Tag Archives: hard choices

Embarass versus Humiliate – How Much Is Too Much?

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My then twelve-year old I think three or four friends over and they were in his room playing video games. I’m in the kitchen when he comes in for –I don’t remember what now– and says something outlandish but just barely within the guidelines of acceptable to me. Again, I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it was just annoying enough for me to react. I happen to be filling a pot with a four-quart pot with water to put on the stove at the time.  I jokingly held the over his head reminding him to watch his mouth and don’t think because he’s getting bigger he can get crazy. He looked at the pot over his head, folded his arms across his chest and just stared at me as if to say I dare you.  Because I really was just semi-chastising him and really did not want to clean up a lot of water, I carefully tilted the pot so only a small trickle landed on his head.  Mr. Man, Jr. then puffed out all of his mighty twelve year old frame, rolled his eyes and with an arrogance worthy of his father (those that know my late-husband can appreciate that), and declared.

“I THOUGHT so!” That was a bad move on his part; a BAD move.

Without a second thought, I turned the entire contents of the pot over on his head. I not so nicely, reminded him that he was a twelve-year-old child and he was to never, NEVER think he that he predict what I would or would not do to him as his mother. I then ordered him to go to his change clothes, come back, and clean up the water so I could continue cooking dinner.

It was only after I went to change clothes, as I had also spilled water on myself in the process, that I remembered he had company. I have no idea what he said to his friends, when he entered his room-dripping wet, but I have to imagine it was not pleasant for my child to have to face his friends like that.  I only learned several years later when the subject somehow came up, on how embarrassed, he was by that and that “I still haven’t forgiven you”.

All parents understand that some unforgiving moments go with parenthood. I never ask after the fact, because I didn’t care.  He needed a reminder, right then and there, on who Mama was before he got out of hand and that was that.

I mention the above to serve as a precursor to the following.

So, there’s this video that has run a small circuit.   Please note, while the video linked to in and of itself is not necessarily offensive, the site it comes from can be very much so, thus those at work, don’t be surprised if your company’s filters block it from showing.

http://www.worldstarhiphop.com/videos/video.php?v=wshhBtdQvDJLQy55M05q&set_size=1

Here’s the Cliff Notes version: A young black male (twelve to fourteen years of age) was seen “acting hard” in his Facebook statuses etc. The youth’s uncle, who took considerable objection to his nephew’s online persona, somehow saw the entries.  What was the uncle’s response? To force the boy to use his webcam to live stream a video of him (the uncle) “whipping his ass” with a belt while he explains that their family does not come from such (the gangs and rap culture). He makes the boy renounce not only his behavior online, but that all rap and gangs are “fake” and “bullshit”.  You really need to view the video to understand it all.

Now I love that the uncle is obviously involved in this young man’s life. He obviously commands the respect of his nephew; how the nephew represents himself, and by reflection, his family outside of the home, including online.

What I question is it necessary to take a belt to the boy in this situation?  I’m NOT saying there should never be a belt in raising a child, for that is a parent by parent decision, I’m just asking was its use necessary for the lesson here.  Was the humiliation of live streaming it necessary to the lesson.

As I said before, all parents inherently understand there are going to be lesson taught in which the method of teaching that will not be forgiven. These unforgiving moments are usually something that involved humiliation. It is a tough call to choose to teach a lesson that way, but sometimes it is the only way to deliver a message that may not otherwise be heard. Still, there is huge difference in embarrassing your child (which I fully own up to with mine at that moment), humiliating a child (the same scenario with the uncle, but only in front of the uncle’s peers) and complete humiliation of your child, which is what I think was done here.

I’m sure in my son’s case his friends teased him about it for a while, but it was over with in a few days.  This boy had to go to school the next day, with the knowledge that most of his friends and countless others saw this.  If the comments that followed the video are an indicator, it’s going to be one long hard row to hoe.  How long can this run before the novelty dies? This video is the kind of thing that can, and most likely will, pop up years from now. This level of humiliation on a young soul has the backlash of possibly creating the “hard” person his uncle was attempting to discourage. How much is too much?

