Poem - The Power by Raivenne
Why
Glower?
For this hour
Was made to soar
Not for us to cower!
I beg, beseech, Aye!, I implore
Relinquish that which harms and hurt no more!
Do all to raise our voices high unto the sky
And may it resound on every shore!
Let the world hear our hearts outpour
Embrace in Love’s shower
Rise from earth’s floor
That power
Is ours
Fly!
A week ago I am on line at Dean & Deluca at Madison & 85th when I feel a tug at the hem of my dress. First, let us step back and acknowledge that I was in a dress and high heels. For those of you who don’t know me well enough to understand the importance of this, it means I was dressed-up. I, who mostly run gorgeously amok in slacks or pantsuits and blouses with sneakers, occasionally wake up some mornings and let the girlie in me take over. I put some serious effort into looking more all-out feminine than usual by wearing an actual dress, high heels and seriously glaming it up. This was one of those days.
I look down and see an adorable ruddy-haired, freckle-faced moppet of sitting in a stroller that is she is obviously too old for smiling up at me. I look up to see a woman of what I guess to be Caribbean with her hands on the stroller handles (presumably the nanny or au pair) and another woman who is obviously the child’s mother standing next to them. I smile at the women, look down at the child and in the tone most adults reserve for speaking with young children address the child.
Me: My, aren’t you a pretty one!
Mother: Say thank you!
Child: Thank you!
Me: And how old are you sweetie?
Child: I’m six. Whose nanny are you?
Me: Why do you think I’m a nanny?
Child: Because you’re Black and….
Mother (really fast): She’s not a nanny silly girl! She’s just out shopping.
You heard that record scratch just then too, didn’t you?
It was a very slow rising of my head with the most patient and plastered smile on my face (thank you southern woman upbringing!) before I arched an eyebrow and addressed the dear sweet mother.
“Seriously? She’s all of six and already has the mindset that minorities must be in some form of servitude? How the hell have you managed to accomplish that despicable feat in such a short amount of time?”
The mother opened her mouth to speak, but I held up my hand stopping her.
“Children learn what their parents teach them, whether the parents realize a lesson was given or not. Now, unless you plan to raise her in a lily-white Stepfordian bubble where plantation rules apply and thus she will never know the truth, I suggest you check her burgeoning attitude and especially yours!” Those last two words were practically hissed; as I less than a foot from her face when I heard a cashier call out for the next customer and backed away.
The nanny/au pair was amazingly interested in a distant object – an apparently very distant object as glance over her before making my purchase. The mother at least had the grace to turn beet red before I turned away from her to make my purchase and leave the store.
The entire exchange reminded me of a Formspring question (several questions in one actually), which was asked of me a couple of weeks ago.
“Do you find more overt or hidden racism with people you interact with? Do you consider any of the people you are friendly with to display racist attitudes without intending to? Do you find yourself with racist attitudes towards others?”
I blew the question off on Formspring because I felt it was too loaded a question to be answered in such a fluff forum. So I bring it here…
“Do you find more overt or hidden racism with people you interact with?”
Even living in the “melting pot” that is NYC I would be a liar to say there is no racism here. More than enough yellow cabs ignore my hails in favor of others, to prove that point alone. It is here but absolutely more hidden, subtle, at least to me. There is the ever classic “shopping while Black” which happens whenever I am in any presumed (by the company’s standard) mid-to high-end establishment. If I have a moment of niceness and hold a door where a mixed group of races will pass through (such as a movie theater), generally, it is not someone of color who forgets their manners to acknowledge my actions and at least nod in thanks. Unfortunately, these are so incredibly commonplace that I know I have come to ignore it a lot more than I should at times. It is the more unusual encounters with strangers, such as above, that generally catch me off guard and illicit a reaction.
“Do you consider any of the people you are friendly with to display racist attitudes without intending to?”
Don’t we all, at some level, without intending to? Yes, those of us who are far from politically correct in our humor, who crack jokes at everyone’s expense equally, we get that. Still, who hasn’t had a moment something not quite right slip out of the mouth about another race/ethnicity? However, out and out “Oh no you didn’t!” moments? Only one friend once said something so outlandish as a joke and honestly didn’t have a clue as to how bad it was until he saw the expression on my face. I was so aghast; I could not respond and had to walk away. The next day, when I was in better frame of mind to voice my feelings with anger, but not blind fury, I let him have it. It was an ugly conversation. I know he walked away questioning the thought process that caused the situation to occur. It turned out to be the precursor to the beginning of the end of that close friendship. We still speak, but we’ve lost something that’s not likely to ever return us to the point of being close again. Still that was the exception. Luckily, I feel I can honestly say the people I am friendly with do not.
