Or Does It Explode?

I can see my personal quest for inner calm is in direct defiance of my continual reading of news regarding the lack of a grand jury indictment in Ferguson, MO.

When I first read about the verdict I literally threw up my hands in frustration. That action immediately put to mind the classic Marvin Gaye song “Inner City Blues” which I posted to my Facebook.

ferguson

I wake up this morning to the snippets of the evidence presented at trial all over the news and social media. If what has thus far ben released to the public as a way to substantiate the grand jury’s correctness in their decision, it has backfired greatly my eyes.

I’ve seen some of the photo evidence of Office Wilson’s “injuries”. They range from what looks like razor burn or heat rash to a simple scratch. I’ve marred myself more popping a pimple.

And as I angrily posted this morning upon seeing the above picture:

ferguson2

That was his personal evidence? THAT was worth someone’s life? NO!

I know. I KNOW, I was not at the trial. I have not perused all the evidence that was presented to the grand jury – now released to the public. I have seen several snippets that have thus far been posted to news and social media. Those alone, at least to me, make it worthy of a trial.

All I can think right now is: Has the value of black lives, which were always of questionable value in this country historically once we stopped being chattel in the country anyway, lowered so far down the scale that the death of one in such fashion is not even worth a damn trial?

Last night’s outbreaks of violence in the aftermath of the verdict, reminds me very much of what happened after Rodney King. And to be honest, while I understood the anger that drove it, I did not understand the point of the LA riots in 1992 any more than I understand these outbreaks in Ferguson now. Being afraid to step foot in or out of the door of your local business because your own neighbor may have a Molotov at the ready, does nothing to help the situation. I’ve lived just long enough to see that while the details change, it still all feels a harsh ring of deja vu with history repeating itself.

Here we Americans stand some two hundred and thirty plus years of freedom from England. We blacks stand some one hundred and fifty years free from slavery, but sometimes I feel like we’re still bound. The Civil Rights Movement has done much for the outer trappings, yet we are still such a long way from the inner heart of the dream of Rev. Dr. King. And it seems every generation or so, a match gets lit to a powder keg to remind of us of just how far we have left to go before that dream comes true. In the interim, it still remains a dream deferred and Langston Hughes best explained the possible ramifications of such…

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

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Weekly Prompt – Share Your World – Week 45

Over at Cee’s Photography I’ve discovered a weekly challenge to “Share Your World” via random questions. While photos are not required, I agree they do enhance things. Here are my responses:

What is your favorite color? 

shades-of-black

Black. I know part of my love for the color is because of my aversion to all things pastel as a child. As a teen and adult, the appeal for me is the mystery attached to it. The color of darkness; the touch of badness; the hint of the illicit and the simple perversion of liking something girls are not supposed to like. I was Goth and Metal and Leather, a good decade before those terms existed in my lexicon. Back when it meant something rebel, mysterious, dark not to be the near casually tossed out adjectives as used today.

In what do you find the simplest of joys?

 

Bacon Mac and Cheese

Macaroni and cheese – with bacon!

 music-is-what-feelings-sound-likeMusic! Music! Music!

Food and music. A bowl of mac & cheese in general, but especially with bacon can bring out of just about any foul mood and put a smile on my face. It makes a good mood feel even better. In either case at least until the bowl is finished. * Big Grin *  Such simple ingredients at its base – yet so complex in how it just works. There is a reason it is high up in the list of Comfort Food for so many.

And as much as I am a logophile and bibliophile and appreciate the ability of words to reach and touch me to the core, music gets me there deeper and infinitely faster. I can hear the opening of certain songs and/or music pieces and feel my mood shifts on the first note of recognition. At least in my head I have to do the call backs of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” (bom-bom-bom <– see?! I just had to, had to include it!), and unless I am carrying a very heavy load, I still cannot resist the urge to drop everything in order to “air drum”, the drum solo in Phil Collins “In The Air Tonight”. I have clutched my heart and been brought to tears over a piece of music as book has ever done so – yet. I am not always eating, but there is always music -or easy access to it- around me.

