turn, send me an e-mail saying he wouldn't mind being a Facebook friend. So, I befriended him.
What the $*@! was I thinking?!
I had dated the guy 21 years ago before I joined a journalism program and went to my first journalism job in Bellingham, Wash. Eleven months later when I interviewed for a newspaper job in Northern California, I went to see him and wanted to pick up where we left off. But there was no place to pick up. He uttered those "six words" no lovesick adult wants to hear: "I'm not in love with you."
The plane ride from Sacramento to Seattle and the flight from Seattle to Bellingham were the longest I've ever spent. Even when I flew from Oakland to Miami with a sinus infection, that flight wasn't as long as those.
Anyway, once I signed up for Facebook in February, I became curious about whatever became of the guy. He was indeed on Facebook. It wasn't until a month ago when I sent my e-mail and he responded.
This week he announced on Facebook that he is in a relationship with this trim, petite, beautiful brunette. (He proudly posted the picture. She looked like Sacramento "arm candy.") I mentally kicked myself for befriending him. After 21 years and an involvement that had nothing to do with love on his part, what was the point of being his friend?
I asked a coworker if the guy would know immediately if he'd know that I removed him from my list of friends. When the coworker said, "No," I logged into my Facebook account, found the guy's photo, and clicked the X. When the prompt asked if I was sure I wanted to delete him, I clicked "Proceed." Buh-bye.
I read Facebook's rules and regulations as well as a commonly used list posted by a blogger. I want to add the following: "Unless you are on very good terms with your ex-significant other, do not look him or her up on Facebook. Also, do not befriend him or her on Facebook. It is not worth your dignity."
Writing Diva
I made the stoopid mistake of befriending someone I used to date via Facebook. In a moment of weakness and loneliness, I sought him out and sent him an e-mail saying "Hi." He, in turn, send me an e-mail saying he wouldn't mind being a Facebook friend. So, I befriended him.
What the $*@! was I thinking?!
I had dated the guy 21 years ago before I joined a journalism program and went to my first journalism job in Bellingham, Wash. Eleven months later when I interviewed for a newspaper job in Northern California, I went to see him and wanted to pick up where we left off. But there was no place to pick up. He uttered those "six words" no lovesick adult wants to hear: "I'm not in love with you."
The plane ride from Sacramento to Seattle and the flight from Seattle to Bellingham were the longest I've ever spent. Even when I flew from Oakland to Miami with a sinus infection, that flight wasn't as long as those.
Anyway, once I signed up for Facebook in February, I became curious about whatever became of the guy. He was indeed on Facebook. It wasn't until a month ago when I sent my e-mail and he responded.
This week he announced on Facebook that he is in a relationship with this trim, petite, beautiful brunette. (He proudly posted the picture. She looked like Sacramento "arm candy.") I mentally kicked myself for befriending him. After 21 years and an involvement that had nothing to do with love on his part, what was the point of being his friend?
I asked a coworker if the guy would know immediately if he'd know that I removed him from my list of friends. When the coworker said, "No," I logged into my Facebook account, found the guy's photo, and clicked the X. When the prompt asked if I was sure I wanted to delete him, I clicked "Proceed." Buh-bye.
I read Facebook's rules and regulations as well as a commonly used list posted by a blogger. I want to add the following: "Unless you are on very good terms with your ex-significant other, do not look him or her up on Facebook. Also, do not befriend him or her on Facebook. It is not worth your dignity."
Writing Diva
Monday, October 26, 2009
Halloween as History Lesson
This is my first day back at work after a weeklong vacation. I expected at least 1,500 e-mails when I logged on to my work computer this morning. But a message from my boss made my jaw drop.
Every year my colleagues at the state agency at which I work dress up for Halloween and compete in a chili cookoff. This year my boss suggested that we dress up in 1950s style, a la “Happy Days.” The women would wear poodle skirts and sweaters with pony tails. The men would wear pompadours, duck tails, leather jackets, and jeans.
After closing my mouth, my first thought was, “HELL NO!”
I sent copies of the e-mail to my siblings. My older brother advised that I “just say no.” Indeed, I am doing just that.
My older sister T1 was blunter. She said the ‘50s “were not great for black people.”
That is true. The 1950s were a bleak period of African-American history. Jim Crow was thriving. Emmett Till, a young black teen, was brutally murdered in August 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi. Four months later on December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat at the front of the “colored section” to a white passenger. Her arrest prompted Montgomery, Alabama’s, black community to launch a successful yearlong bus boycott. Montgomery’s buses were desegregated on December 21, 1956.
Although U.S. Supreme Court declared racial desegregation in schools was unconstitutional in the Brown vs. Board of Education, Topeka, Kan., decision in May 1954, the memo must not have reached Arkansas state officials, who tried to block nine high school students from entering Central High School in Little Rock in 1957.
Racial injustices were not limited to the South. In California, there were hundreds of communities that had covenants, conditions, and restrictions (CC&Rs) excluding African-Americans, Jews, Hindus, Eastern Europeans, and Asian-Americans from living in those neighborhoods. I learned San Lorenzo had such CC&Rs when I was a reporter for a San Francisco Bay Area newspaper. Stephen Maganini of The Sacramento Bee wrote a September 12, 2005, article about an Assembly Bill that addressed such racist language in past CC&Rs. Arden Park in North Sacramento had such restrictions.
I realize my boss is trying to raise morale, as my younger sister T2 suggested, by having us all dress up. However, having a Halloween costume theme based on the “Happy Daze” of the 1950s is racially and historically offensive. And I will have no part in it.
My idea was to wear a purple SEIU Local 1000 t-shirt and a pair of distressed (read: holey) jeans and come to work as I am – a disgruntled state worker. Under the circumstances of furloughs and job cuts, I think a disgruntled state worker is scarier than Freddy Krueger or Jason from “Friday the 13th.”
Writing Diva
Every year my colleagues at the state agency at which I work dress up for Halloween and compete in a chili cookoff. This year my boss suggested that we dress up in 1950s style, a la “Happy Days.” The women would wear poodle skirts and sweaters with pony tails. The men would wear pompadours, duck tails, leather jackets, and jeans.
After closing my mouth, my first thought was, “HELL NO!”
I sent copies of the e-mail to my siblings. My older brother advised that I “just say no.” Indeed, I am doing just that.
My older sister T1 was blunter. She said the ‘50s “were not great for black people.”
That is true. The 1950s were a bleak period of African-American history. Jim Crow was thriving. Emmett Till, a young black teen, was brutally murdered in August 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi. Four months later on December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat at the front of the “colored section” to a white passenger. Her arrest prompted Montgomery, Alabama’s, black community to launch a successful yearlong bus boycott. Montgomery’s buses were desegregated on December 21, 1956.
Although U.S. Supreme Court declared racial desegregation in schools was unconstitutional in the Brown vs. Board of Education, Topeka, Kan., decision in May 1954, the memo must not have reached Arkansas state officials, who tried to block nine high school students from entering Central High School in Little Rock in 1957.
Racial injustices were not limited to the South. In California, there were hundreds of communities that had covenants, conditions, and restrictions (CC&Rs) excluding African-Americans, Jews, Hindus, Eastern Europeans, and Asian-Americans from living in those neighborhoods. I learned San Lorenzo had such CC&Rs when I was a reporter for a San Francisco Bay Area newspaper. Stephen Maganini of The Sacramento Bee wrote a September 12, 2005, article about an Assembly Bill that addressed such racist language in past CC&Rs. Arden Park in North Sacramento had such restrictions.
I realize my boss is trying to raise morale, as my younger sister T2 suggested, by having us all dress up. However, having a Halloween costume theme based on the “Happy Daze” of the 1950s is racially and historically offensive. And I will have no part in it.
My idea was to wear a purple SEIU Local 1000 t-shirt and a pair of distressed (read: holey) jeans and come to work as I am – a disgruntled state worker. Under the circumstances of furloughs and job cuts, I think a disgruntled state worker is scarier than Freddy Krueger or Jason from “Friday the 13th.”
Writing Diva
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Official Story
“You can’t handle the truth!”
Jack Nicholson as Col. Nathan Jessep in “A Few Good Men”
At this writing I am supposed to be packing my things for a two-night church women’s retreat at Northstar-at-Tahoe. But I’m not going after all.
The “official story” I gave my prospective roommate and another attendee is that I’m cramping badly from my period. It’s true, I have cramps. But an 800-mg. dose of Motrin would have shot it down easily.