I’m hoping that the uncle truly takes his “this is not where we come from” lesson to heart. I do not want some over zealous person to report the uncle and he goes through ridiculous legalities for this, but neither do not I want to see him on BET or  YouTube or wherever grasping his fifteen minutes of family values on his nephew’s back. Even if the initial video isn’t deemed bad enough, certainly this would be too much.

New Year’s REVolution

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Happy New Year!!! (sorta)

As much as I love the beginning of a new year, a part of me also hates it.  For the months of December and January we (women specifically) are bombarded with weight loss advertisements. Whether it is from a diet program or popular gyms, it is near impossible to go through a one minute set of commercials on television and not see one such during the holidays.  It has increasingly been this way since the ’80s when the whole exercise, once fad – now multi-billion business mantra , took off.  As always, ordering us to make it a part of our New Year’s resolution to lose weight.

There’s been an amazing fat-lash of sorts these past few years via notable blogs, websites and well known fat advocates shinning a very bright light on how the general public sees and treats (or more specifically mistreats) the fat person.  And also what we, the  fat people, can do to help ourselves and others accept, live and thrive as people who just happen to be fat.

HAES (Health At Every Size) has a wonderful campaign for January which I took to heart.

The following is my current Facebook profile picture and status update:

Scale with the word PERFECT taped over the numbers.

“I’m part of the New Year’s REVolution! My profile pic is an image that reminds me to love my body and screen out all the negative bullshit the diet industry tell us how we should feel about our bodies, our beauty, and our worth. Instead of New Year’s Resolution this year, what is your New Year’s REVOLUTION? Join the New Year’s Revolution and visit HAES Inspiration! http://2011revolutions.blogspot.com”

One of my friends bemoaned in a comment how she wishes more people believed in the words of my status.  What got to me were further comments on how some of her friends spend so much time in tears during the holidays at the barrage of crap from family regarding their weight. They take what their respective families say to them to heart and begin to believe these hateful things.  Having been a part of that myself I fully get it.

  • You’re never going to get a man with that gut.
  • If you lost weight we wouldn’t hear you stomping from a mile away.
  • Those pants would look so nice on you if your thighs weren’t so thick.

Not to mention the non-verbal passive-aggressive crap.

  • Serve my food a seven-inch dinner plate, as though I won’t notice everyone else has the nine-inch plates.
  • Cutting looks at public functions daring me to consent to more food when asked.
  • Look at a pretty dress in the size 8 rack, hold it out against my considerably not size 8 body knowing it was the wrong size when she picked it out, then put it back on the rack with  an exaggerated sigh.

Yes, family can be your best support system, but as every fat kid knows, they can also e the bane of your existence.  Friends we can tell where to get off when we don’t like what they say; also we have the option to break off that friendship, if the respect is not forth coming. Even extended family gives us the recourse to simply not be around the more negative ones once we reach adulthood.  However, there is no getting away from our immediate family.  These very people who should always have our backs are often the ones who hold the sharpest knives in stabbing us in it.   If you’re lucky a heartfelt talk may be all that is needed to get on the path to having a better relationship with your family. For others, a complete emotional and physical removal is the only choice.

It is a drastic choice and a hard one to uphold.  I remember about three years ago I watched as a friend slowly removed herself from her mother’s arms and walked away in tears saying “I told you never again and I meant it.” And this was at a mutual friend’s funeral. I found out later that in the midst of the hug the mother had made an unacceptable comment on her size.  Take into account that the funeral was the time my friend had seen or spoken to her mother in nearly two years, yet even there she stuck to her guns would not tolerate it.  It took over three years of estrangement to get there, but the two get along much better now. I have no idea if the mother changed her feelings about her daughter’s size, but she at least changed how she treated her child, now very much a grown woman, and that was enough.

Unfortunately, for most, changing the attitudes of your families about your fat is near impossible.  If you’re in a position where you have no choice but to deal with your family just remember the only power they have over your heart is the power you give them. The choice to not internalize the hurtful, and for some out right hateful, things said and/or done is your own.   Eleanor Roosevelt said it best “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”  If you put yourself through changes to make anyone other than the person staring back at you in the mirror happy, you will fail and likely hate more yourself in the process.  Therefore, the only attitude you can change is your own.  Accept your size. Love and appreciate the body you have and work with it.  Acceptance empowers you to move on and make positive changes FOR YOU, not anyone else.