Would you prefer a reading nook or an art, craft, photography studio?

studio_1

Oh, the art studio hands down.  I can make a reading nook out of just about any where I choose to sit and read. I do not work on a lot of the art things I would like to simply because I do not have the space to pursue such within the limited confines off my apartment. I am pretty sure my landlord would very much object to a kiln for glass blowing or a pottery wheel in my living room, not to mention the mess acrylic and oil paints can make. I already know should I hit the big lottery; whatever home I build will have a studio nearby where I can work on any of my various artistic pursuits at will as well as a library.

What is at least one of your favorite quotes?

 orig-copy

Everyone is born an original; sadly most die as copies.

freedom-happiness

Doing what you like is freedom; liking what you do is happiness.”


Bonus question:
What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

grateful
Last week was seeing the first New York Festival of Light and getting to spend some time with my eldest son in the process. The Festival was in its inaugural run and it was sweet being at the very first of something new. Years down the road from now, there’s going to be a certain cachet in being able to brag, I was at the first one. I took pictures, unfortunately not a single one with me and my son in them as proof we were there – d’oh! I am already looking forward to next year’s Festival – I know it will be even bigger and better! As for this week that is already more than halfway over, I am looking forward to the “Color Play” opening reception at La Maison d’Art in Harlem. Like the Festival I rarely get to many such events on their opening day, not to mention hardly attend any events in Harlem any more – to which hang my head in shame. That is a slight I plan to rectify starting with this exhibit.

Come Share Your World at Cee’s Photography.

 

The Teeth The Whole Teeth And I Got Nothing…

Because I had a yen for mediocre barbecue, a friend and I were dining at the epitome of NYC eatery, Dallas BBQ (metro NYC dwellers familiar with the chain are giggling at that statement right now, if that’s any hint). A woman, who looked to be my physical age, but may have been older given allowance for the “crack factor” was sitting at nearby table with her dining companion. As he went to go feed the meter, she had a sudden outburst of several panicked “Oh no!”s, while frantically searching her purse, her coat pockets and the table for something clearly important. After a few moments she points at a busboy with an accusatory “He took it! I know he took it!”.

Was it a ring, her wallet, credit/debit cards or even cash? No, it was her teeth.

Yes, you read that correctly. Her teeth.

As her decibel and tear levels increase, it is learned that it was her birthday and she had removed her teeth while she dined, placing them on the table beside her plate, wrapped up in paper napkins. Personally, I never quite understood the point of removing one’s dentures, bridgework et cetera in order to eat. I mean, isn’t the point of most dentistry is to provide the wearer the ability to masticate one’s food, but I digress. According to her, while waiting for “doggie bags” (and as my dinner companion asked “Who says that anymore?”), the busboy cleared the remaining refuse on the table, thereby trashing the at first valued at $500, but by event’s end increased to $700 in orthodontics.

Clearly when being taught Table Clean-Up 101, the busboys missed the section that states they must carefully inspect every single piece of balled-up tissue or napkin discarded at a dinner table for possible teeth, because the owners of said teeth are not responsible for their belongings. Essentially, she accused the man of doing his job – that bastard! She was in turns having a pouting, table pounding, smack condiments to the floor in frustration, foot stomping, with intermittent outcries of “My teeth!” hissy fit.

Her dinner companion addressed her as “Ma”, as in a poignant, earnest, but definitely loud request to “Chill the fuck out Ma!” as her wailing increased. Attempting to gauge his age in comparison to hers, in order to determine whether “Ma” was a title or a term of endearment was never established. The woman was just short of keening for her lost teeth, much to the amusement of a table of four twenty-mid-twenty-somethings, all of whom pulled out their respective cell phones to record the proceedings as managers and other wait staff were pulled into the melodrama.

All this time I was facing the events, doing my best to not start outright laughing in the woman’s presence, even if I could barely keep a straight face of my own. Some forty-five minutes later, the birthday girl and her dinner companion leave the restaurant, still distraught over the loss, but with their meal comped for their troubles. It was the general consensus of my dining companion that the point of the entire production was getting the meal comped. While I not necessarily agree to that in regard to the lost teeth, it was clearly the intent of a woman who sat a table over from the going-ons, claiming the event upset her so, she suffered loss of appetite and she and her dinner companion should be compensated for such. The beleaguered manager, understandably flustered from the craziness, was not hearing it.

