Standing at the Crossroads

On the way home from my vacation last week to Bellingham, Washington, I was waiting at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport for my flight back to Sacramento, California. A white woman sat next to me and checked her phone. Shortly thereafter, she poked me in my left arm with her right elbow.

"Ow!" I said loudly.

She got up and walked away without uttering an apology.

Granted, what she did wasn't a hate crime. But I couldn't help but wonder if she would have been contrite had I been white.

Although I have friends and family of different races, I've learned to keep my distance from strangers and acquaintances I've perceived to be racist. I've had the "N" word hurled at me several times in my life, and I've called the person on using the epithet. But, for the most part, I've kept my distance, and those who don't like people of color or other faiths have stayed away from me.

I predict I will have an encounter with racists sooner rather than later.

On August 17, I plan to attend a candlelight vigil in Fairfield addressing the violence after a white supremacist march August 11 and 12 in Charlottesville, Virginia. I will stand quietly with my candle and not call anyone names or start fights. I will do my best to keep out of harm's way. But I feel I must make my presence known.

Now that the 45th President of the United States has blamed both white supremacist marchers and what he calls "alt-left" (There is no such thing!) counterprotesters for the violence that resulted in the death of a local woman and injuries to 19 other people, I'm more on guard. I concluded that he was racist when he announced his candidacy by labeling undocumented Mexican immigrants as "killers" and "rapists." I was appalled when he was elected. (No, I refuse to use his name.)

Today's entry isn't long. Just know this: I'm woke, and I'm done.

Writing Diva

Talking About the Walk

I'm back. I'm not going anywhere. And as the former USA Today columnist the Rev. Barbara Reynolds wrote, "No, I won't shut up."

I am one of millions of people nationwide and around the world distressed by the election of Donald J. Trump as president of the United States. (From now on, he will be referred to as "Cheeto." He will not have "president" before his name.) I still believe that he lacks the temperament to run this republic and that the country may slide into fascism comparable to Germany in the early 1930s.

Shortly after the presidential election, I saw a Facebook post inviting people to the Women's March in Washington, D.C. Although I couldn't attend, there were satellite marches throughout the nation and around the world, including a march and rally at the State Capitol in Sacramento. I attended that march Saturday.

When I drove over the Tower Bridge onto Capitol Mall, I was amazed to view a sea of people from 7th Street east to the West Steps of the Capitol. It took about 20 minutes to find parking, but I lucked out by finding precious spaces at the SEIU Local 1000 headquarters at 13th and S streets. I walked about a mile to the West Steps, where I stayed, took pictures, and talked to people. (I wore a hot pink hoodie underneath my black pea coat.) I stayed about an hour before my head began to hurt. Then I decided to visit my older sisters in Elk Grove.

My older sister D answered the door as she was talking to my sister T2 on the phone, who was preparing a presentation on getting a job in state government. T1 had just returned from the store. We watched coverage of marches worldwide on CNN and MSNBC. Later, my older brother H2 arrived.

While I was proud to be part of history, I felt gratified to watch it with my siblings.

P.S.: I will be writing my blog at least once a month. At first, I didn't have much to say. Now, no one can shut me up.

Writing Diva

Friday the 13th – Not Just Any Other Day

“Triskaidekaphobia – fear of the number 13” – http://www.merriam-webster.com.

I don’t fear Friday the 13^th as much as I’ve learned to respect it.

On Friday, May 13, 1988, a letter arrived in the mail that drastically changed my life.

The letter from the San Francisco Bay Area-based Institute for Journalism Education (IJE, now the Maynard Institute for JournalismEducation) informed me that I was invited to an interview at the UC Berkeley School of Journalism, where the institute was hosting a 13-week “journalism boot camp” for aspiring newspaper journalists. A career door finally opened after struggling in dead-end clerical positions five years after I graduated from the University of California, Davis.

That year, I was a secretary-typist for a consulting firm in north Sacramento. In my spare time, I was attending classes at Cosumnes River College in south Sacramento to qualify for internships I later earned at two local television stations – KCRA-TV 3, the NBC affiliate, and KTXL 40, the local affiliate for the new Fox network. I was also writing articles for the Sacramento Observer weekly newspaper, hoping to get some clips for my portfolio.

In the winter of 1988, I had applied to IJE’s Summer Program for Minority Journalists, which takes only 10 people annually out of hundreds of applicants. When I received the rejection letter in March, I figured I would apply to California State University, Sacramento, and work toward my master’s degree in journalism and see if I could get into the field that way. (I’m a big believer in having a Plan B, Plan C, Plan D … you get the idea.)

I arrived home to my South Natomas apartment at the end of a mind-numbing week of work with my bunch of mail from my mailbox. Then I saw the letter from IJE. “What could they possibly want?” I thought. “I was already rejected.”

When I opened the letter and read the contents, my jaw dropped and my eyes filled with tears.

The letter read that I was being invited to a writing test and interview with IJE at the UC Berkeley School of Journalism. I would interview with Jeff Rivers for one of the last few slots. Director Ira J. Hadnot signed the letter.

