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

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

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

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

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

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

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