“Do you find yourself with racist attitudes towards others?”
I really, really, really wish I could give this question a heartfelt “Absolutely not!”, but I would be somewhat lying. When I run into situations like the one with the mother and daughter mentioned above, I do hear my mother’s racist attitudes against Caucasians a little louder in the back of my mind than what is probably good for me at that moment. I know that is where the “plantation rules” snark came from when addressing the mother, as that was one of her (my mother) favorite lines. One of those lessons learned, but this one was actively taught.
No one is raised to adulthood, in a society such as ours, without hearing stereotypes and other crap about other races, ethnicities etc. It’s what is done (or not done) with those little sub-programs running in our subconscious that defines whether or not a person is racist. Overall, I can honestly say, I do try to take in any situation good or bad based on the individual involved.
I hate it when one fat woman makes all the rest of us fat women look bad.
I was at a bus stop and heard this from a woman passing-by, speaking on her cell phone to someone else. While I do get the spirit in which the statement was meant, I found the actuality of it galled me. I mean was she (the presumed offensive woman)…
• being loud and obnoxious?
• wearing some major fashion faux pax (at least in the speaker’s eyes)?
• jolly (hey, there are some who really would think this a bad thing)?
• *gasp!* eating a croissant on the bus? (I have a few friends who will get that.)
When the Anderson/Lee tape was all the rage, did their actions reflect on every Hollywood couple out there? No. Well, I’m sure Tommy Lee was more than happy to be living proof as one of the exceptions to the rule about a certain stereotype, but I digress…
When Camryn Manheim appears on the red carpet looking magnificent, does it magically elevate all the rest of us fatties? Uh, no.
People constantly fight for their individualism, but are then grouped together and painted with the broad brush of one person’s actions. In a world a gazillion-plus fat woman, it’s a ridiculous conceit to think my actions will impact each and every other fat woman out there.
What sin was so egregious by this anonymous fat woman that her actions have now painted every living fat woman in existence with that stigma? After all, by this woman’s theory (the one speaking on the cell phone) she, I (and Camryn Manheim) now look bad through no fault of our own. So, how do we rectify it? Exactly, we can’t. As though we don’t already have enough on our already overfull plates! (Pun fully intended.) Each fat gal now has to also remember each and every thing we say/do/wear/think will reflect on every other fat gal out there.
But hey, no pressure…
I once read somewhere…
There is a certain kind of person that leans towards happiness.
I’d like to think, in spite of the less than stellar periods that mark my life from time to time, that overall, I am that kind of person.
I’m happy overall, simply because I chose to be. My problems haven’t lessened. Those who have access to my Facebook statuses, see when my moods are more midnight than noon. Still, even when I’m in the midst of a personal pity party, a part of me always knows “and this too shall pass” and I will be happy again.
How I’ve learned to handle life’s many bouts of crisis diminutive and demanding come from two main sources, my late-husband and my faith (such as it is). From my late-husband I’ve learned how to compartmentalize. Decide what is important, and needs working on now. The non-important things are mentally shelved until there is time for them, or when/if the time comes, to move them further up my importance ladder. The things I have deemed important are then broken into two main categories. What can I do to fix/change/control/help/etc. whatever it is now? If there’s something I feel I can (or am willing) to fix/change/control/help/etc., that is what I work on to the best of my ability. However, if it is something I feel I cannot (or perhaps should not) do anything about a given situation, here is where my faith comes in. I simply “Let go and let God”. Once a decision is made between the two, I may still think about it, but I don’t worry about it.