To paraphrase something I’ve told another friend regarding weight —

What you need to remember to keep in your heart more is that, no matter how high or low the number, that which makes you a person,  is never going to be found on your scale.

That’s my New Year’s REVolution – what’s yours?

Hard Black Women

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“Why are Black women so damn hard? I don’t have time for their crap!”

Warning I’m venting…

I feel that most Black American women have had the wonderful pleasure of dealing with two layers of oppression: racism and sexism for the majority of their lives.   That can make anyone “hard”, tough,  especially if you feel you constantly have to “fight” just to come close to being on a level playing field. It sucks to have to go out into the world, face one or both “isms” in your professional time, then go out and face the same isms  in your personal time. This has been the plight of most Black American women in just about every era of this country’s history.

Does this mean Black women have an excuse to be negative? Absolutely not.
Does it explain why our collective psyche varies from Black women from other nations? Somewhat.

If we dress sexy, we are upholding the Black woman as sexual stereotype passed down from the slave masters, who used us as sex toys, when we had so much choice in the matter and then label us as promiscuous and whores for our troubles. .If we dress more conservatively, we’re accused of dressing like old ladies or a *gasp!* church girls, as though that is a bad thing.

If we are up on the latest street fashions, know the difference between Lil Wayne and T-Pain on sight and can neck roll with the best of them, we’re low-class and/or ghetto. Yet if we speak proper English, have clue as to how to set a proper dinner table and actually know the lyrics to songs played on non-“urban” radio stations, then we’re “Bourgie” (slang for bourgeois) or “Oreos”.

Who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be has all been influenced by our collective experiences. We cannot change that. Individually, we try to take different approaches, but collectively, our struggle is unique. We have had to (and continue to struggle with), defining what femininity and womanhood means to us; especially in relation to our men. Being a Black Woman in America often means defining our womanhood through our relationship to men in general, but Black men in particular.  In addition, all too often, the onus of responsibility falls on the Black woman and the finger pointing turns to us. We don’t raise our males correctly. We are not walking away from the abuse. We keep accepting the bullshit and so on and so on…

I don’t think I’m harder on men, specifically Black men. If anything, at times I think I’m not hard enough on some as I accept so much bullshit in various forms of oppression from “brothers” without consequence or recourse, that it all but destroys my spirit, all for the sake of being “loyal”.  This loyalty, innately expected of us as Black women, regrettably is one that is not often reciprocated in kind. This seems to be even more heart-breakingly true of my generation and the generations coming up. THAT, if anything, is what wears us down… makes us angrier than others, sadder than others, more depressed than others, etc.

Yet THE MOMENT we stand up for ourselves — we are hard, we are cold, we are “the bitch”; the ball breakers; the misandrists.

Females are taught from an early age to grow up and get married. Being in a relationship (preferably married), means at least one someone wants you (what’s love got to do with it? -as Tina would sing).  Therefore being single is to be deemed undesirable by anyone.  And the longer the woman is single, obviously, the more undesirable she must be – right?  Now add in being fat and oh yeah – Black.

Another problem… Black women rarely speak to anyone other than other Black women about this. Women who are more than likely also swimming in the same muddied waters.  The advice from many of our matriarchs whether by words or by actions, was to just deal with it. “A single man is over forty a confirmed bachelor. A single woman over forty is a shame.” Yeah, more lovely pearls of bullshit dropped into my once young ears.

Instead of coming to the defense of our fellow sisters of color, who speak out, many of us that raise our voices, often find ourselves stuck between a rock and a hard place alone. Because there is some invisible code of honor not to OUT our current public status of being too much to deal with. We are “airing dirty laundry”. How the fuck is it ever supposed to get clean then, if we can’t even acknowledge the fact the track marks exist?