My friend looked me dead in the eye and proclaimed she did not care how desperate I wanted ribs, we were never stepping foot in that place again. Can’t say that I blamed her. After all, if hjbvl c this was a simple rainy Wednesday evening, early dinner crowd can you imagine the shenanigans on a Friday? During Happy Hour?

On the second thought, don’t.

Wash. Sip. Repeat.

Enter Subway Pet Peeve Number One: Eating or drinking on the subway when you are standing above someone.

I am seated reading a book on my Tab when I smell coffee. A woman is standing in front of me sipping from a paper cup. Not a thermos, a paper cup; a large paper cup. I can clearly see the torn tab opening when moves the cup from her lips. I can tell by the angle in which she holds it while sipping, it is still a relatively full cup.

“Good Morning.” I smile, garnering her attention and she returns my greeting.

“I’m asking, could you not do that please?” I ask pointing to the cup.

“Not do what? Drink my coffee?”

“Yes. Could you not do that please?”

“Why?”

“This is a crowded train during rush hour. You could be jostled at any moment that results in spillage and I do not want me or my electronics to get wet.”

“There’s no law that says I can’t drink coffee on the train.”

“You are correct, there is no explicit law denying anyone the right to eat and drink on the subway. However, it is considered common courtesy to refrain from doing so when seated, it is especially so if you are standing above someone.”

“I’m not going to spill anything.”

“Not intentionally, I hope, but the word accident exists for a reason. However profusely stated and honestly felt, “I’m sorry” does not negate any potential damage done. It especially does negate the callousness of your actions when I am asking you nicely, not to. If you don’t want to stop, can I then ask you to stand elsewhere? Maybe other passengers are not as bothered by it as I.”

From the looks of my fellow passengers seated on either side of me, it was clear they would not be indifferent to her rudeness either and she knew it.

“Oh please. Fuck you.”

I look up to the through the subway car roof to the heavens above and mentally ask the Powers-that-Be why they chose a day when I am in a dress and heels, in other words in no way dressed for a potential fight, to test me so.

“Not a problem.”

I do not say anything else to her knowing she will be off the train before I will. I simply hoped she does not spill anything on me in the interim. The best I can do is put my Tab and cellphone out of harm’s way. Seeing my house keys in a side pocket, I take them out and hold them in my fist. I think better of it and put them away, carefully placing my bag on the floor between my feet. I know she saw what I did and moved the cup from her face. There is slight mumbling around us by those witnessing the exchange, none of it in her favor, but nothing else. All the while she is standing there holding the coffee in her hand, not sipping it, but with the open notch it’s still a potential for spillage.

The train reaches her stop and she turns to leave, giving me the side eye over her shoulder as she does. Bitch is stated in her eyes, if not spoken with her mouth. A guy seated across, but closer to the door, from me wakes up with a start. He looks around dazed for a split second and must have realized he either missed his stop or was about to when he stood up quickly. He stood right into the hand holding the coffee that was on its way to her lips again for a defiant sip as she glared at me.

Want to guess what happened next?

Yup, the guy accidentally knocks the coffee into her, causing it to spill on her blouse and his elbow that made contact before she can right it. The man apologizes profusely, but he is also intent on getting off the train. She has moved enough away that none of it drips on me. A woman sitting to my left, who witnessed the exchange between the woman and I snorts a heartfelt “Good for her!”. Because this is morning rush hour there is confusion at the door as people are rushing to get in and out while avoiding the coffee spill on the floor. Another woman somehow stepped right in it and nearly slipped, grabbing the handhold just in time. Ms. Coffee immediately turns around, clearly about to apologize, when the woman, cuts her off.

“”The word accident exists for a reason.” Next time, don’t drink the damn coffee. Now get out of the way!” The woman who nearly fell snarls at Ms. Coffee, pushing past her evidently pissed.