The real story is that I have had problems arranging a ride to the retreat. I have called people, sent e-mails, put out feelers. My 1995 Honda Civic broke down three years ago just three-quarters of a mile short of the Squaw Valley exit. Conchita, as I call my coche, will not make the trip, even with an oil change.
When I opened an e-mail from an attendee who is driving my roommate to the retreat saying that there may not be room for me, I saw one word: hassle. The word “hassle” is the equivalent of waving a red cape in front of a bull. When I travel, I plan carefully to avoid as much hassle as possible. So, upon reading her e-mail, I said to myself, “¡Ya basta!” I’m not scrambling to find a way to Northstar-at-Tahoe. It’s humiliating to have to ask people for help, in this case, a ride. It’s not worth my peace of mind.
Yes, I’m out $92 for the room, which is a bargain at a beautiful resort. But it’s a lesson to me to have all my ducks in a row before going anywhere. I must depend on myself.
But back to the topic at hand. I tell lies of a sort. Yes, I am having cramps from a menstrual period I haven’t had in more than eight months. Again, that is the “official story.” If I choose not to do something, I will tell people I don’t know well “a truth.” But it’s not necessarily the reason why I’m not doing something. That reason is “the truth.”
For example, I am a volunteer with an organization related to my work. I work closely with an insensitive, overbearing, micromanaging woman. I take registrations for the organization’s monthly programs. But I don’t attend the programs. The “official story” is that I have a lot of work to do at the office, which is true. The “real story” is that I can’t stand working with that woman and if I’m left alone with her, I may do something that would have my attorney sister representing me before a judge and jury. The real story would hurt the woman’s feelings and jeopardize my working relationship with the organization’s board members. So, I stick to the official story.
I tell my siblings, youngest nephew, and close friends the “real story.” I feel comfortable with them, and they can handle it, especially if I say it gently. But those outside that circle get the “official story.” I know, it’s not what Jesus would want. But not many people, as Col. Jessep said, can truly handle the truth.
Writing Diva
Jack Nicholson as Col. Nathan Jessep in “A Few Good Men”
At this writing I am supposed to be packing my things for a two-night church women’s retreat at Northstar-at-Tahoe. But I’m not going after all.
The “official story” I gave my prospective roommate and another attendee is that I’m cramping badly from my period. It’s true, I have cramps. But an 800-mg. dose of Motrin would have shot it down easily.
The real story is that I have had problems arranging a ride to the retreat. I have called people, sent e-mails, put out feelers. My 1995 Honda Civic broke down three years ago just three-quarters of a mile short of the Squaw Valley exit. Conchita, as I call my coche, will not make the trip, even with an oil change.
When I opened an e-mail from an attendee who is driving my roommate to the retreat saying that there may not be room for me, I saw one word: hassle. The word “hassle” is the equivalent of waving a red cape in front of a bull. When I travel, I plan carefully to avoid as much hassle as possible. So, upon reading her e-mail, I said to myself, “¡Ya basta!” I’m not scrambling to find a way to Northstar-at-Tahoe. It’s humiliating to have to ask people for help, in this case, a ride. It’s not worth my peace of mind.
Yes, I’m out $92 for the room, which is a bargain at a beautiful resort. But it’s a lesson to me to have all my ducks in a row before going anywhere. I must depend on myself.
But back to the topic at hand. I tell lies of a sort. Yes, I am having cramps from a menstrual period I haven’t had in more than eight months. Again, that is the “official story.” If I choose not to do something, I will tell people I don’t know well “a truth.” But it’s not necessarily the reason why I’m not doing something. That reason is “the truth.”
For example, I am a volunteer with an organization related to my work. I work closely with an insensitive, overbearing, micromanaging woman. I take registrations for the organization’s monthly programs. But I don’t attend the programs. The “official story” is that I have a lot of work to do at the office, which is true. The “real story” is that I can’t stand working with that woman and if I’m left alone with her, I may do something that would have my attorney sister representing me before a judge and jury. The real story would hurt the woman’s feelings and jeopardize my working relationship with the organization’s board members. So, I stick to the official story.
I tell my siblings, youngest nephew, and close friends the “real story.” I feel comfortable with them, and they can handle it, especially if I say it gently. But those outside that circle get the “official story.” I know, it’s not what Jesus would want. But not many people, as Col. Jessep said, can truly handle the truth.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Not Just Another Day
I tried to make it through September 30, 2009, as if it were another workday. I got dressed and fed myself and my cats as usual. I took the commuter bus to work in Sacramento. I had a stack of technical and policy reports to edit. I got my paycheck today and declined to contribute to the state’s United Way campaign because of the furloughs cutting into my pay.
Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.
With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!
The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.
(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)
My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.
I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.
But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”
She understood. Maybe that’s enough.
In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”
Writing Diva
Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.
With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!
The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.
(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)
My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.
I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.
But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”
She understood. Maybe that’s enough.
In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”
Writing Diva
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Singleness Is Not Failure
After I turned "fiddy" earlier this week, I reflected on my life as a single woman and pondered the question if I have failed at life because I never married or had children.
I came close to marriage with one man 18 years ago. Thankfully, it didn't work out. He is a high school teacher, as he was when I dated him, with the same problems today that he had during our brief 10-month relationship.
Sometimes when I attend a singles function, I get asked by dance partners why I never married. It's a difficult question to answer in the length of a song. I made many mistakes in my dating choices, prompted mostly by my lack of self-esteem. My intuition was on target about the men I dated. The problem was, I was so desperate for companionship that I didn't listen.
Once I was in a tempestuous relationship with a man who, I discovered later, had a criminal record. Say it with me now: EEEWWWW!
I won't go into the rest of my dating failures. I find them too embarrassing to put into print. I will say that they were life lessons, for better or for worse.
My sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com), helped put things into perspective. I should enjoy being single, she said. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
I am free to be myself. I can listen to whatever music I choose without having someone comment on how "white"or how "urban" it is. I can sleep in on weekends if I choose. I can have two cats as my companions without someone complaining about allergies or cat hair. (One day, when I get a house with a backyard lawn, I would like a beagle, too.)
Most of all, I can appreciate men quietly without having a boyfriend, fiance, or husband give me a jealous look.
One of the good things about being African-American and my age is that I have my mother's genes. In other words, I really don't look my age. I have some gray hairs, but most of my hair is black. (Thank you, Mom!) I get a mix of wrinkles and pimples. (Maybe they should be called "pinkles"!) And I'm still somewhat slim. (Thanks, T1, for the 5-pound weights! Now I'm getting First Lady Michelle Obama's arms!)
I may find someone. I may not. But I intend to live in the moment and enjoy the good things in life and pursue my dreams with whatever time I have left.
So, I haven't failed "life" by being single. The lessons are ongoing.
Writing Diva
I came close to marriage with one man 18 years ago. Thankfully, it didn't work out. He is a high school teacher, as he was when I dated him, with the same problems today that he had during our brief 10-month relationship.
Sometimes when I attend a singles function, I get asked by dance partners why I never married. It's a difficult question to answer in the length of a song. I made many mistakes in my dating choices, prompted mostly by my lack of self-esteem. My intuition was on target about the men I dated. The problem was, I was so desperate for companionship that I didn't listen.
Once I was in a tempestuous relationship with a man who, I discovered later, had a criminal record. Say it with me now: EEEWWWW!
I won't go into the rest of my dating failures. I find them too embarrassing to put into print. I will say that they were life lessons, for better or for worse.
My sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com), helped put things into perspective. I should enjoy being single, she said. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
I am free to be myself. I can listen to whatever music I choose without having someone comment on how "white"or how "urban" it is. I can sleep in on weekends if I choose. I can have two cats as my companions without someone complaining about allergies or cat hair. (One day, when I get a house with a backyard lawn, I would like a beagle, too.)
Most of all, I can appreciate men quietly without having a boyfriend, fiance, or husband give me a jealous look.
One of the good things about being African-American and my age is that I have my mother's genes. In other words, I really don't look my age. I have some gray hairs, but most of my hair is black. (Thank you, Mom!) I get a mix of wrinkles and pimples. (Maybe they should be called "pinkles"!) And I'm still somewhat slim. (Thanks, T1, for the 5-pound weights! Now I'm getting First Lady Michelle Obama's arms!)
I may find someone. I may not. But I intend to live in the moment and enjoy the good things in life and pursue my dreams with whatever time I have left.
So, I haven't failed "life" by being single. The lessons are ongoing.