Several have asked, how have I managed to move on so quickly from the loss of a husband of twenty years? Honestly – I woke up one day and chose to. I have an acquaintance, Donna (a wonderful Numerologist and avid knitter), with whom I once adamantly contested in having a choice about moving on with my life, instead of continuing to wallow in grief, when she initially presented it to me that way (as a choice). I honestly did not see it as a choice at the time, simply because I am not the type to wallow in anything emotionally negative for any extended period. Having since met with (and/or read about) other widows/widowers and have seen the variety in how we choose to cope, or not cope, I understand. I may not have been entirely cognizant of doing such at the time, but yes Donna, I see that now. I made a choice, I chose to be happy, or at least start the process to get there.
Some have called it avoidance, but that is not necessarily true. When I am avoiding a problem it worries my soul constantly until I deal with it, one way or another, by the means I mentioned above. There is a huge difference to my personal sanity (hah!) between when I avoid a problem and when I choose to place it temporarily to the side until I have the means/knowledge/etc. to work on it. It’s not exactly letting go if I’m letting it worry me now is it?
Various religions and/or spiritual paths seem pretty sure that happiness comes from within and that it is within our control. You know what? I can’t honestly argue with them. I am happy, as I said above, simply because I chose to be. And when I say happy, I mean happy with the three people I face in the mirror each morning; me, myself and I. As long as I know for myself that I’ve honestly done all I can (or should) for the situation, I’m good; therefore I’m happy.
Why? Because there are only sixty seconds in each minute and I only have X amount of minutes/hours/day/weeks/months/years/decades left of life. True to form, I suck at math and thus have no idea what X stands for. Therefore, I do not have time to waste but so many minutes on being miserable. We all have our spells on the crying couch, but it’s our choice as to how long we stay there. Yes, I know, it sounds oh so simplistic at the core, I do not deny that; but like everything else in life, it is and it isn’t. And yes, I really do run pretty much everything in my life this way, because it works FOR ME (your mileage may vary). I don’t argue with it any more because it makes me what?–miserable.
I think you have an idea now about how long I’m willing to put up with that.
Old-Fashioned Dating
Does anyone remember good old-fashioned dating?
Okay, not quite as old-fashioned as the above picture would imply -lol; but seriously…
You know a date? Where two people who are stranger got together a neutral place, had these things called conversations and bit by bit got to know each other. If you liked what you were seeing/feeling there would be another date to find out more and so on. If not, after an awkward email/phone call or two, you’d part ways and try again with someone else at some point.
There was no presumption of sex after the third or fourth date; let alone the second or first. The last three dates I went on, it just felt like there was this undercurrent of “going through the motions”. As though the date was only being done as the necessary evil/precursor. And maybe it’s me, but I swear that presumption is worse, with online dates. On my last date from an online site, after an otherwise pleasant evening, when he realized a kiss on the cheek was seriously all he was getting, he was obviously not happy. When I questioned his views on the lead question posted here, he out-and-out asked, “Who the fuck does like that anymore?” Uh, I do.
Has the act of sharing the most intimate parts of one’s physical self become that incredibly depreciated in these past two decades since I was last an active member of the dating scene? Please note, I am not including one-night stands for the intent of fucking for the sake of fucking. Nor for that matter am I knocking those first dates that turn into something more. They are what they are and I have done both, wholeheartedly in the past year of my reemergence into the scene with no regrets what so ever. For all of my very open views on sex and relationships, my date still has to prove he is worthy of me as I would like to think I am proving worthy of him. One date, hell five dates, is not necessarily enough time to be proven of such.
I’m a member of various adult sites, and the assumption there is even worse. Just because as a fellow member of the site, it presumed I must be ready to “play” since we’ve exchanged a couple of emails now does not make it so. What looks good on pixel, doesn’t have shit to do with face-to-face. We may meet and decide there is no chemistry between us; then what? I am quadruple leery of anyone presenting offers to play without first wanting to meet someplace neutral to see if we even like each other first. I have pissed-off plenty of such suitors when their offers are flat-out rejected due to such.
I also know that the assumption of sex is not something exclusively related to “I’m a fat girl – I must be desperate – thus easy” realm, because I know more than enough of my slim sisters going through the same thing. I’ve had conversations with other dating friends male and female and sex after the third date (on average) is –well, a given.
So what’s a gal to do?
“ is really missing being loved.”
The above has been my Facebook status since Saturday. Since Saturday. My status’ rarely have more than a 48 hour life span, so that alone was saying something to my state of mind. And I’ve been feeling this way for over a week now. I love my friends online and offline, and all their comments reminding me of how much I am loved by them, just make me want to cry even more in the frustration of it. As several noted in their Facebook comments, “it’s not the same” and that is the heartache.