I know it is coming, so I wait for it. Sure enough Ms. Coffee shoots me one last look. I salute her with the bird as she hustles to get off the train before the door closes. Two men in suits who entered from a different door and witnessed only  the last minute or so of the events, look around as they make their way in.

I am reaching for my bag to get my iPod when the woman next to me bursts out laughing, making me look up.

“What was that all commotion at the other door about?” One suit asks his friend while sipping a cup of coffee. In a paper cup.

I groan as the woman laughs harder and the two suits look on confused.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

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Update: Guess who I saw on the train this morning? Yup, Ms. Coffee herself, sans coffee this time. She was not standing near me, but we saw each other.

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Black Label Autumn Memories

As I am  walking to the train station this morning a tiny flash of something bright falls just outside of my vision. It is a small golden leaf that lands on my shoulder. Being in my favorite season, I smile at the thought of autumn in New York City coming to its glory. I start to simply flick it off and go on about my day, but it somehow lands in my palm instead.

Then the heart does the one thing nothing else can do – make time stop for a moment as I am transported back some twenty years into the past.

It is a Sunday evening, the last night of an impromptu weekend trip with my late-husband to the Poconos. He is inside refreshing a drink. I am outside in my underwear leaning on the porch rail enjoying the view of the mountains that are basked in the warm bright colors of early sunset that washed the autumn foliage before me in rich shades before the sun reaches the ochre and indigo phases of its descent. With the annoying ability to walk on cat feet when he chooses to I do not hear him approach, but the heat from the eternal furnace that is his body reaches me just before he does and I turn to face him. He has on even less than I, and by the easy smile playing along his lips I am well aware of how much he likes what he sees before him. Wordlessly, he takes a slow sip of his drink as he reaches up to pull something from my hair and let it go. I extend my hand and a small golden leaf falls onto my open palm. It rests only for a moment before he gently blows it away and steps into my arms to kiss me. I remember wishing that we had more time there to enjoy ourselves before heading back to reality.

And reality reasserts itself back into my current life as a warm gust of air gently blows the fallen leaf from my palm.

It felt so eerily like his breath on my palm from that long ago evening; I shivered in remembrance. I have been trying to shake it off all morning, but here I am decades after the fact, hours after the memory, wishing I could once again enjoy the taste of Black Label on his lips.

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Slice of Life Weekly Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

That’s A Dress?

A new plus-size clothing store opened in my area. I came to check it out, visually peruse the wares. With most of the clothing brightly colored, patterned and blingy, the store clearly catered to a customer base much younger than myself.  While the styles were cute, most of their skirts and dresses were much too short for my tastes, even if worn with leggings as is the current trend. It’s just not my style, but I keep looking because you never know, every now and then you strike gold and I did. I spot a semi-muted leopard print skirt with a pleated sheer black overlay hanging high on a wall. I am actually surprised by this skirt for a couple of reasons. The muted tones of the print together with the overlay was a considerable level up in comparison to most of what I had seen so far. Above all it was the only skirt in the entire shop that reached my knees. Bonus – it was on sale, so I had to have it. I catch the eye of a sales girl, point to the skirt on the wall and ask if it is in my size. She looks befuddled not seeing the skirt I’m speaking of until I point it out by describing the shorter skirt next to it.

“Oh, you mean the leopard mini dress!” She smiles finally understanding to which item I refer; only now I am the one who is confused.

“That’s a dress?” I look at it again, not seeing it all at.

“Yeah, let me take it down for you, you’ll see.” She finds an extender hanging hook and brings it to me. “See? It’s a dress.”

I dubiously took it and held it against my body.  To be fair the tube dress likely would be cute hitting mid-thigh or lower on someone who is 5’3″ or shorter. However, at my 5’8″ frame, worn as designed, it barely reached past my hips to my upper thighs and that is just holding it against me. With my body shape it would be even shorter when put on.