Writing Diva
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
50
"I like to kick, stretch, AND kick! I'm 50! Fifty years old!"
Sally O'Malley (as portrayed by Molly Shannon, "Saturday Night Live." See http://www.hulu.com/watch/1504/saturday-night-live-sally-omalley)
I have no problem with sharing my age. Today, my mother Claudia "Deena" Buford Robinson gave birth to me at 11:41 a.m. PDT 50 years ago at Sacramento County Hospital, now UC Davis Medical Center. Besides, my sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com) already gave away my age. Thanks, BWB.
My puzzle is defining what 50 is. I don't feel whatever 50 feels like. I may have a little bit of a camel hump. (No camel toes, though, thank goodness! If you need to know what "camel toes" are, watch the Hulu.com video.) But I walk every day, use weights three times a week, and perform sit-ups on my bed twice a week. I look pretty good for my age.
I read in the April 2008 issue of More magazine about second acts. I had considered a second act of starting my own editing and writing business. But now I'm actually planning it because of the three-day furloughs that Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger imposed on California state workers, myself included. I can't allow the political drama at the state Capitol to affect my plans for the next stage of my life.
As Helen Reddy sang in "I Am Woman," whatever wisdom I gained was born of pain. I don't think I would want to be young again. I didn't know as much and I was too trusting. I'm more discerning in whom I trust and I treasure the life knowledge I've earned.
I'm glad to be starting my 51st year. As my older sister "D" would say, it beats the alternative.
Writing Diva
Sally O'Malley (as portrayed by Molly Shannon, "Saturday Night Live." See http://www.hulu.com/watch/1504/saturday-night-live-sally-omalley)
I have no problem with sharing my age. Today, my mother Claudia "Deena" Buford Robinson gave birth to me at 11:41 a.m. PDT 50 years ago at Sacramento County Hospital, now UC Davis Medical Center. Besides, my sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com) already gave away my age. Thanks, BWB.
My puzzle is defining what 50 is. I don't feel whatever 50 feels like. I may have a little bit of a camel hump. (No camel toes, though, thank goodness! If you need to know what "camel toes" are, watch the Hulu.com video.) But I walk every day, use weights three times a week, and perform sit-ups on my bed twice a week. I look pretty good for my age.
I read in the April 2008 issue of More magazine about second acts. I had considered a second act of starting my own editing and writing business. But now I'm actually planning it because of the three-day furloughs that Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger imposed on California state workers, myself included. I can't allow the political drama at the state Capitol to affect my plans for the next stage of my life.
As Helen Reddy sang in "I Am Woman," whatever wisdom I gained was born of pain. I don't think I would want to be young again. I didn't know as much and I was too trusting. I'm more discerning in whom I trust and I treasure the life knowledge I've earned.
I'm glad to be starting my 51st year. As my older sister "D" would say, it beats the alternative.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Building a Church on “Sacred Ground”?
New Life Church, which has been meeting in a school gym, a school multipurpose room, and a warehouse for its 11-year history, is going forward with plans to build its facility on five acres in rural Vacaville.
But getting the OK wasn’t easy. There was a conflict between Christian and Native American faiths. Each side strongly defended its position and beliefs. And while our church won, it wasn’t pretty.
I was one of about 25 people from New Life who attended the Vacaville City Council meeting Tuesday night to provide silent support of the project, a two-story church with a parking lot and septic system on a parcel bordered by Cherry Glen and Rivera roads just southwest of downtown Vacaville. Local resident Roberto Valdez appealed the Vacaville Planning Commission’s granting of a conditional use permit to build on the site, contending that construction would unearth remains of Native Americans possibly buried there.
Since its inception, New Life had been meeting at Fairfield High School and Laurel Creek Elementary School in Fairfield, where it currently has two services. New Life’s Warehouse, also in Fairfield, hosts two youth-oriented services. In April 2008 church officials announced to the congregation that we purchased five acres off Cherry Glen Road and have an option to buy an adjacent six-acre site. Since then, we’ve worshiped on the site three times, at least to my recollection.
Before we entered the council chamber, Associate Pastor Brad Stanhope told us that the appellant and his supporters were not the enemy.
Before Valdez spoke, Wounded Knee, a Vallejo resident and a member of the Mi-Wuk tribe, pleaded with the city council not to allow the church to build on the land, which once had a restaurant, hotel, and bar until the 1960s.
“How can you build a church on a (Native American) sacred ground?” he asked.
Interim Community Development Director Maureen Carson said the site had been surveyed for any signs of a burial ground. The Native American Heritage Council was contacted, and it concluded that the acreage had no known burial sites. To appease Councilmembers Ron Rowlett and Pauline Clancy, the church agreed to recruit a Native American volunteer to monitor construction in the early stages. While the councilmembers sympathized with Valdez and his supporters, the Planning Commission was thorough in reviewing the conditional use permit application and environmental documents.
After the city council denied the appeal unanimously, some New Life members applauded. I was not happy about that. For one thing, clapping when two sides are passionate about this contentious issue is in poor taste. Second, the appeal pitted two faiths against each other. I found it very humbling.
Frankly, I don’t think Valdez is finished with his fight to keep the land undisturbed. I will feel better once the doors of our new church open for the first time.
Writing Diva
But getting the OK wasn’t easy. There was a conflict between Christian and Native American faiths. Each side strongly defended its position and beliefs. And while our church won, it wasn’t pretty.
I was one of about 25 people from New Life who attended the Vacaville City Council meeting Tuesday night to provide silent support of the project, a two-story church with a parking lot and septic system on a parcel bordered by Cherry Glen and Rivera roads just southwest of downtown Vacaville. Local resident Roberto Valdez appealed the Vacaville Planning Commission’s granting of a conditional use permit to build on the site, contending that construction would unearth remains of Native Americans possibly buried there.
Since its inception, New Life had been meeting at Fairfield High School and Laurel Creek Elementary School in Fairfield, where it currently has two services. New Life’s Warehouse, also in Fairfield, hosts two youth-oriented services. In April 2008 church officials announced to the congregation that we purchased five acres off Cherry Glen Road and have an option to buy an adjacent six-acre site. Since then, we’ve worshiped on the site three times, at least to my recollection.
Before we entered the council chamber, Associate Pastor Brad Stanhope told us that the appellant and his supporters were not the enemy.
Before Valdez spoke, Wounded Knee, a Vallejo resident and a member of the Mi-Wuk tribe, pleaded with the city council not to allow the church to build on the land, which once had a restaurant, hotel, and bar until the 1960s.
“How can you build a church on a (Native American) sacred ground?” he asked.
Interim Community Development Director Maureen Carson said the site had been surveyed for any signs of a burial ground. The Native American Heritage Council was contacted, and it concluded that the acreage had no known burial sites. To appease Councilmembers Ron Rowlett and Pauline Clancy, the church agreed to recruit a Native American volunteer to monitor construction in the early stages. While the councilmembers sympathized with Valdez and his supporters, the Planning Commission was thorough in reviewing the conditional use permit application and environmental documents.
After the city council denied the appeal unanimously, some New Life members applauded. I was not happy about that. For one thing, clapping when two sides are passionate about this contentious issue is in poor taste. Second, the appeal pitted two faiths against each other. I found it very humbling.
Frankly, I don’t think Valdez is finished with his fight to keep the land undisturbed. I will feel better once the doors of our new church open for the first time.
Writing Diva
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Post-Racial Bus
Most weekdays I ride a commuter bus to work. The bus starts in Fairfield, picks up passengers in Vacaville and Dixon, and travels to downtown Sacramento, where it makes six stops before returning nonstop to Fairfield.
I drive my car to the Davis Street Park-and-Ride lot in Vacaville and take the bus from there. I know most of my fellow commuters by sight, some by name. We’re a varied group – different ages, races, backgrounds going to work or school. I have made two friends from riding the commuter bus.
This morning there was a disruption. A young African-American man with a backpack boarded the bus in Vacaville with about 15 of us. The Monday bus tends to fill up quickly. When the young man, who, I assume, is a college student, went to the back of the bus, he spread out his backpack on the seat next to him. One of the regular commuters, a man of East Indian descent, attempted to sit by the young man, who allegedly said, “You don’t want to sit next to a black man.” (I got this secondhand from another regular passenger, who heard the conversation.) The commuter sat next to me until his stop. The young man eventually apologized before he got off at his stop.
I found the episode a bit surreal. On December 1, 1955, an African-American woman named Rosa Parks refused to go to the back of the bus, where blacks were ordered to sit. Instead, she sat at the front in the white section and was arrested for taking a seat.