I was floored. Then I realized what entering the program would mean – 13 weeks in the Bay Area, followed by working for a year with a newspaper that, more likely than not, would be outside California, the home I had known since birth. A mix of excitement and fear prevented me from sleeping well that night.

Long story short, I not only got into the program, I completed it and went to work for The Bellingham Herald, a small newspaper in northwest Washington state then owned by Gannett. (McClatchy now owns the Herald.) I spent 11 months there before returning to California to work for the Daily Republic in Fairfield.

Some people have asked if I regret having been a newspaper reporter. I usually reply, “Never.”

Bad things do happy on Friday the 13^th, but so do good things. I’ve learned that it’s not just any other day. Who knows what will happen today?

Writing Diva

The Year the Music Died

During the past five months, music lovers have experienced the loss of several authors to what I call “the soundtracks of our lives.” Natalie Cole (who died on New Year’s Eve); David Bowie; Maurice White of Earth, Wind, and Fire; Glenn Frey of the Eagles; Nicholas Caldwell of the Whispers; Dan Hicks; Gayle McCormick, the lead singer of Smith who belted a rocking rendition of “Baby, It’s You”; Sir George Martin, record producer for the Beatles; Merle Haggard; Prince; Billy Paul (“Me and Mrs. Jones”). This year, 2016, has seen the passing of what appears to be more famous artists than in previous years.

Maybe it appears that way because we Baby Boomers grew up listening to the music of these artists. For me, the deaths of these musicians make me think of my mortality.

The recent untimely death of Prince, 57, stunned me most. He is only three years and three months older than I, so he’s a contemporary. Twenty of his songs are on my iPod, and I have his “Musicology” CD at home. When my sister Black Woman Blogging and I heard that Prince was going to perform two shows in Oakland, we wanted to get tickets. But, with any Prince performance, it sold out as soon as the concerts were announced.

I thought that we would be able to see Prince another time. That was not to be.

What saddens me is that the artists of the soundtracks of our lives are passing away. These passings remind us that we, too, have limited time on this Earth. (By the way, I believe that each of us has a soundtrack. We have to listen for it.) All I can do is cherish the music these gifted musicians left behind and live in such in such a way that we leave behind our gifts for others to enjoy.

I still feel wistful over the passage of time and the passing of these artists. But I’ll go forward.

Writing Diva

Done With Gun Violence

I doubt that my blog post will have much focus today. To my readers, I ask for your patience.

Last night, around the time nine parishioners of an African-Methodist-Episcopal church in Charleston, South Carolina, were shot to death, I was having dinner with members of my church’s small group at a local Panera restaurant. We laughed, broke bread, and prayed for one another. Normally, we would’ve met at the church that evening studying the Bible, praying for one another, and praising God.

People should feel safe at church to worship and pray. For this reason, I am stunned and angry to hear of the mass shooting yesterday evening at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church. Nine people died, including a state senator who was the church pastor, the Rev. Clementa Pinckney. A young Caucasian man allegedly sat in the pews for about an hour before opening fire on the praying group. He allegedly said told a parishioner during a break in the violence, “I have to do it. You rape our women and you’re taking over our country. And you have to go.”

Law enforcement authorities arrested Dylann Storm Roof this morning in Shelby, North Carolina. They are investigating this massacre as a white-on-blacks hate crime. Frankly, I’m surprised the suspect didn’t kill himself when he was confronted.

This violence has to stop. I realize that it’s a hackneyed phrase, but I use it out of frustration. President Barack Obama, in remarks made today at the White House, was also frustrated and saddened by the news of this latest mass shooting during his term. Among those killings were the 2012 shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, that killed 26 people, 20 of them children, and another 2012 shooting, this time in a Sikh temple in suburban Milwaukee that took the lives of five men and a woman.

“But let’s be clear: At some point, we as a country will have to reckon with the fact that this type of mass violence does not happen in other advanced countries,” a somber Obama told reporters with Vice President Joe Biden standing silently next to him. “It doesn’t happen in other places with this kind of frequency. And it is in our power to do something about it. I say that recognizing the politics in this town foreclose a lot of those avenues right now. But it would be wrong for us not to acknowledge it. And at some point, it’s going to be important for the American people to come to grips with it, and for us to be able to shift how we think about the issue of gun violence collectively.”

Whatever the solution is, it isn’t arming clergy and parishioners. It definitely isn’t having armed guards at the doors of houses of worship. Furthermore, the idea of churches, synagogues, mosques, and temples locked to the public with security guards to buzz them in seems antithetical with beliefs that doors should be open to those who wish to worship.

So, dear readers, if you have suggestions on how to deal with gun violence in general and mass shootings in particular without arming everybody (including children) and closing gathering places, please let me know. As author and talk show host Tavis Smiley wrote in USA Today, “What kind of nation do we want to be? Who are we, really?”

Indeed.

Writing Diva

Fleeing the Titanic: Short-Selling the “Money Pit”

This entry of “A Single Life” is the hardest I’ve had to write so far. I’m not proud of the financial choices I’ve made. However, if my experience can serve as a cautionary tale to someone reading this, I truly hope I’ve helped.