“Please tell me, where on earth would I be going at my age in something like this? Me?” I shake my head. It honestly was a sarcastic, rhetorical question, but the sales girl didn’t know that.
“Yes, you! It’s a club dress. You could easy rock that!” She nods as she visually appraised the dress against me.

“I’m fifty years old and there’s no way in hell…” I begin and then stop, seeing that she is about to cut me off with the standard tripe. “I swear if you’re about to say “age is just a number” close your mouth now before you lose a sale.” She closed her mouth so hard and fast I think I heard her teeth grind. “You’re new at being a sales girl in a clothing store aren’t you?”

She nods self-consciously in response. “That obvious?”

I take a mental breath and smile at the girl, hopefully taking some of the sting out of my words.  She is just trying to do her job, I reminded myself. “Just a little. It takes time to learn to read customers. Someone younger, you might be able to get them to buy it as a dress anyway. But I’m not that young. You saw that face I gave you a moment ago? That was the face of a woman who knows what she is about.  What her style is and what works for her. You can’t sway her. You don’t want to push too hard on a customer who’s set like that. She can have five items in her arms that she loves, but may walk away purchasing nothing because of that. In your case you’re lucky I have imagination and am buying this to wear as a skirt. So what do you think you should do next?”

“Ask you to show me how you’re wearing it as a skirt so I can show someone else how if they don’t like it as a dress neither.”

I mentally cringed at the double negative, but nodded approvingly, “Very good. And…?”

“Now that you have this skirt, we have a belt I think would go great with it. Let me show you, it’s this way.” She turned barely waiting for my response, knowing I would follow.

“Perfect.” I laughed.  “Show me.”

I’ve worn that skirt twice now with different tops and both times I received compliments on my dress.  Especially when seen  in pictures. The irony of it makes me giggle.

dress - skirt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s a dress?

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You Better Be Glad I Like You

Yawning before she can open to the first page of Glass Houses, the new book she downloaded the night before, Sabrina gives up and closes her Tab. Already familiar with the author’s mesmerizing writing style, she knows the successive yawns that have overtaken her are hardly portent to the reading material. Sparing the fellow commuter sitting directly across from being able to count her fillings even from that distance should she allow free rein to pandiculation, she presses her lips tightly together stifling yet another yawn. Dear sweet Insomnia, the sonavabitch, in its perverse sense of humor, takes the sleep she was denied in the dead of night when it was needed and uses the rhythmic movements of the subway train to bring it to her in the morning light of her commute to work.

Glancing at the time piece on her wrist as an afterthought, she muses why she even bothers wearing a watch anymore as she checks the time on her cell phone anyway, 06:47am. There is still a solid forty-five minutes or so of her ride to work, barring the expected unexpected delays inherit to morning rush hour. Knowing a losing battle when she feels it, she stores the Tab in her handbag, and like the true City commuter she is, she then zips it and wraps the straps around her wrists for safe keeping before pulling her sunglasses over her eyes and gives in to slumber.

Taking a late breakfast break nearly four hours later, she sits at her desk, her second extra-large coffee of the morning well in hand, curious antici-pation, not letting her wait until the evening commute to begin reading the book. She opens the reader on her PC figuring she can get at least the first chapter in as she takes a bite of the bacon, eggs and cheese on a toasted bialy. The cheese oh so perfectly warm and gooey as she likes it suddenly feeling repulsively mucoid as she reads the opening sentence:

NED POWELL AWOKE FRIDAY morning at eight and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, rolling a viscous, snot-like clump between his fingers like it was putty.

Damn you Andrew Wilmot, you better be glad I like you!

(PS: I finished eating the sandwich anyway.)

Glass Houses by Andrew Wilmot

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: Look That Up

I went out to dinner with a few folks the weekend before last. As normal among us as there were ribald shenanigans aplenty. It was all fun and games, a fantastic get together to catch up. Somewhere in the midst of the silliness I noted Crisp (don’t ask/can’t tell), had stopped short for a moment to look at me queerly, but then he continued on with the conversation and I promptly dismissed whatever it was I thought I saw.