After an event that sparked the Civil Rights Movement and gave us some of the rights all people enjoy today, I find it rather annoying for the young man to deny another commuter a seat, either because he wanted that space to himself or he had a chip on his shoulder.
So, I have a message for the young passenger: Grow up! It’s 2009, for crying out loud! For one thing, the transit district rules state that you cannot save a seat. Second, it’s inappropriate to cause such a ruckus on public transportation. If you don’t want anyone to sit next to you, drive yourself to school or work.
If you choose to take public transportation, leave your problems and racial hang-ups off the bus.
Writing Diva
I drive my car to the Davis Street Park-and-Ride lot in Vacaville and take the bus from there. I know most of my fellow commuters by sight, some by name. We’re a varied group – different ages, races, backgrounds going to work or school. I have made two friends from riding the commuter bus.
This morning there was a disruption. A young African-American man with a backpack boarded the bus in Vacaville with about 15 of us. The Monday bus tends to fill up quickly. When the young man, who, I assume, is a college student, went to the back of the bus, he spread out his backpack on the seat next to him. One of the regular commuters, a man of East Indian descent, attempted to sit by the young man, who allegedly said, “You don’t want to sit next to a black man.” (I got this secondhand from another regular passenger, who heard the conversation.) The commuter sat next to me until his stop. The young man eventually apologized before he got off at his stop.
I found the episode a bit surreal. On December 1, 1955, an African-American woman named Rosa Parks refused to go to the back of the bus, where blacks were ordered to sit. Instead, she sat at the front in the white section and was arrested for taking a seat.
After an event that sparked the Civil Rights Movement and gave us some of the rights all people enjoy today, I find it rather annoying for the young man to deny another commuter a seat, either because he wanted that space to himself or he had a chip on his shoulder.
So, I have a message for the young passenger: Grow up! It’s 2009, for crying out loud! For one thing, the transit district rules state that you cannot save a seat. Second, it’s inappropriate to cause such a ruckus on public transportation. If you don’t want anyone to sit next to you, drive yourself to school or work.
If you choose to take public transportation, leave your problems and racial hang-ups off the bus.
Writing Diva
Monday, August 3, 2009
Strike That!
What's done is done.
The Service International Employees Union Local 1000, which represents about 95,000 California civil servants, has voted to take job actions up to and including a strike.
Borrowing a page from President Obama's book, I think the vote, announced Saturday, was the stupidest thing SEIU Local 1000 has ever done.
The vote was 74 percent “yes” to 26 percent “no.” I was among those who voted “no.” My sister T1 voted “HELL NO!” SEIU officials did not release how many members cast ballots.
To my knowledge, state workers have never voted to go on strike before. There is a clause in our contracts that prohibit walking off the job in protest. However, SEIU Local 1000 officials assert, “The state cannot discipline anyone who participates in a legal and protected job action or strike. As an added protection, Local 1000 will ensure that any resolution includes an amnesty clause – a provision guaranteeing that members who participate in a strike will be protected from discipline or adverse administrative action by the state.”
On the question of whether it’s legal for state employees to strike, SEIU Local 1000 states, “In a case brought before the California Supreme Court by SEIU in 1985, the court held that strikes by public employees are legal in California. In its ruling, the court said only strikes that are expressly forbidden by law or that threaten the public health or safety are illegal. Since the 1985 ruling, there have been scores of legal strikes by workers in cities, counties, and school districts throughout California.
On the other side, the Schwarzenegger administration, as represented by the state Department of Personnel Administration Personnel Board, declares that state employees have no right to strike. The SPB Web site states that any employee who participates in a strike “will be regarded as absent without Leave (AWOL) and will not be paid for any day in which they participate in a strike or job action.” Moreover, “employees who participate in a strike or other job action may be subject to disciplinary or other appropriate administrative action.”
“The state will dock their pay and take disciplinary actions,” said Lynelle Jolley, spokeswoman for the DPA in an interview with The Sacramento Bee. “They will lose money – or worse.”
Well, Ms. Jolley, we’ve already lost money – about 14 percent of our paycheck since July 1. Although I’m not at my tipping point (that is, having to sell my home), other people have reached and gone beyond it. I imagine the state workers who voted to authorize a strike concluded that they have little or nothing left to lose.
The reason why I voted against the strike comes in an acronym – PATCO.
I remember the August 1981 walkout of the Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization. The trade union’s members wanted better pay, better working conditions, and a 32-hour work week. President Ronald Reagan ordered the air traffic controllers back to work, citing safety concerns. When only 1,300 of the almost 13,000 employees returned to their posts, Reagan carried out his threat and fired the remainder who stayed on strike.
Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger is a lame-duck governor with nothing less to lose except his improved standing with the Republican Party. I believe he has no qualms about having those of us on strike fired. He has no sympathy for state workers, erroneously stating that the average state worker earns $60,000 a year. That’s utter nonsense! Most state workers earn way below that. To flex his political muscle, I strongly believe he will fire us.
Don’t get me wrong. I support the union. I was even a union steward in SEIU Local 1000. But this is little more than a pissing match between SEIU Local 1000 President Yvonne Walker and Gov. Schwarzenegger, with the union members being peed upon. We will be the real losers.
So, in response to SEIU Local 1000’s “Count on Me” job actions, count me out.
Writing Diva
The Service International Employees Union Local 1000, which represents about 95,000 California civil servants, has voted to take job actions up to and including a strike.
Borrowing a page from President Obama's book, I think the vote, announced Saturday, was the stupidest thing SEIU Local 1000 has ever done.
The vote was 74 percent “yes” to 26 percent “no.” I was among those who voted “no.” My sister T1 voted “HELL NO!” SEIU officials did not release how many members cast ballots.
To my knowledge, state workers have never voted to go on strike before. There is a clause in our contracts that prohibit walking off the job in protest. However, SEIU Local 1000 officials assert, “The state cannot discipline anyone who participates in a legal and protected job action or strike. As an added protection, Local 1000 will ensure that any resolution includes an amnesty clause – a provision guaranteeing that members who participate in a strike will be protected from discipline or adverse administrative action by the state.”
On the question of whether it’s legal for state employees to strike, SEIU Local 1000 states, “In a case brought before the California Supreme Court by SEIU in 1985, the court held that strikes by public employees are legal in California. In its ruling, the court said only strikes that are expressly forbidden by law or that threaten the public health or safety are illegal. Since the 1985 ruling, there have been scores of legal strikes by workers in cities, counties, and school districts throughout California.
On the other side, the Schwarzenegger administration, as represented by the state Department of Personnel Administration Personnel Board, declares that state employees have no right to strike. The SPB Web site states that any employee who participates in a strike “will be regarded as absent without Leave (AWOL) and will not be paid for any day in which they participate in a strike or job action.” Moreover, “employees who participate in a strike or other job action may be subject to disciplinary or other appropriate administrative action.”
“The state will dock their pay and take disciplinary actions,” said Lynelle Jolley, spokeswoman for the DPA in an interview with The Sacramento Bee. “They will lose money – or worse.”
Well, Ms. Jolley, we’ve already lost money – about 14 percent of our paycheck since July 1. Although I’m not at my tipping point (that is, having to sell my home), other people have reached and gone beyond it. I imagine the state workers who voted to authorize a strike concluded that they have little or nothing left to lose.
The reason why I voted against the strike comes in an acronym – PATCO.
I remember the August 1981 walkout of the Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization. The trade union’s members wanted better pay, better working conditions, and a 32-hour work week. President Ronald Reagan ordered the air traffic controllers back to work, citing safety concerns. When only 1,300 of the almost 13,000 employees returned to their posts, Reagan carried out his threat and fired the remainder who stayed on strike.
Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger is a lame-duck governor with nothing less to lose except his improved standing with the Republican Party. I believe he has no qualms about having those of us on strike fired. He has no sympathy for state workers, erroneously stating that the average state worker earns $60,000 a year. That’s utter nonsense! Most state workers earn way below that. To flex his political muscle, I strongly believe he will fire us.
Don’t get me wrong. I support the union. I was even a union steward in SEIU Local 1000. But this is little more than a pissing match between SEIU Local 1000 President Yvonne Walker and Gov. Schwarzenegger, with the union members being peed upon. We will be the real losers.
So, in response to SEIU Local 1000’s “Count on Me” job actions, count me out.