As women in general, we’re raised to believe, it is expected of us to be so loyal with our men. We accept it. We suffer in silence for want/need of a man. We wear a smile and act like it is okay. We hold a great deal of our hurts and thoughts inside. We hold it in for as long as we can, and then lash out. If the relationship doesn’t survive, we’re now once bitten-thrice shy with the next soul, who inadvertently may suffer the penance of another man’s sins.   It’s generally unspoken, but that expectation of loyalty is even higher with Black woman in a relationship with a Black man.

Still, because he is a Black man, and I am a Black woman, I am supposed to be instantly all ready to drop my drawers (and you can’t begin imagine how much I abhor that word as synonym for underwear), simply because he decided my name is “Baby gurl/Mami/Boo” and wants to talk to me. If he wants a moment to see if I’m worthy of his body, why am I not afforded the same courtesy? If I give in too early, I am an easy lay/skank/freak and men don’t buy the cow if they can get he milk for free. If I make you notice my worth by waiting, I’m “playing” hard-to-get, or I’m gold digging and why should you work for it when there’s always someone more willing around the corner.  I’m punished whether I’m Madonna or Mary Magdalene.

Many women of color state having difficulty-finding mates of any color due to issues many in general state about American women of color. Some men take the rejections or run-ins with some Black women that they experienced (and I won’t lie – the are some negative ones out there), and then use it to color how they view all Black women. The men who complain the most about Black women being low class/ghetto – gold-digging/bourgeois (note the contrasts), are also quick to write off  my entire racial gender with impunity and never look beyond their own negative stereotyping. They are so content to push all women of color into one, maybe two, shallow categories and never see the reality: that we are so much more.

Yet these same men would never think of writing off another entire racial/ethnic gender as a whole due to a few negative experiences. For these men, other women are given the chance to have their actions and how they present themselves judged on an individual basis … but most Black women, it seems, are not afforded this courtesy. And it is a damned shame.

The beauty we admire on most classic statues is due to someone taking the time to painstakingly whittle/smooth away what’s seen on the surface and expose the warm exquisiteness within.

Do most Black Women have thick skin? We have to, to protect our hearts, minds, souls, selves.  But we are so worth the time and effort to the one who sticks with us long enough to get to our cores and find out.

This Is My December…

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“And I’d give it all away,
Just to have somewhere to go to,
Give it all away,
To have someone to come home to”

My December – Linkin Park

Oh, December in the Raivenne household was always a hoot.  The normally wannabe sophisticate, über-urban, gal-about-town, known and be-loathed all over, transforms into this insane “OhMyGAWDCanYouBeliveIt’sAlmostChristmas!” beast.  The weekend after Thanksgiving I (and begrudgingly the boys) would start dragging the decorations out and begin the annual tradition of transforming the abode into holiday splendor.

When we were living in an apartment, it was all confined to just the living room. However, once we had a HOUSE, oh good Lord!  I spared my family from decorating the bedrooms upstairs, but man did I didn’t vomit the holidays every where else! Each year, I moved the TV because the tree just HAD to be close to the window in order to be seen from the street.  The front porch and steps had their own garlands and lights. If you stood on the porch you could see all the little buildings and figures that graced the inside windowsill. The dining room had the Kwanza set. The kitchen and powder room would get holiday colored towels and mini decorations. Yeah, my family thought I lost my damned mind each and every year. And as curmudgeonly as all three males in the house would behave at the start of the process, at least the boys would catch some of my Christmasfluenza and get into the decorating spirit.

The hubby always stayed the Scrooge of the house; right down to his “Bah Humbug” black and white Santa hat, but deep down he enjoyed my shenanigans just as much.  One December I was depressed and refused to decorate. I think he thought if he waited me out I would pop into it, how could I not? When it was December 20th and no one iota of holiday décor was up, he got it. Mr. OhComeOnNotAllThisShitAgain? Was the one who got the boys and dragged decorations out that year. Yes, HUBBY went and got the decorations – that is how much he knew this was important to me and what a serious funk I was in to not be doing so. He was that desperate to do anything, even decorate for Christmas, to help me out of it.  The guys started to decorate the tree, but were doing such a horrible job of it the Virgo in me kicked in. Still, since my heart was not in it, which was the worst tree I have ever put up, to date.

I had not felt that bad again until the first Christmas after I became a widow. Still, I put up the holiday decorations that first year without him (or the boys, now men on their own, to help me) it was a lovely tree. Christmas 2007 was the last time I all out decorated and put up a tree. I moved in 2008 and all of my holiday stuff, including most of my spirit, is away in storage.  Something simple on my front door is about all I have been able to muster doing these past years for decorating.

I’m almost done with filling out this year’s Christmas cards (and man is my wrist tired!).  I am thinking about what to put on my door for this year, but that’s all. Still. It is only December 2nd and who knows? After a near three-year hiatus, maybe the Christmasfluenza bug will strike me again; I really do not know. Nevertheless, for right now, this very moment, the above verse from Linkin Park is my holiday song.

This is my December.

What Goes Around…

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I was almost-mugged last night and I find myself considerably nonchalant about this.

I have always known my neighborhood was not one of NYC better neighborhoods when I moved in.  At its best, this neighborhood may be described as barely decent. It has not been at its best for as while now. It has not reached ghetto status, but I definitely live in “the hood”.  Having come from a background of being the perpetrator of some dirty deeds as a teen, I’m even more vigilant against being the potential victim of such as an adult.  Which is what made what happened last night interesting to say the least.

I was not dressed-up, and it was not yet 11pm.  This is not late for my station at all so there is a fair amount of foot traffic. There were at least two people behind me and maybe another four others spaced out in front of me, when I disembarked.  I had my purse slung on my right shoulder, hand around the handle, the way any woman carrying a mini leather steamer trunk of crap would.  Because my back was bothering me the past few days, I did something I usually do not do. I used the handrail with left hand.  I was halfway down when I heard the commotion of someone running down the stairs. Again, not anything unusual in my neighborhood.  However, being pushed from behind and feeling a sudden tug on my purse was very much unusual.

As I said with my background, it didn’t quite work out the way as the attempt-ee planned it. I hold my purses in such a way that my fingers are usually intertwined in some loop or ring.  The bag can only slide but so far down my shoulder before my fingers are engaged in the instinct to tighten. It’s not that it can’t be snatched from me, it’s just that takes a more work as the attempted robbers. Most snatch and grabbers go for the easy looking targets, any sign of resistance, they generally just keep moving and find another (hopefully easier), target. That I was on stairs and not flat ground helped. My instinct was to pivot and grab the banister/railing to stop my fall, not extend my arm out. Between the unexpected grip on my bag and the way I was falling, it  allowed me to keep my bag as he had no choice but to keep running or risk someone grabbing him.  The people in front of me didn’t have a clue as to what happened as the guy ran past them. The guy behind me was dumbstruck for a moment, but stayed with me long enough to make sure I was all right as I finished making my way down the stairs.

The cost of keeping my belongings?

  • My wrist is a little sore from the sudden wrenching of the bag snatch and the grabbing of the rail to stop my fall.
  • A badly bruised hip and even more pain in my back, but thanks to Advil, Sweet Advil, today has been tolerable.
  • A minor chastising of myself for leaving that shoulder open. I should have thought to change the back to the shoulder closest to the railing I was holding, but yeah, I’m only human.

This is now the third time, I’ve been mugged in thirty years. The last time was nearly twenty years ago. This is the first time nothing was taken. As I was explaining why I was limping to a co-worker, he responded I was rather calm about it all things considered. I admit was fuming something fierce last night, but I was also in too much pain to do anything but take pills and go to bed.  Having had a night’s sleep, I honestly see it as one part Karma paying me back and part a sign of the times of the economy, that these types of up close and personal robberies are making a comeback.  Another taste of how my neighborhood is declining and there is nothing I can do about it. At least none that I’ve thought of yet.

Key word – yet.

Choosing Happiness…

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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.

Does Anyone Remember…

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Blk/Wht photo old-fashioned couple on a date.

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?

Cold-Hearted Illusion

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Painting by John Huggett: Woman in mirror smoking a cigarette.

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

Knowing Sometimes My Best Won’t Be Enough

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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.

Getting “LOST”…

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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…

LOST: Jack's eye - open

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.

LOST: Jack's eye - closed