After having owned my two-bedroom, one-bathroom townhome for slightly more than eight years, I’ve thrown in the towel. I’m short-selling it. I do it reluctantly because I can no longer continue to pay a total of $2,400 in mortgage payment and monthly homeowners’ association dues. I should not be paying this much for a two-bedroom townhouse in a north Vacaville complex with renters making up half the residents.

I hadn’t planned to buy a home in 2006. However, a fatal shooting next door to my rental home in Fairfield prompted me to move. But I did so in fear, and I shouldn’t have. (I will try to limit my “should’ve, could’ve, and would’ve” statements in this entry.) I wanted to find a place that would allow me to keep my cat, Tuffy. So, after calling several mortgage brokers, one told me that I could buy a home without a down payment. In hindsight, I file this exchange under “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

So, armed with a Fannie Mae loan, I searched in Fairfield, Vacaville, and Elk Grove until my broker steered me to the north Vacaville townhouse I call home. The 40-year, 10-years-interest-only mortgage was for the full asking price of the home – about $299,000.

Two years later, shortly after the start of the Great Recession, the value of my home plummeted to $80,000. I, along with millions of other homeowners, learned a new economic term: “underwater mortgage,” in which the mortgage amount is more than the value of the home.

In 2011, I refinanced the mortgage through the federal Home Affordability Refinance Program, or HARP, hoping to lower my monthly payments. While I received a lower interest rate, the new mortgage lender added the principal and interest, so I ended up paying nearly $100 more each month.

Late last year, the Solano County Assessor-Recorder’s Office assessed my property at $150,000. While the increased value was encouraging, the last straw came when I received my annual escrow statement. Because of an increase in the property tax and insurance, my mortgage payment went up by $150 to $1,920. Add the $280 in HOA dues, that’s $2,400 a month. (The plurality of the dues goes toward water for the lush community lawn. During a drought, even.) The increased in my mortgage payment ate into my groceries budget. I was miserable and decided to look into selling my home.

I contacted a friend of a friend from church to find out what my options are. He turned out to be a local Realtor. After discussing the pros and cons of keeping the home, I signed papers allowing him to show my home.

What the Realtor neglected to mention is that, in addition to taking still pictures of my home, he videotaped the inside of my messy home and posted it onto You Tube. Had I known that my messy house would be on the Internet, I would’ve told him, “No!” But what’s done is done.

Long story short, we received four offers and accepted one from a young couple with a toddler daughter. Now it’s up to my mortgage lender to approve the short sale. Once the approval goes through, escrow should take between 30 and 45 days, my Realtor said. In the meantime, I am searching for a pet-friendly home, preferably a house over an apartment, because I have a piano and two cats.

Right now, I’m soured on the American Dream of owning a home. I will focus on paying my bills and boosting my retirement contributions. Maybe someday I will own a home. But next time, I will put some skin in the game.

Writing Diva

Hey, Academy, How About More Color and More Women?

The following is an open letter to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences:

 Greetings, Academy voters,

After viewing your nominations for the 87^th annual Academy Awards®, I thought, “These choices could be a topic of Saturday Night Live’s ‘REALLY?!! With Seth and Amy.’” For example:

• You nominated “Selma” for best picture and best original song (kudos to John Legend and Lonnie “Common” Lynn for “Glory”) but did not give nods to lead actor David Oyelowo, who gave a towering performance as Martin Luther King Jr., or Bradford Young for cinematography, or, most glaring, Ava DuVernay for best director. You could’ve made history by nominating DuVernay, who would’ve been the first African-American woman earning a best director nomination and only the fifth woman. REALLY?! How about director Angelina Jolie for "Unbroken"? (Regarding Oyelowo, whose name you should learn to pronounce since he’ll be back, I get that you made room for Bradley Cooper in “American Sniper.” But this is his third consecutive nomination. Make room for someone else!)
• I agree with four of the five leading actress nominees. You might as well engrave Julianne Moore’s statue now for "Still Alice" since she’s way overdue. But I’m scratching my head over your nomination of Marion Cotillard for “Two Days, One Night,” which hasn’t even been released in the Sacramento area, over Jennifer Aniston’s performance in “Cake.” (Sigh.) REALLY?!
• Regarding the roster of nominated animated films, I am thrilled to see “How to Train Your Dragon 2” in the pack. But why not “The Lego Movie” too? REALLY?!
• I’m not going to fault Glen Campbell’s nomination for best original song for “I’m Not Gonna Miss You,” although I have yet to see his film debut in the Sacramento area. But I believe that his song may be the dark horse in this category. However, couldn’t you have made room for Lorde’s “Yellow Flicker Beat” from “The Hunger Games – Mockingjay Part 1” as a nod to younger viewers? REALLY?!
• Finally, I am glad that you invited (best supporting actor nominee) Barkhad Abdi, (best supporting actress winner) Lupita Nyong’o, cinematographer Masanobu Takayanagi, costume designer William Change Suk Ping, and director Gina Price-Bythewood to join your august body last year. How about adding some more women and people of color since the Academy is 94 percent white and 76 percent men? REALLY?!

I’m done with my annual nominations rant. Let’s see how things turn out on February 22.

Writing Diva