Writing Diva
Monday, July 20, 2009
Remembering “Uncle Walter”
A frequent dinner guest in my family’s household passed away Friday.
Walter Cronkite, the CBS television journalist for whom the term “anchorman” was coined, died at the age of 92. He was the anchor of the CBS Evening News from 1962 to 1981, an era that took my family from the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Sen. Robert F. Kennedy, to the Vietnam War, the first moon landing, and Watergate.
Cronkite told the story straight, showing no liberal or conservative bias, collecting all the facts before airing the piece. He was an avuncular man whom my parents would depend on if they wanted their news as simple as round steak, mashed potatoes and gravy.
In the 1960s and early ‘70s, my siblings and I served as the remote control for the family television. While cooking dinner, Mom would say, “Go turn on Walter.” Not the “CBS Evening News.” Not “Walter Cronkite.” Just “Walter.” As we ate dinner, we would watch battle scenes in Vietnam, civil rights marches, even the Beatles while “Walter” explained everything like a grandfather sitting in his favorite chair smoking a pipe and telling a story.
Cronkite rarely used jargon in his stories. He also rarely showed emotion. There were two instances I remember when his veneer of objectivity cracked slightly. The first happened on November 22, 1963, when he announced from the news wires that President Kennedy died from an assassin’s bullet in Dallas. The second was when the Apollo 11 lunar module landed on the moon. His “Oh, boy!” spoke volumes even when he later said he was “speechless.”
Cronkite also seldom gave his opinion, which is an unspoken rule among journalists. But when he did a short commentary in 1968 about the stalemate that was the Vietnam War after his visit to the war zone, his 30-second piece caused shock waves in the White House. President Lyndon B. Johnson reportedly said, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost middle America.”
I was embarking on my own journalism career while working in the news department of UC Davis radio station KDVS in 1981 when Cronkite put down the mike for the last time. I was sad that he was stepping down from the CBS Evening News. But even the “Most Trusted Man in America” needed a break.
Cronkite set the standard by which many journalists, including myself, strived to achieve. And these days, news coverage is so fragmented that unbiased journalism is hard to come by. Yet I’m glad Cronkite was there to guide us through the turbulent times with as steady a hand as he steered his sailboat. Rest in peace, Uncle Walter.
Writing Diva
Walter Cronkite, the CBS television journalist for whom the term “anchorman” was coined, died at the age of 92. He was the anchor of the CBS Evening News from 1962 to 1981, an era that took my family from the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Sen. Robert F. Kennedy, to the Vietnam War, the first moon landing, and Watergate.
Cronkite told the story straight, showing no liberal or conservative bias, collecting all the facts before airing the piece. He was an avuncular man whom my parents would depend on if they wanted their news as simple as round steak, mashed potatoes and gravy.
In the 1960s and early ‘70s, my siblings and I served as the remote control for the family television. While cooking dinner, Mom would say, “Go turn on Walter.” Not the “CBS Evening News.” Not “Walter Cronkite.” Just “Walter.” As we ate dinner, we would watch battle scenes in Vietnam, civil rights marches, even the Beatles while “Walter” explained everything like a grandfather sitting in his favorite chair smoking a pipe and telling a story.
Cronkite rarely used jargon in his stories. He also rarely showed emotion. There were two instances I remember when his veneer of objectivity cracked slightly. The first happened on November 22, 1963, when he announced from the news wires that President Kennedy died from an assassin’s bullet in Dallas. The second was when the Apollo 11 lunar module landed on the moon. His “Oh, boy!” spoke volumes even when he later said he was “speechless.”
Cronkite also seldom gave his opinion, which is an unspoken rule among journalists. But when he did a short commentary in 1968 about the stalemate that was the Vietnam War after his visit to the war zone, his 30-second piece caused shock waves in the White House. President Lyndon B. Johnson reportedly said, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost middle America.”
I was embarking on my own journalism career while working in the news department of UC Davis radio station KDVS in 1981 when Cronkite put down the mike for the last time. I was sad that he was stepping down from the CBS Evening News. But even the “Most Trusted Man in America” needed a break.
Cronkite set the standard by which many journalists, including myself, strived to achieve. And these days, news coverage is so fragmented that unbiased journalism is hard to come by. Yet I’m glad Cronkite was there to guide us through the turbulent times with as steady a hand as he steered his sailboat. Rest in peace, Uncle Walter.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Hard Choices
Just three hours ago Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger signed an executive order mandating three furlough days a month for California state employees. Starting July 10, most state offices will be closed the first, second, and third Friday of each month.
By my calculation, three furlough days a month will cost me 14.3 percent of my paycheck -- $689 a month before taxes. This is really going to hurt.
My boss sent out an e-mail reminding us that at least we have a job and thanking us for keeping our heads above the turmoil that has been brewing over the past several months.
Now, can she talk to my mortgage banker about approving a loan modification to lower my monthly mortgage payments?
I will be making some hard choices this month, including:
By my calculation, three furlough days a month will cost me 14.3 percent of my paycheck -- $689 a month before taxes. This is really going to hurt.
My boss sent out an e-mail reminding us that at least we have a job and thanking us for keeping our heads above the turmoil that has been brewing over the past several months.
Now, can she talk to my mortgage banker about approving a loan modification to lower my monthly mortgage payments?
I will be making some hard choices this month, including:
- Cancelling my health club membership. I had rejoined Solano Athletic Club in January after a disastrous stint with 24-Hour Fitness. Now I'll have to exercise on my own.
- Reducing my cable subscription to limited basic. I was going to do that earlier this year, but the customer service representative persuaded me to stick to expanded basic for $38.40 a month, including taxes. I'm afraid I'll have to return to $16 a month, including taxes.
- Ordering no more magazine subscriptions of any kind, not even my writing magazines, until these furloughs end, supposedly on June 30, 2010.
- Getting a job working Friday through Sunday, except for the fourth and fifth Friday of each month. Considering the tight economy, that will be difficult, but not impossible.
- Applying for a loan modification with my mortgage banker. I'll explain the situation and send all the required documents and a copy of the Governor's press release. Hey, it's worth a shot.
I'm already shopping at WinCo Foods, driving less, clipping coupons, limiting my entertainment, suspending contributions to my IRA, and cutting back on my church offerings. But it could be worse. I could be unemployed without a roof over my head for me and my two cats.
It's time for me to batten down the hatches.
Sigh....
Writing Diva
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael Joseph Jackson -- 1958-2009
It's still sinking in that Michael Jackson is gone. "Gone Too Soon," as he sang.
His music, with the Jackson Five and as a solo artist, was part of my family's soundtrack. When we were little, we saw the Jackson Five for the first time in 1969 on "The Ed Sullivan Show," followed by an appearance on "Hollywood Palace." (Only baby boomers and older would have seen these shows. Sorry, younger folk.) My sisters and I would go to our cousin's house down the street in the Oak Park area of Sacramento to rave over the Jackson Five's debut album. Their hits came in quick succession -- "I Want You Back," "ABC," "The Love You Save," "Mama's Pearl," "I'll Be There."
When we moved from Oak Park to South Sacramento in April 1971, the song "Never Can Say Goodbye" was on the radio in Mom's black Oldsmobile. My siblings and I were saying goodbye to our friends from Oak Park and saying hello to a new life in the suburbs.
My high school friends did the bump and the robot to the Jackson Five's "Dancing Machine." In 1978, when I was at UC Davis, Michael struck out on his own (for the second time) with "Off the Wall." When I would spend nights into the early morning studying, I would dance to "Working Day and Night" to keep myself awake.
When "Off the Wall" came out, that time was the best Michael ever looked. He was lanky with a perfect button nose and milk chocolate skin.
But it was "Thriller" that shot Michael into the stratosphere. It seemed everyone had a copy of the album. When MTV began showing "Beat It," I think that's when blacks began saying, "I want my MTV."
During the 1983 television special "Motown 25," he showed how much of a showman he was. When he sang "Billie Jean" and performed his famous moonwalk, I was in awe. I thought he was on par with Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire.
Yes, there were the tabloid tidbits -- the vitiligo, the makeup, the allegations of child molestation, his unorthodox fascination with children, his marriages, his young children being shielded from view. There were times when I'd shake my head. But it was like having an odd relative whom you loved anyway.
He was on his way to making a comeback when he went into cardiac arrest and died. It was a comeback that will never come.
May God rest your soul, Michael Jackson.