I can’t even say it’s something as simple, but not quite so simple, as I’m missing my late-husband. That is something I can understand, compartmentalize, process and move on with quickly enough now. While he is a part of it, old boyfriends, whom I have not thought hide nor hair of in veritable ages, have also come to mind. It’s not that I’m not lonely, as the FB comments, emails and phone calls that came after that post attested to. Goodness knows my social calendar, even as pulled back as it is due to this economy, is still active. When in the hell did I have time for this annoyance to slip in? And it is an annoyance. It has beleaguered my soul to the point I wrote the following open letter on one of the boards I frequent:
Dear Heart,
More tears again? Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Please, please, oh God PLEASE, stop hurting for what you simply cannot have right now. The One is out there, somewhere, we both know this logically. We just have to be patient, very fucking patient. I’ve been putting on the happy façade hoping this nonsense of yours will quickly blow past, but it’s been over a week! And this misery you’re putting me through over literally absolutely nothing right now feels like it’s getting worse and that is just bullshit!! Bullshit!!
I DEMAND you to cut it the fuck out right now so I can stop wanting to cry at the drop of a motherfucking hat and continue on with my life as normal. Well, as normal as my crazy ass life gets anyway.
Signed,
The Tears That Do Not Want To Fall On My Pillow (Again)
Yes, it has been that bad. Writing the open letter made me realize, I’m not missing a person. I’m missing a feeling. A specific feeling and that has been the bitch of trying to fight it. As I said, it has been over a week now and it feels like this lingering melancholy is worsening, not getting better. So, I do what I always do when something plagues me incessantly, I write. I’m hoping that by completely acknowledging this, I can help to get it out of my system sooner.
So, I’ve written it and acknowledged it, now please, please for goodness sakes please BE GONE!
I don’t have the Keys to the City, but I enjoy gallivanting about it as much as possible. What keeps me passionate about life? I have no idea; maybe it’s because I’m not afraid of looking silly and/or doing whatever it is I find fun.
I’m a fan of the adage: You don’t stop having fun because you grow old; you grow old because you stop having fun! When I think about it, in some of the most ridiculously fun times of my life, I was doing something many would think I had no business doing.
So, if I want to go with 100+ other people and have a marshmallow war, or a light saber battle, or dress up as Santa and run around the City, whatever…I do it. As long as you’re not endangering yourself and/or others and it’s relatively legal (*big gleaming faux innocent grin*), some childish things shouldn’t be put away, if you still enjoy them, whatever your age. Besides, if we live long enough to get to that rocking chair stage and "remembering when" it helps to actually have something worthy to remember and talk about.
She sits at her vanity in examination of her face
Wary of any unexplainable mar
And gently rubs away cooled wax from her breast
Grateful it will not leave a scar
Still she smiles at the dash of lusty memory
Of how it came to be there
Its reason kneeling down right in front of her
Blowing kisses in her hair
Her robe barely hampers his gift to her
As she combusts within
A contrast of wind from an open window
Cooling her hot skin
He comments on her luminescence
As he makes an invisible notch
She comments on his effervescence
As she hands him his watch
She warms at the sentimental kiss he gives her
Just before, he leaves
Out on business for a day
But he’ll be back the next eve
She’s actually feeling good until
He uses her stage name
And pollutes the mood of the moment
Closing the door on the love game
She knows his affection is not
In the way he holds or even kisses her hand
Her cold-hearted illusion of love
Is in the wad of emerald bills left on the nightstand
====<>====
I WON!
Perfect Poets Award – Week 59
Thank you so much! I nominate Life Between The Lines
I have two children, sons, though at 26 and 28 they can hardly be called children anymore. Like any mother of more than one child I love them differently, but equally and completely. Despite being surrounded by gangs and drugs, my late husband and I somehow managed to raise two healthy males into adulthood, who avoided both, with only one major broken bone between them and the usual assortment of teenage boy issues. Maybe we didn’t quite raise them with a deep enough fear of God; but I absolutely raised them to not only respect Him, but anyone’s Him/Her/Them. I damn sure put the fear of Mom in them; tempered with a lot of humor, tenderness, and discipline in as proportionate amounts as I deemed needed for them together and individually. I did the best I could then and now always knowing, sometimes my best won’t be enough.