We ran into each other on the train this morning. After a moment of general salutations he looks at me saying there’s something he wanted to ask that’s been on his mind since dinner the weekend before. Aha I thought, I did see something, it was not my imagination after all.

“Sure Crisp what’s on your mind” I ask mentally preparing for a serious conversation.

“I know this is stupid,” He starts “but when we were joking around you called me a C.A.D.”

“A C.A.D.?”

“Yeah, usually I can figure out how your convoluted mind jumps and follow your sense of humor, but for the life of me I cannot fathom how you jumped from the archaic to computer-aided design.” He laughs self deprecatingly.

Now, I am mentally scratching my head trying to fathom where we were in the midst of the various topics of conversation that included computer aided design and drew a complete blank.  I am literally thinking to myself who the hell, but Crisp would call it computer-aided design when everyone else who even knows the term calls it by its acro… And that’s when the light bulb lit.

“I called you a cad?” It took everything I had to look in his face and not snort in laughter.

“Yes, a CAD.” He nodded, becoming somewhat perturbed by my barely suppressed mirth.

“By god for a man presumed reasonably adroit, betimes your mind is naught but fandangle. I called you a cad, you dimwit!” I snickered.

The conversation he referred to was a hodgepodge of history that segued into archaic or near archaic words.  I adore Crisp, but at that moment in the conversation clearly his comprehension of archaic  fared not much past the immediate computer age. What was also clear was that he proving the point why such words were near archaic as he still did not get it.  We were nearing his stop and he stood.

“Since you sat for over a week and did not bother ascertain for yourself whether there were possible alternate meanings, especially given the conversation at the time, I shant make it easy and do the work by simply telling you.” I shook my head smiling as he edged towards the door. “Go look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls.

“My fucking what?” Crisp turned at the door completely confused

A gentleman sitting across from me, who clearly got the reference, started laughing as I put my head down groaned.

It’s been a while since I actually felt my age, thanks Crisp.

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Power in the Blood

Human Art by Grace Mateo Used tampons on canvas. 20 x 16 inch. www.gracemateo.com

You Don’t Understand (Do You Now?). 2014.
by Grace Mateo
Used tampons on canvas. 20 x 16 inch.
http://www.gracemateo.com

 

The above image will make a lot of you uncomfortable? Why? If you are one of those souls who genuinely get physically sick at the site of blood, I am sorry to have made you feel ill, but I do not  apologize.

I’ll admit that I did the rapidly blinking eye thing as I registered exactly what it was I viewed. After all, I am woman who has made it the half-century mark  in life. To put this in a historical  timeline perspective, I am old enough to remember/have used a menstrual belt, but by the time I was living with my partner in the mid-80’s they were already a thing of the distant past, so I have an itsy bit of personal knowledge in the subject. After all this isn’t anything I haven’t seen virtually every month for the past thirty plus years of it, so big deal. Even as I thought the words, I was already countering thinking, but so many other will think it’s just that, a big deal, and I’m forced to ask myself why? Why is this a big deal?

In the artist’s own words…

This is Human Art. The female body is not something to be afraid of, and it is definitely not disgusting. There are things we don’t speak about, that are traditionally held to be private, but silence only leads to fear and death. So, if you don’t like the things I say or make then you do not have to engage in it. This is not shock art. If you find a woman’s period to be shocking then you, my friend, are most definitely living a sheltered life and need to be better informed about your fellow humans.

I’m not here to further roast the old chestnut of What Is Art?. This is more of a query into this particular human behavior. What is it about the female menstrual cycle that makes people, male and fellow females so uncomfortable?

It takes everything I have to not let my eyes roll in the back of my head whenever I hear a grown woman say “I can’t stand the sight of blood”. The older she is and the more emphatic she is in her repulsion the harder the temptation to do so.  Years ago I was handling a stack of manila folders at work and gave my self a nasty paper cut. One that required my stopping everything to tend to it. As I rinsed my finger at the sink and prepared to bandage it, a co-worker went into mini theatrics about the sight of blood and how I was upsetting her. Trust me when I tell you she was no shrinking violet so that was one time I did roll my eyes in annoyance without hesitation. I asked if she menstruates each month, to which she naturally responded in the positive as I expected. I then queried if she had assistance when removing and disposing of her used feminine hygiene products at that time. Naturally,she naturally responded in the negative, as expected. I concluded with if she can stand processing her bloody bodily functions several times a day, for a few days each damn month, then my manila cut on a finger for a minute was nothing and she needed to shut the fuck up, but I digress and return to my original query.