His music, with the Jackson Five and as a solo artist, was part of my family's soundtrack. When we were little, we saw the Jackson Five for the first time in 1969 on "The Ed Sullivan Show," followed by an appearance on "Hollywood Palace." (Only baby boomers and older would have seen these shows. Sorry, younger folk.) My sisters and I would go to our cousin's house down the street in the Oak Park area of Sacramento to rave over the Jackson Five's debut album. Their hits came in quick succession -- "I Want You Back," "ABC," "The Love You Save," "Mama's Pearl," "I'll Be There."
When we moved from Oak Park to South Sacramento in April 1971, the song "Never Can Say Goodbye" was on the radio in Mom's black Oldsmobile. My siblings and I were saying goodbye to our friends from Oak Park and saying hello to a new life in the suburbs.
My high school friends did the bump and the robot to the Jackson Five's "Dancing Machine." In 1978, when I was at UC Davis, Michael struck out on his own (for the second time) with "Off the Wall." When I would spend nights into the early morning studying, I would dance to "Working Day and Night" to keep myself awake.
When "Off the Wall" came out, that time was the best Michael ever looked. He was lanky with a perfect button nose and milk chocolate skin.
But it was "Thriller" that shot Michael into the stratosphere. It seemed everyone had a copy of the album. When MTV began showing "Beat It," I think that's when blacks began saying, "I want my MTV."
During the 1983 television special "Motown 25," he showed how much of a showman he was. When he sang "Billie Jean" and performed his famous moonwalk, I was in awe. I thought he was on par with Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire.
Yes, there were the tabloid tidbits -- the vitiligo, the makeup, the allegations of child molestation, his unorthodox fascination with children, his marriages, his young children being shielded from view. There were times when I'd shake my head. But it was like having an odd relative whom you loved anyway.
He was on his way to making a comeback when he went into cardiac arrest and died. It was a comeback that will never come.
May God rest your soul, Michael Jackson.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Embracing Singleness
My sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com), slapped me upside the head yesterday and brought me to my senses about my single status. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
In my previous post I was doing the wailing and gnashing of teeth regarding my not being in a relationship, especially as I approach 50. (Or, as I call it, "fiddy.") I was especially envious of BWB and her marriage to BMNB (Black Man Not Blogging). The two are best friends who married each other.
But not all is as it seems, BWB said. There are occasional disagreements, division of household labor and cooking (She gets the cooking.), arranging schedules and finances so they can travel together, checking with each other on their whereabouts, and, in old age, changing a spouse's "poopy diaper." (Not something to look forward to.)
As a single woman, BWB pointed out, I can go where I please, buy what I please, and not worry about joint finances or schedules. I have been squandering my singleness on feeling sorry for myself. As Tim Gunn from "Project Runway" would say, I should "make it work."
So, as I write this, I have a new attitude toward singleness. I probably wouldn't have been able to attend National Association of Black Journalists conventions if I had been married. And I love traveling. But, most of all, I like the freedom of being single. I attend dances and other single events, go to movies, ride my bicycle, and shoot photos without worrying about what my husband would think.
This is not to disparage marriage. There are pluses and minuses in both marriage and singleness. But I'm learning to be happy where I am.
Thank you, BWB.
Writing Diva
In my previous post I was doing the wailing and gnashing of teeth regarding my not being in a relationship, especially as I approach 50. (Or, as I call it, "fiddy.") I was especially envious of BWB and her marriage to BMNB (Black Man Not Blogging). The two are best friends who married each other.
But not all is as it seems, BWB said. There are occasional disagreements, division of household labor and cooking (She gets the cooking.), arranging schedules and finances so they can travel together, checking with each other on their whereabouts, and, in old age, changing a spouse's "poopy diaper." (Not something to look forward to.)
As a single woman, BWB pointed out, I can go where I please, buy what I please, and not worry about joint finances or schedules. I have been squandering my singleness on feeling sorry for myself. As Tim Gunn from "Project Runway" would say, I should "make it work."
So, as I write this, I have a new attitude toward singleness. I probably wouldn't have been able to attend National Association of Black Journalists conventions if I had been married. And I love traveling. But, most of all, I like the freedom of being single. I attend dances and other single events, go to movies, ride my bicycle, and shoot photos without worrying about what my husband would think.
This is not to disparage marriage. There are pluses and minuses in both marriage and singleness. But I'm learning to be happy where I am.
Thank you, BWB.
Writing Diva
Saturday, June 20, 2009
My Relationship With Me
Over the past couple of weeks, I've been in a funk about my relationship status, or, shall I say, a lack thereof. I've seen friends and former loves in happy romances, leading me to feel sorry for myself. I came close to doing something I promised myself I wouldn't do -- contact a psychic. I haven't and, God willing, don't plan to.
I prayed for several days asking God for some guidance. That guidance came from, of all places, the movie "Sex and the City." The film, based on the successful HBO television series, followed the adventures of writer Carrie Bradshaw and her friends, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda. Samantha had a previous bout with breast cancer and was juggling a relationship with her younger boyfriend. She came to the conclusion, when breaking up with Smith, that she needed to focus on a relationship with herself.
My "significant other" would push me out to enjoy life by going to dances, going bicycle riding, exercising, seeing movies, decorating the home, and spending time with friends and family. Whether I have a relationship with a man is pretty much up to God. I may be destined for lifelong singleness, but it's not a death sentence. In fact, singleness may be my way of living life to the fullest.
Writing Diva
I prayed for several days asking God for some guidance. That guidance came from, of all places, the movie "Sex and the City." The film, based on the successful HBO television series, followed the adventures of writer Carrie Bradshaw and her friends, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda. Samantha had a previous bout with breast cancer and was juggling a relationship with her younger boyfriend. She came to the conclusion, when breaking up with Smith, that she needed to focus on a relationship with herself.
My "significant other" would push me out to enjoy life by going to dances, going bicycle riding, exercising, seeing movies, decorating the home, and spending time with friends and family. Whether I have a relationship with a man is pretty much up to God. I may be destined for lifelong singleness, but it's not a death sentence. In fact, singleness may be my way of living life to the fullest.
Writing Diva
Friday, May 22, 2009
What Kind of California Do You Want?
What kind of world do you want?
Think anything
Let's start at the start
Build a masterpiece
Be careful what you wish for
History starts now
John Ondrasik, Five for Fighting, "World"
To paraphrase the first sentence of the Rev. Rick Warren's best-selling book The Purpose-Driven Life, it's not about you -- the California taxpayer fed up with politics as usual in Sacramento.
It's not about me, either. This blogger is a California civil servant who fears for her job, paycheck, and home.
It's about this state -- California.
Although turnout for the May 19 special election for six state budget-related propositions was reportedly at a low of 23 percent, voters resoundingly thrashed all but one -- a proposition that bans any raises for the Governor, Legislature, and other top state officials if the general fund is expected to end the fiscal year with a deficit.
Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger interpreted the results thus, according to The Sacramento Bee: "I think the message was clear from the people: Go all out and make those cuts and live within your means."
OK, then. It's time for all California voters to make some hard choices. Therefore, I suggest the following:
Think anything
Let's start at the start
Build a masterpiece
Be careful what you wish for
History starts now
John Ondrasik, Five for Fighting, "World"
To paraphrase the first sentence of the Rev. Rick Warren's best-selling book The Purpose-Driven Life, it's not about you -- the California taxpayer fed up with politics as usual in Sacramento.
It's not about me, either. This blogger is a California civil servant who fears for her job, paycheck, and home.
It's about this state -- California.
Although turnout for the May 19 special election for six state budget-related propositions was reportedly at a low of 23 percent, voters resoundingly thrashed all but one -- a proposition that bans any raises for the Governor, Legislature, and other top state officials if the general fund is expected to end the fiscal year with a deficit.
Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger interpreted the results thus, according to The Sacramento Bee: "I think the message was clear from the people: Go all out and make those cuts and live within your means."
OK, then. It's time for all California voters to make some hard choices. Therefore, I suggest the following:
- California legislators should send a questionnaire each fall to all state voters asking them which services they would like to keep or cut, such as law enforcement, fire protection, prisons, education, health care, home health services, education, and the like. Ask voters if they would be willing to pay for these services and how much they're willing to shell out.
- Legislators (both state senators and assembly members) should host (at least) four "town hall" meetings in their districts between January 10 and June 1, including one meeting on a weeknight and one on a Saturday in different communities. They should present the results of the questionnaire and discuss options and legal constraints with those voters who attend. Then the legislators should vote according to what their constituents want, not according to lobbyists' positions or anyone's contributions.