This is one of those times.
While this is my blog, please understand, I feel the details of my son’s lives are not mine to freely broadcast here and hopefully you can forgive my choice to be to cryptic, even as I try to talk about it. My oldest is going through a tough time right now and I know it’s going to get worse for him, for a long while, before it gets better. No, he’s not in jail; and those who know me well know just how ridiculous a notion that is, but it’s really not a good time for him right now. And I can’t do a damn thing about it; not I won’t I CAN’T.
I do not have the means to help him. I do not have to means to even ease some of the minor discomforts for him, to help make dealing with the major shit he’s going through a little better. This is killing me, because I am his mother and even though I know he knows, I am doing everything I absolutely can under the circumstances. I know it isn’t going to be anywhere near enough.
I war with myself. Were we too hard, too soft? Where did things fail as we raised him that his situation has come to this? The tough love part of me (he’s a grown man, he made this hard bed of his, and now he must lay in it), battles with the part of me who only sees that my child hurting in a bad way and all I want to do is throw my arms around him, and comfort him, and make it better now, and that’s where I feel like I’m failing him most. After all, I’m Mom. I’m the person my sons should be able to come to when things truly get fucked and I should be able to at least be able to help ease the burden, if I can’t (or shouldn’t) out right fix the problem.
All I can really do right now is be his emotional support; his personal rah-rah team. Even as I truthfully tell him on one hand how hard this is going to be for him for a long while, while on the other hand reminding him, as fucked as things are for him right now, he can and will get through this. That with prayers and luck, a year from now this will be a very unpleasant memory in his past, but it will be his past. The words sound empty and trite even to my own ears as I say them to him, but I have to say them. I have to keep his spirits up, keep showing him that silver lining ahead even as the Fates monsoon on him right now. As he walked out of my door, the resignation on his face as he continues to face the bullshit he’s going to have to be dealing with for God know how long before it gets even a little better, just broke my heart. For the first time since my sons were teenagers, I cried over one of my children.
This is one boo-boo Mom can’t instantly fix with a simple kiss and some ice-cream.
I started writing this day after the LOST finale episode. I have refused to view any of my favored blogs, boards and forums because I wanted my opinions here however sublime, or completely far-fetched, to be my own as I try to digest what I’ve spent a part of the past few years of my life for.
Six years ago on Friday, September 22, 2004, just a few days after my birthday, I received an incredible eye-opening present: the pilot episode of LOST.
Ah, an opening eye…
That most powerful metaphor for the window to the soul, and a symbol used many times throughout the run of the series, opens in a nice quiet lush grove of bamboo. Wait, this guy is lying down on his back in the middle of a bamboo grove, in a suit? And then a dog runs by? Who knew then that those two questions were a mere couple of minutes of “Huh?” in what was to become six years of “WTF?!?!?!?” By the time this (for the moment) nameless character follows the sounds and makes his way to the chaos of the plane crash on the beachfront, I know, and many will agree when I say, it was not just Jack Shepard’s eyes that were opened.
To date, still the most expensive pilot episode in television history, LOST captured my attention from Day One. I have loved television shows before LOST and I’m sure will love some future shows, but I seriously doubt that anything, ANYTHING, will ever come near to matching the unique viewing experience of the past six years that has been LOST.
For me, the brilliance of this show was not just in the amazing character development or the unique imaginative and downright insane story lines. Nor was it its amazing ability to give us questions that beget questions that beget questions. Like the survivors them selves, LOST took a most unusual disparate hodge-podge of people, who would have never in a million years have gotten together on their own, and created a community. Yes, a few friends and family have joined to watch a favored television show, but never on this scale. The instant camaraderie of strangers at major sporting events is the closet you can come to explain the immediate kinship between fans of LOST.
Flashback to 2006, The NYC LOST Meetup Group, of which I’m a proud member, was formed with maybe a dozen members at the first event. Twelve people who had nothing in common other than a love for a very unique, discombobulated, incredible show. After season three (admittedly the weakest season of the series), if anyone asked me what was going on in a disparaging tone of voice, I knew I had a non-fan in my midst and would refuse to answer. I’m not going to waste minutes of my life trying to explain a show as justification as to why I love it so much because someone else simply doesn’t “get it”.
It is spotting someone wearing a t-shirt with the numbers 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 across the front and and immediately smiling. Being a LOST fan is being in an awesome (and yes, proudly geeky) club that only other fellow Losties can appreciate. It is akin to the self-satisfied, near smug look two Mac users will give to each other when in a coffee bar surrounded by PC users. The “we’re a part of something special and they they’re not” feeling. And just like a Mac or a PC, you either loved it or hated it, there was no middle ground. Now, flash-forward to this past Sunday (May 23, 2010). I left a wedding reception, with a friend, to hop a train and go to a bar to join about 150 other NYC LOST Meetup group members at a private event to watch the series finale. Yes, an entire bar was rented just to watch a TV show? -as I’m sure the non-fans rolling their eyes derisively are thinking, Yes, yes I did, and am damned happy about it. LOST dared to give viewers an unexpected look into being human, while also incorporating many religious, philosophical, and metaphysical themes in a way that was unique, insightful, and fun. It has set such a high standard that very few will be able to match in quality.
I admit while I still have so many questions wanting answers; I was in no way disappointed in how it all unfolded. The show was always about the characters, and then the overall mythology. Myths have the power they do because there is something about them that always remains something of a mystery. Even while exposing certain truths all myths still belie concrete logic at some level; but it doesn’t make the story being told any less interesting for it. This myth, this fairytale, this “what the hell was that?” versus the “Oh, that’s it!” is what kept us coming back week after week after week. That is what the writers and creators chose to focus on in closing out the finale season, and it works for me.
Was it a complete surprise to learn that despite all our vast theories of a sideways time line / alternate reality, all that really happened was the characters were in some sort of spiritual purgatory/limbo on the island until they resolved their myriad individual inner conflicts and could move on? In hindsight, not at all.
Granted the show left a lot up to the viewer’s interpretation, and that’s fine. I think the alternate reality was their moment to connect before they finally “moved on” to whatever place their spiritual beliefs dictate. One of the most obvious clues to this went right over my head from the beginning; the name of Jack’s father, Christian Shephard and the characters’ final meeting in a church. As Kate said, “That’s his name? Really?” There were several “D’oh!” smacking hands upside heads sounds as it all made perfect sense in that moment.
The plane crashed and everyone died, the “survivors” simply weren’t aware of it yet and were stuck in a limbo somewhere in between good and evil. All of the passengers had their personal demons within from their past lives, thus the flashbacks to tell their stories. In the end, they all found their way upon realizing that they had actually died. When John Locke finally let go, he was made instantly whole because he was already dead…he just needed to realize it to make it to the other side, and this other side was timeless. As Jack’s father stated “There is no NOW here.” Even for Hurley and Ben, who obviously were the island’s guardians for who knows how long, “when” they died — didn’t matter. This “moment” is very much in tune with Christian views where you will meet your loved ones again. Once they realized they were in fact dead, they could all be at Jack’s “funeral” at the same timeless, because Jack was the connection between all of them.
Over all, I thought the finale was excellent and confirmed that the heart of “LOST” was always about the characters, not the island. Even in the flash sideways timeline where the plane landed safely in LAX, the characters’ lives were destined to overlap. Finally, the closing scene was pure magic, with Jack’s eye closing in the same spot in which he found himself after the crash, with Vincent by his side. I am still processing the finale, but at this point, I feel that the show was a fantastic six-year journey and a welcomed oasis in the desert of prime time network television. I may not have seen eye-to-eye with many of the theories/assumptions/hopes that spun during its run. But to paraphrase an infamous John Locke line “I saw into the eye of the show and it was beautiful”
…And we’re back to the eye; the eye of Dr. Jack Shepard, as it slowly closes in the same bamboo grove in which we, the viewers, first laid eyes on him six seasons ago. I remember just as I was thinking damn the man who coined “lived together or die alone” is going to die alone, is when the dog Vincent comes and lays beside Jack as life fades from our hero and the screen fades to black. Even if they didn’t like it, few can deny that this was a fitting -if very predictable- end to this, amazing, wonderful, brilliant six-year mind-fuck of a show known as “LOST”…
See you in another life, brother. Namaste.
Raivenne-lations 