Why is the female menstrual cycle clouded in this veil of mystery? What is with the menstrual taboo that allows commercials to use the proper terminology for erectile dysfunction and incontinence with almost no filter, but when it comes to female our cycles it’s almost always hidden some form of pseudonymThe Gift, That Time of the Month, the ever classic Aunt Flo and of course the only one that actually makes any sense Period. Basically any and everything that will avoid using the word blood and any iteration of  menses. The only time you hear the word menstrual used regularly is in the phrase “premenstrual syndrome”, but even that is usually shortened to the gentler acronym of PMS. Because we can talk circles about the mental and emotional aspects about menstruation, but the actually physically bloody part of it is always hush-hush. And speaking of bloody – unless advertisers believe every single woman who menstruates also turns into a  Vulcan during her period, what is with the mysterious blue stuff they use to demonstrate Product Y’s absorbancy anyway? Because goodness gracious should they use red food coloring so that it might resemble what it is. I am not even going to touch that nonsense of women wearing white anything below the waist when Mother Nature comes to visit. Trust me when I tell you for a majority of us women, the first few days are not anything near as sanitized as it looks in the above art work, yet only other women and our respective doctors will readily understand this.

Nearly all girls are brought up that they should not talk about menstruation with boys, nor was it appropriate to discuss menstruation with their fathers. Most of the single fathers I know learned that their daughters were not quite so little girls anymore via a female friend or relative because of this. Young heterosexual women are almost always embarrassed the first time they misjudge their monthly supply amount and have to ask their significant others to run to the store for their feminine hygiene product/s of choice.  Tip for any men reading this: Please, please pay attention to what brand your woman uses/tells you to get. You do not want to get into that argument – really you just don’t.

Historically, a menstruating woman was considered sacred and powerful. Yet like so many things and stories that extolled the feminine power, it was wrapped up in mythology and dismissed or outright just dismissed, especially in the patriarchy of many religions that view a menstruating woman as “unclean”. The menstrual taboo is more prevalent in most movies and television shows when a woman’s menses is generally mentioned in relation to the thankfulness of unwanted or regret for lack of  pregnancy. Otherwise periods are generally portrayed as something traumatic, embarrassing, offensive, gross and/or for cheap comedic premenstrual syndrome (PMS) makes us evil laughs.  Outside of the rare portrayals of menarche, when a girl experiences her first period, there are very few portrayals of the completely natural act of female nature that it is.

Granted, things are slowly getting better. There are a hilarious couple of commercials by Always, with the “The Gift before The Gift” tagline.  New Moon Party and The Camp Gyno. The HelloFlo campaign takes wonderful pock shots at their behaviors when it comes to menarche. In these commercials not only are the products free of the packaging, all allusions to blood are not done in blue! Parents of prepubescent girls, if you have not already seen these commercials you should. I wish these care packages were around when my mother was explaining it to me. Designed for young girls, the commercial and the ensuing products are made to help demystify the period for those near the onset of puberty. Take the secrecy out of such items from the beginning, it does not turn into such a taboo later.

I am not saying a detailed analysis of whether Kotex is better than Always is discussion to be had at the family dinner.   If your family is that progressive that you can, I saw “Bravo!”, more power to you. Women can talk about the various stages of their pregnancies good and bad without a problem. Parents can show videos of the up close and personal views of the birth of their children without batting an eye. Some will watch such videos voluntarily on PBS type stations in all its bloody glory and it’s just fine. Yet let a woman place a package of feminine hygiene products on the conveyor belt where a young boy is packing, or at the top of her bag where a grown man has to inspect it and watch what happens. The mere thought of a woman’s menstrual cycle is so disturbing to some, that most males will give pause before touching the item and the younger the male, the more likely the revulsion.