- Voters must make time to keep up with issues of import to them and the positions their legislators take on all statewide matters. I also suggest that there be a four-year (at least) moratorium on citizen-drafted state initiatives to allow legislators to do their jobs. Also, Californians should consider whether some state laws based on propositions be put on hold or abolished, such as Proposition 98, which guarantees a portion of the general fund for education, or, (Horrors!) Proposition 13, approved in 1978, which freezes the tax-assessed value of properties at the time of purchase with a 2 percent cap on annual assessment increases.
Voters must also realize that some programs are federally mandated, such as the Department of Motor Vehicles and health care for (yes) illegal immigrants.
I realize that I'm asking voters to do a lot of homework. News flash: Being an informed citizen and making decisions that affect your household and the state of California aren't a piece of cake. Deal with it!
Again, ask yourselves: What kind of California do you want? What kind of California do you want to leave to your descendants?
Get to work.
Writing Diva
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Mommie Dearest
A bit of clarification is warranted regarding the title of today's entry. The title doesn't pertain to the late Joan Crawford, but to the suspect in the Sandra Cantú murder case, which had a bigger twist and WTF moments than an episode of the television series "24."
Over the past three weeks people throughout California have been enthralled by the case of 8-year-old Sandra Cantú of Tracy, who disappeared March 27 after a surveillance camera recorded her skipping away from her residence in a mobile home park. Locals volunteered to search for the bubbly little girl. More than a week ago law enforcement authorities found the girl's body crammed into a suitcase and dumped into a retaining pond.
Early Saturday (April 11) morning, a suspect had been arrested and booked on suspicion of kidnap and murder. But the "monster" wasn't a man.
It was a woman. The mother of one of Sandra's playmates. A Sunday school teacher.
Tracy police say Melissa Chantel Huckaby, 28, is the only suspect in the case. Shortly after she reported her suitcase missing, police grilled Huckaby for five hours before she reportedly indicated that she deliberately killed the little girl.
The case was the talk of the J.C. Penney Salon where I had my hair relaxed Saturday. I was stunned to hear that the suspect is a woman.
I fully expected someone like Richard Allen Davis, who was convicted of kidnapping, raping, and murdering 12-year-old Polly Klaas of Petaluma in November 1993. I thought it would be someone like Curtis Dean Anderson, who did the same to Xiana Fairchild of Vallejo in December 1999.
But a woman who taught Bible study at her grandfather's nearby church? The mother of Sandra's 5-year-old playmate?
What is the world coming to?
Youngsters, including my 8-year-old and 5-year-old great-nephews, are taught about "Stranger Danger," to never go with strangers, to scream for help, to fight off attackers. But what do you teach about mothers, fathers, neighbors you know?
I remember when I was in sixth grade, my father drove me to my friend's house so I could work on a social science report with her. He stayed at the house chatting with my friend's mom until I was done. He believed that his children should not spend a lot of time at other people's homes.
It's a sad day when parents have to be suspicious of other parents.
Writing Diva
Over the past three weeks people throughout California have been enthralled by the case of 8-year-old Sandra Cantú of Tracy, who disappeared March 27 after a surveillance camera recorded her skipping away from her residence in a mobile home park. Locals volunteered to search for the bubbly little girl. More than a week ago law enforcement authorities found the girl's body crammed into a suitcase and dumped into a retaining pond.
Early Saturday (April 11) morning, a suspect had been arrested and booked on suspicion of kidnap and murder. But the "monster" wasn't a man.
It was a woman. The mother of one of Sandra's playmates. A Sunday school teacher.
Tracy police say Melissa Chantel Huckaby, 28, is the only suspect in the case. Shortly after she reported her suitcase missing, police grilled Huckaby for five hours before she reportedly indicated that she deliberately killed the little girl.
The case was the talk of the J.C. Penney Salon where I had my hair relaxed Saturday. I was stunned to hear that the suspect is a woman.
I fully expected someone like Richard Allen Davis, who was convicted of kidnapping, raping, and murdering 12-year-old Polly Klaas of Petaluma in November 1993. I thought it would be someone like Curtis Dean Anderson, who did the same to Xiana Fairchild of Vallejo in December 1999.
But a woman who taught Bible study at her grandfather's nearby church? The mother of Sandra's 5-year-old playmate?
What is the world coming to?
Youngsters, including my 8-year-old and 5-year-old great-nephews, are taught about "Stranger Danger," to never go with strangers, to scream for help, to fight off attackers. But what do you teach about mothers, fathers, neighbors you know?
I remember when I was in sixth grade, my father drove me to my friend's house so I could work on a social science report with her. He stayed at the house chatting with my friend's mom until I was done. He believed that his children should not spend a lot of time at other people's homes.
It's a sad day when parents have to be suspicious of other parents.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Still Makes Me Wanna Holla
April 1, 1984, was one of those dates when you know what you were doing when something momentous happened – the way dates like November 22, 1963, or April 4, 1968, make an indelible mark in our collective psyche.
April 1, 1984, was when the “Prince of Soul,” Marvin Gaye, died. An argument between his parents in which Marvin intervened ended when the Rev. Marvin Gay Sr. shot and killed his son a day before his 45th birthday.
I was listening to the radio when I heard the news. I called my older sister T1 at work and told her the news.
“April Fool, right?” T1 joked.
“Not this time,” I said somberly. When I referred to my older sister by her middle name instead of a nickname, I was being serious.
Marvin was special to T1 not just because of his music and his good looks. They share the same birthday, April 2. (My siblings and I would call T1 the “After Fool” because she missed being an April Fool by a day.)
My family grew up listening to Motown, Aretha, the Isley Brothers, Luther, and others. Mom and my sisters just loooved Marvin. In the early 1960s, he was clean-shaven wearing a sports jacket and turtleneck, looking fine. When he sang his duets with spunky-cute Tammi Terrell, they looked as if they could be the perfect couple. I still prefer their version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” to Diana Ross’s bombastic rendition.
When Tammi Terrell died at 24 of a malignant brain tumor in 1970, Marvin went into seclusion. When he emerged, he was bearded and introspective, more concerned about the world around him. His 1971 concept album “What’s Going On” reflected one of many changes Gaye would undergo in his personal and professional life. The single became Rolling Stone’s fourth greatest single of all time.
Gaye’s version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” was recorded before Gladys Knight and the Pips did theirs. But the latter version was released first and reached number two on the U.S. pop charts. Although Motown founder Berry Gordy was adamant that Gaye’s “Grapevine” not be released, the radio disc jockeys heard the cut and started playing it until Gordy relented. The version, with its French horn opening that heralded a darker, more defiant attitude than Gladys’s version, shot to number one, where it stayed for seven weeks.
When the sensual “Let’s Get It On” album came out in 1973, I was appalled. I thought he went from ecologist to just plain horndog. As I matured, I realized that it was just a side of Marvin that the public hadn’t seen. The album also features my favorite Marvin song “Distant Lover,” a theme for a long-ago, long-distance romance.
Despite the hits, Marvin hadn’t received a Grammy until 1983 – for “Sexual Healing.” I admit, when the song first came out, I thought he was a howling horndog just begging for some. “Bay-beee, I’m hot just like an oveeeen, I need your loveeeng, and bay-beeee, I can’t hold it much longer, it’s getting stronger and stronger…”
I remember when Marvin came onstage at the Grammy Awards to accept his gramophone for male R&B performance, the audience gave him a standing ovation, for which he looked humbled and grateful.
I often wonder what more he could have done had he lived to see his 45th birthday – and many more after that.
Rest in peace, Marvin.
Writing Diva
April 1, 1984, was when the “Prince of Soul,” Marvin Gaye, died. An argument between his parents in which Marvin intervened ended when the Rev. Marvin Gay Sr. shot and killed his son a day before his 45th birthday.
I was listening to the radio when I heard the news. I called my older sister T1 at work and told her the news.
“April Fool, right?” T1 joked.
“Not this time,” I said somberly. When I referred to my older sister by her middle name instead of a nickname, I was being serious.
Marvin was special to T1 not just because of his music and his good looks. They share the same birthday, April 2. (My siblings and I would call T1 the “After Fool” because she missed being an April Fool by a day.)
My family grew up listening to Motown, Aretha, the Isley Brothers, Luther, and others. Mom and my sisters just loooved Marvin. In the early 1960s, he was clean-shaven wearing a sports jacket and turtleneck, looking fine. When he sang his duets with spunky-cute Tammi Terrell, they looked as if they could be the perfect couple. I still prefer their version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” to Diana Ross’s bombastic rendition.
When Tammi Terrell died at 24 of a malignant brain tumor in 1970, Marvin went into seclusion. When he emerged, he was bearded and introspective, more concerned about the world around him. His 1971 concept album “What’s Going On” reflected one of many changes Gaye would undergo in his personal and professional life. The single became Rolling Stone’s fourth greatest single of all time.
Gaye’s version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” was recorded before Gladys Knight and the Pips did theirs. But the latter version was released first and reached number two on the U.S. pop charts. Although Motown founder Berry Gordy was adamant that Gaye’s “Grapevine” not be released, the radio disc jockeys heard the cut and started playing it until Gordy relented. The version, with its French horn opening that heralded a darker, more defiant attitude than Gladys’s version, shot to number one, where it stayed for seven weeks.
When the sensual “Let’s Get It On” album came out in 1973, I was appalled. I thought he went from ecologist to just plain horndog. As I matured, I realized that it was just a side of Marvin that the public hadn’t seen. The album also features my favorite Marvin song “Distant Lover,” a theme for a long-ago, long-distance romance.
Despite the hits, Marvin hadn’t received a Grammy until 1983 – for “Sexual Healing.” I admit, when the song first came out, I thought he was a howling horndog just begging for some. “Bay-beee, I’m hot just like an oveeeen, I need your loveeeng, and bay-beeee, I can’t hold it much longer, it’s getting stronger and stronger…”
I remember when Marvin came onstage at the Grammy Awards to accept his gramophone for male R&B performance, the audience gave him a standing ovation, for which he looked humbled and grateful.
I often wonder what more he could have done had he lived to see his 45th birthday – and many more after that.
Rest in peace, Marvin.
Writing Diva
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Whither Newspapers?
Eight years after I left newspaper journalism to “join the dark side,” as my former journalist colleagues put it, and become an information officer for a California government agency, I still miss pounding the pavement and pressing phone buttons hunting for a story to fill a slowly shrinking news hole. These days, with newspaper layoffs, pay cuts, furloughs, and newspaper shutdowns or conversions to Web sites, I realize I can’t return to newspapers even if I wanted to.
Over the past several weeks, the Rocky Mountain News folded after nearly 150 years. Last year, according to National Public Radio, it cost its parent company E.W. Scripps Co. $16 million in losses. The Seattle Post-Intelligencer went completely digital and shut down its print edition after 146 years. The Ann Arbor News will stop its presses in July after 174 years and be replaced by a Web-focused community news operation, according to the Associated Press.
The San Francisco Chronicle was perilously close to shutting its doors after losing $1 million or more a week for the past several years. On March 7, members of the Chronicle's unit of the California Media Workers Guild agreed to job and benefit cuts required by management, the San Francisco Business Times reported. The job concessions included cuts regardless of seniority.
There have been layoffs at newspapers nationwide, including The Sacramento Bee, the San Diego Union-Tribune (which Copley Newspapers, its parent company, sold last week), the Los Angeles Times, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, The Buffalo News, just to name a few. Gannett Newspapers and MediaNews Group have ordered furloughs for their employees.
The recession is a big factor in newspapers losing money, especially with steep drops in advertising revenue and stores like Circuit City and Mervyns closing their doors. I believe another factor is that newspapers didn't consider their information to be valuable enough to charge Internet users. The Wall Street Journal, for example, requires that its Web site users subscribe to its newspaper. San Francisco-based media analyst Alan D. Mutter wrote in the Los Angeles Times that the WSJ claims more than 1 million paid subscribers to its Web site "(b)y aggregating an audience of business people willing and able to pay to view its content."
The Daily Republic of Fairfield, California, also requires that its Web site visitors subscribe. About 21,000 Solano County residents are willing to pay to find out what's happening in their neighborhood. Online ads help, but information should not be free.
My stance may offend Internet users who have been accustomed to getting their news gratis. I don't know if newspaper companies charge Google for their news. If they don't, they should. If newspapers want to survive, newspaper owners have to get out of the mindset that the horse has left the barn and start charging for content. The horse is still in the barn, but is considering making a run for it.
Writing Diva
Over the past several weeks, the Rocky Mountain News folded after nearly 150 years. Last year, according to National Public Radio, it cost its parent company E.W. Scripps Co. $16 million in losses. The Seattle Post-Intelligencer went completely digital and shut down its print edition after 146 years. The Ann Arbor News will stop its presses in July after 174 years and be replaced by a Web-focused community news operation, according to the Associated Press.
The San Francisco Chronicle was perilously close to shutting its doors after losing $1 million or more a week for the past several years. On March 7, members of the Chronicle's unit of the California Media Workers Guild agreed to job and benefit cuts required by management, the San Francisco Business Times reported. The job concessions included cuts regardless of seniority.
There have been layoffs at newspapers nationwide, including The Sacramento Bee, the San Diego Union-Tribune (which Copley Newspapers, its parent company, sold last week), the Los Angeles Times, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, The Buffalo News, just to name a few. Gannett Newspapers and MediaNews Group have ordered furloughs for their employees.
The recession is a big factor in newspapers losing money, especially with steep drops in advertising revenue and stores like Circuit City and Mervyns closing their doors. I believe another factor is that newspapers didn't consider their information to be valuable enough to charge Internet users. The Wall Street Journal, for example, requires that its Web site users subscribe to its newspaper. San Francisco-based media analyst Alan D. Mutter wrote in the Los Angeles Times that the WSJ claims more than 1 million paid subscribers to its Web site "(b)y aggregating an audience of business people willing and able to pay to view its content."
The Daily Republic of Fairfield, California, also requires that its Web site visitors subscribe. About 21,000 Solano County residents are willing to pay to find out what's happening in their neighborhood. Online ads help, but information should not be free.
My stance may offend Internet users who have been accustomed to getting their news gratis. I don't know if newspaper companies charge Google for their news. If they don't, they should. If newspapers want to survive, newspaper owners have to get out of the mindset that the horse has left the barn and start charging for content. The horse is still in the barn, but is considering making a run for it.
Writing Diva
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Throwing in the Towel
This is an open letter to my friends and family and readers of this blog about a middle-aged single woman living in Vacaville, California.
I'm throwing in the towel. I have decided not to marry.
As some of you may know, I have not had a "significant other" in a decade. I've had friends try to fix me up with single men. I've attended so many singles function I've lost count. I recently had an account with eHarmony, only to have six of my matches get the boot from the on-line dating service for unknown reasons (probably because they're on-line dating scammers) and countless other matches reject me for "other" reasons.
Before writing this entry, I read an obituary in the Los Angeles Times about Marie Barbare Edwards, a psychologist who helped pioneer a "singles pride" movement in the 1970s through her book The Challenge of Being Single. She died December 31 two days shy of her 90th birthday. Edwards declared that not everyone is destined to march through life as half of a "Noah's Ark twosome." Maybe I'm not, either.
So, to any of you who asks, "Why aren't you married?" kindly back off. If I meet someone, fine. If not, that's fine, too. My life is carrot cake. Frosting (or a mate) is optional.
Writing Diva
I'm throwing in the towel. I have decided not to marry.
As some of you may know, I have not had a "significant other" in a decade. I've had friends try to fix me up with single men. I've attended so many singles function I've lost count. I recently had an account with eHarmony, only to have six of my matches get the boot from the on-line dating service for unknown reasons (probably because they're on-line dating scammers) and countless other matches reject me for "other" reasons.
It doesn't mean that I won't attend events to meet other single people or that I would close to door to dating. But frankly I don't think I will meet Mr. Right and I don't want to be with a Mr. Right Now. I've made foolish mistakes in seeking a life partner, and I'm getting tired of doing that.
I'm tired of spending money on on-line dating services. Also, although I've been advised to have my friends introduce me to someone, most of my friends don't know the type of man I want.Before writing this entry, I read an obituary in the Los Angeles Times about Marie Barbare Edwards, a psychologist who helped pioneer a "singles pride" movement in the 1970s through her book The Challenge of Being Single. She died December 31 two days shy of her 90th birthday. Edwards declared that not everyone is destined to march through life as half of a "Noah's Ark twosome." Maybe I'm not, either.
So, to any of you who asks, "Why aren't you married?" kindly back off. If I meet someone, fine. If not, that's fine, too. My life is carrot cake. Frosting (or a mate) is optional.
Writing Diva
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