Because it is still the presumed norm that menstruation should remain hidden.  And while whether or not  the above image is art is debatable, the subject matter depicted as a discussion point should not be.

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

 

Slice of Life Writing challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Almost A Moment – Always A Memory

One afternoon in the late eighties, my late-husband and I were in some random deli in midtown. A gentleman with a full bushy beard, an overcoat, a ushanka pulled low on his bowed head, though it was hardly the weather for it, sat at an adjacent table and begin eating a sandwich. l paid little attention to him other than to casually note he was hirsute. Tufts of dark hair peeking out from the cuffs and the top of the t-shirt spied under the open collar of his shirt.  Something about the guy nagged the back of my mind, but I didn’t want to outright stare while I attempted to figure it out.  Still, I would steal surreptitious glances, trying to confirm or deny my hunch. In the midst of eating, what it was about the guy finally hit me so I pulled out my inner three-year old and in a childish voice said “Fuck it!”

Bill immediately snorted as that had become something of a silly catchphrase for us at the time. The gentleman at the other table startled, but did not otherwise acknowledge my low-keyed outburst. Satisfied I had the right of it I continued dining and conversing with my husband. As Bill went to pay for the meal,  I started stacking the dishes on our table.  I glanced at the guy one more time and simply couldn’t resist.

“Fuck it! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

This time he looked up and slowly smiled. It was a rueful kind of “Ah, you got me!” smile.  Having fully satisfied my idle curiosity, I simply winked, nodded once in acknowledgement and continued cleaning off the table as though nothing happened. Bill arrived back to the table just as the guy was lowering his head back down to his meal. I knew Bill recognized him when his eyes started to go wide.

“Is that…?”

I grabbed Bill by the arm and pulled him away before he could think to disturb the man any more than I already had.

“And being a fool, he was simple-minded, he didn’t see a king. He only saw a man alone and in pain.” –The Fisher King

When later asked why I pulled him away,  I responded the man just wanted to be left alone, get a bite to eat and be on his way. If he wanted fawning star treatment he wouldn’t be at some random deli in midtown. Who were we to disturb him? I was afraid if we spoke to him we would draw attention to him. If my interpretation of that rueful little smile was correct, it was clearly not something he wanted at that moment.

That man?  Robin Williams.

This was within a couple of years or so of Williams’ tears of laughter inducing one man show Robin Williams Live At  The Met. At the height of his career, the top of his game.

I sit here now, the last person left of that random happenstance, that snapshot in time. Had you told me then, that he would be gone less than thirty years later, I would not have believed it. If you had asked me five minutes before I read of his passing yesterday, I would not have believed it. He has been gone roughly twenty-four hours now and I still cannot believe it.

Facebook - Robin Williams I, and I imagine most of the comedy loving world, spent a good chunk of time last night watching YouTube after YouTube of Williams in bittersweet heartache. Not that any age is ever the right age for someone to leave us, but in Robin’s case, it really was far too soon.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”
– Dead Poets Society

I mean no disrespect here for those that suffer the level of depression that had plagued him, but for me, at this moment, the hows and whys of his death does not change the simple fact that he is gone. Williams has been a part of the comedic world and our lives since the 1970s.  I figured if anyone, anyone would go for the George Burn’s Oldest Living Wise-Acre record it would have been Robin Williams. I could easily imagine him still part self-deprecating and part wily and part sage and still hilarious with a scoundrel’s twinkle in those youthful blue eyes that would belie his much advanced years.  Alas, that is not to be.

“Shazbot!”
Mork and Mindy

Last night the skies were clear. Logically I know many across the globe woke up to clear bright skies this morning, but I woke up to a gray morning, darkening clouds threatening rain. The skies matching the mood of many here in NYC already missing him. The world is a just a little bit darker without him in it, it is fitting. And that he would pass during the brightest nights of the Perseid Meteor Showers, the night skies welcome another star making it just a little bit brighter for a little while. I find it equally fitting.

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers