The name of my autobiography is Leaving a Voice. It is a culmination of my life through short episodes. Whether intentionally or unknowing, these events have led me to this point in my life.
Hitching a ride on my life’s journey is all the useless baggage that keeps certain events fresh in my mind. Regrettably, this baggage doesn’t trigger a complete account of the events as they occurred. Even though I can recall incidents that happened in my life, there are certain moments that are vague or absent. Sometimes there's a huge gap between the beginning of the incidents and the lesson learned at the end of the day.
The lapse of memory or gap in memory is the results of not living in the moment. Defined as a state of mindlessness, this condition can leave a writer searching to fill a void or complete an episode. Sometimes I question myself as to whether I really forgot what happened or if I was just preoccupied at the moment.
For example, I remember one episode during my high school years when our basketball team played an out-of-town game. With five minutes left in the competition, our team was down by three points. The referee called a jump ball between the opponent’s guard and me. Quickly I leaped up. Propelled by the momentum of the jump I stretched, spiked the ball, and landed crouched from the weight of gravity as the ball bounded into my hands.
I looked around. The crowd was silent, both teams stood without movement or words. Had I done something wrong? I turned to give the ball to the referee - too many steps. The ref blew his whistle. Charged with walking, the opponent got the ball and won the game.
With those thirty-five seconds came a lifetime of flashbacks and guilt, but the two hours after that incident vanished from my memory forever. I believe I had no thoughts because I never lived those moments. My thoughts were not in the present but in the past – the game play itself. So, things that happened to me or around me in those two hours passed without my mental knowledge.
Not every thing that happened that night stayed with me. After the incident, the next thing I remember was the ride home on the bus. The feeling of isolation, the profound embarrassment for making such a stupid mistake weighted heavily in my heart. I’ve lived every moment of that play from the time I leaped to reach the stars until my confusion at the end of the game every year of my life.
Writing my autobiography has made me aware of the mindless task I do every day. I believe this mindlessness is why I sometimes forget why I walked into a room. I’ve concluded that if I wish to incorporate my later years in my memoirs, it would be a good idea to live the rest of my life in the moment and enjoy its presence. These wakeful moments helps weave the strings of my life, and my complete thoughts of them.
2/11/2010 8:31:17 PM
Mindlessness
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Just Don't Know...
Merging onto the highway, I jacked up the music. I found comfort in that.
As I drive at a decent fast speed, I’m thinking about my fantasy manuscript and maybe I will be able to finish the outline with everything in its place. I just don’t know where to go from there.
As I pulled into the driveway, hunger bit my stomach. I wanted to keep what I was feeling alive for just one more hour but the hunger would not release me…..
As I drive at a decent fast speed, I’m thinking about my fantasy manuscript and maybe I will be able to finish the outline with everything in its place. I just don’t know where to go from there.
As I pulled into the driveway, hunger bit my stomach. I wanted to keep what I was feeling alive for just one more hour but the hunger would not release me…..
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Christmas Spirits
Gathering my pen and paper, I went to the kitchen table to compose a letter to send with our cards this year. The last time I didn’t feel like sending cards - I had lost so many friends and family, my heart was not in it. This time I couldn’t get started because I didn’t seem to have the spirit.
Since Halloween, I remember walking through the stores listening to Christmas music, seeing Christmas decorations, and poinsettias all over the place. It just made me want to go baa-humbug. What about the cranberry sauce and Thanksgiving Day? What about being grateful for what we have! Oh well - it just started me off in the wrong direction, which is probably why my spirits were low. Nevertheless, I figured sometime before December 31, 2009 I will kick myself for not sending the cards and letters.
At this time of the year, I'll send over ninety plus cards and letters to a wonderful group of people, who in some way have touched our lives. Unfortunately, because of my senior schedule, which keeps me busier than I was when I worked, I don’t get the opportunity to communicate via phone or visits, as I should. You see, as a child growing up at my grandmother’s house, families were close and friends were closer. They were a community of communicators. All I had to do was walk out on the front porch and say hello, or walk around the block and see my classmates. There was always someone there to help you out if you needed it. It was a community of caring people, who gave Thanksgiving more importance than Halloween. I miss those days, but as time marches on, so does the society I live in.
Although the year has found some of us short on some things, or tightening our belt on others, this year has offered some positive opportunities. It has caused people to slow down and look at what they have. Some have become appreciative of the good will of others and thankful for the loved ones in their lives. Some have created traditions that will generate once again attitudes cherished as a child. Later that night I watched, 'How the Grinch stole Christmas.' At the end of the movie, the Grinch realized that Christmas doesn’t come from packages, boxes, bags, or poinsettias all over the place. Christmas doesn’t come from a store - but means a little bit more - Christmas will always come as long as we have friends to lift our spirits. Merry Christmas spirits!
Since Halloween, I remember walking through the stores listening to Christmas music, seeing Christmas decorations, and poinsettias all over the place. It just made me want to go baa-humbug. What about the cranberry sauce and Thanksgiving Day? What about being grateful for what we have! Oh well - it just started me off in the wrong direction, which is probably why my spirits were low. Nevertheless, I figured sometime before December 31, 2009 I will kick myself for not sending the cards and letters.
At this time of the year, I'll send over ninety plus cards and letters to a wonderful group of people, who in some way have touched our lives. Unfortunately, because of my senior schedule, which keeps me busier than I was when I worked, I don’t get the opportunity to communicate via phone or visits, as I should. You see, as a child growing up at my grandmother’s house, families were close and friends were closer. They were a community of communicators. All I had to do was walk out on the front porch and say hello, or walk around the block and see my classmates. There was always someone there to help you out if you needed it. It was a community of caring people, who gave Thanksgiving more importance than Halloween. I miss those days, but as time marches on, so does the society I live in.
Although the year has found some of us short on some things, or tightening our belt on others, this year has offered some positive opportunities. It has caused people to slow down and look at what they have. Some have become appreciative of the good will of others and thankful for the loved ones in their lives. Some have created traditions that will generate once again attitudes cherished as a child. Later that night I watched, 'How the Grinch stole Christmas.' At the end of the movie, the Grinch realized that Christmas doesn’t come from packages, boxes, bags, or poinsettias all over the place. Christmas doesn’t come from a store - but means a little bit more - Christmas will always come as long as we have friends to lift our spirits. Merry Christmas spirits!
Get a Survey or Get a Lawyer
Introduced to me recently was a new problem that has been around for a long time. I share a property line with two people, Beth who lives next to me and Joe who lives behind me and Beth. Joe moved into the neighborhood 10 years ago. Last week Joe accused Beth, who built her house over 50 years ago, of having her bushes on his land. She was frightened to the point of tears, and disturbed that Joe would try to take her land. Joe had claimed squatter’s rights.
I’ve left out a lot of stuff to get to the meat of the situation, especially this concept of squatter’s rights. To believe this entitlement exists nowadays blows my mind! Yes, squatter’s rights or adverse possession is still a law in the U.S. of A. It seems after so many years Joe, or anyone for that matter, can claim your land as his or her own. The length of time for this acquisition is 7 years, but in Illinois, I believe it takes 20 years before someone can claim your land. Think about it, if you let someone put a garden on, or run a pipe through your property and they use that land continuously for 20 years, they can claim that land as their own regardless of the size of the plot.
We complaint and have opinions about many thing, but when it comes to property that we paid big bucks for - especially in real estate taxes - it’s becomes more than a complaint or opinion. We become the victim of a rape.
I’m especially concern for the elderly who have no one to help them with this type of invasion. Beth is fortunate because she has a son. Beth’s son phoned Joe about the situation and gave him a warning. Beth also wrote Joe a letter and sent it registered. Essentially, she informed Joe to get a survey or get a lawyer. Way to go Beth! What would you do if someone claimed squatter’s rights on your land?
I’ve left out a lot of stuff to get to the meat of the situation, especially this concept of squatter’s rights. To believe this entitlement exists nowadays blows my mind! Yes, squatter’s rights or adverse possession is still a law in the U.S. of A. It seems after so many years Joe, or anyone for that matter, can claim your land as his or her own. The length of time for this acquisition is 7 years, but in Illinois, I believe it takes 20 years before someone can claim your land. Think about it, if you let someone put a garden on, or run a pipe through your property and they use that land continuously for 20 years, they can claim that land as their own regardless of the size of the plot.
We complaint and have opinions about many thing, but when it comes to property that we paid big bucks for - especially in real estate taxes - it’s becomes more than a complaint or opinion. We become the victim of a rape.
I’m especially concern for the elderly who have no one to help them with this type of invasion. Beth is fortunate because she has a son. Beth’s son phoned Joe about the situation and gave him a warning. Beth also wrote Joe a letter and sent it registered. Essentially, she informed Joe to get a survey or get a lawyer. Way to go Beth! What would you do if someone claimed squatter’s rights on your land?
The Deer
While I was riding to the Senior Center yesterday, I often pass by a Forest Preserve Park. I was enjoying my favorite song written by Sugarland on the radio, when I saw a fawn on the road – dead - and lying in my lane. Quickly, I swayed to keep from hitting the animal. Immediately I turned off the radio. I felt sadness and an overwhelming compassion for the creature lying there killed needlessly.
Today, as I passed the Forest Preserve Park on my way to the Center, I looked for the spot where the fawn had laid on the road. There was no blood anywhere, nothing to remind me of deer. I felt calm, and an emotional relief. Quoting an over-used cliché, “it was out of sight and out of mind.” For the past 24 hours, I had experienced some cosmic vibration of empathy even though I had nothing to do with the death of the fawn.
At the end of the Forest Preserve Park is an opening and an entrance to the parking lot where people park their cars and do whatever they do. At this entrance, one-half a mile from where the fawn had died, was a large deer. I slowed my car down. At first, the doe looked like a statue, but then she stretched her neck and looked about the area. Hoisting one front leg in the air, the doe’s body language was one of anxiety. My thought was that the doe was looking for the fawn. As I continued down the road, I felt empty inside and then I felt distressed.
Why don’t I feel that way about fish?
Today, as I passed the Forest Preserve Park on my way to the Center, I looked for the spot where the fawn had laid on the road. There was no blood anywhere, nothing to remind me of deer. I felt calm, and an emotional relief. Quoting an over-used cliché, “it was out of sight and out of mind.” For the past 24 hours, I had experienced some cosmic vibration of empathy even though I had nothing to do with the death of the fawn.
At the end of the Forest Preserve Park is an opening and an entrance to the parking lot where people park their cars and do whatever they do. At this entrance, one-half a mile from where the fawn had died, was a large deer. I slowed my car down. At first, the doe looked like a statue, but then she stretched her neck and looked about the area. Hoisting one front leg in the air, the doe’s body language was one of anxiety. My thought was that the doe was looking for the fawn. As I continued down the road, I felt empty inside and then I felt distressed.
Why don’t I feel that way about fish?
Among the Stars
In my future, I will live among the stars and the earth will be my moon.
I will trade my flower gardens for equations that will plot my path from galaxy to galaxy.
Everything will be relative to each other as I travel through space; visiting other plants where stars dance around its sphere.
I will create stars, and understand the physics of the design in the universe.
For to know what is, is to ponder beyond one’s own thought; stretching the mind's eye to other places in our universe of endless darkness.
This static universe of energy, this dark energy within us that permeates our life form, will give a new awareness to old ways of thinking of our endurance with the rest of the universe.
My existence is just a grain of sand surrounded by millions of other grains of sand somewhere.
Therefore, I do not cling to my presence mode of life.
No sorrow will dampen my eyes.
My dreams are bigger than what I know in this life. As I grow in understanding my role in all things, my future becomes clear and inviting.
I will trade my flower gardens for equations that will plot my path from galaxy to galaxy.
Everything will be relative to each other as I travel through space; visiting other plants where stars dance around its sphere.
I will create stars, and understand the physics of the design in the universe.
For to know what is, is to ponder beyond one’s own thought; stretching the mind's eye to other places in our universe of endless darkness.
This static universe of energy, this dark energy within us that permeates our life form, will give a new awareness to old ways of thinking of our endurance with the rest of the universe.
My existence is just a grain of sand surrounded by millions of other grains of sand somewhere.
Therefore, I do not cling to my presence mode of life.
No sorrow will dampen my eyes.
My dreams are bigger than what I know in this life. As I grow in understanding my role in all things, my future becomes clear and inviting.
Fishin' Rods and Tea Pots*
When the picture of President Obama with his maternal grandparents reached the media, it stirred memories of my grandmother but not my grandfather. All I knew about him was his name. I began to question the reasons why there were no memories of my maternal or paternal grandfathers.
Historians agreed that an African-American man was the breadwinner of his family during the turn of the twentieth century. Most fathers worked beyond retirement age. This kept him outside the family circle, missing the best years with his children. The face of this man scored with fear and fatigue was evidence of his love. If he survives to old age, his reward was seeing his legacy through his grandchildren.
I never met Grandpa James. A picture, which hung over the doorway to the main bedroom, was the only evidence I had that he existed. My cousins told me when Grandpa James retired he was never home. However, when they did see Grandpa at home, he was always asleep. My cousins were dramatic with their depiction of our grandfather, even cruel sometimes. As grandmother explained to me, this caused my cousins to forget the kindness and compassion of the man. I imagine that for grandpa to sit around the house with the kids threatened his masculinity. To avoid this situation, I believe he retreated to the world of fellow retirees. Places where old men sat around at barbershops and courthouses talking politics most of the day. I was young when I went to live with my paternal grandmother Momee.
Grandpa James had long since died and Momee became the head of household for my cousins and me. She nurtured our souls, kindled our spirits, and from her strength we developed wisdom and perseverance. She was the glue that kept the family together and its oral history alive. As for my father Lawrence, I never saw him much. The most vivid memory I have of my father was on my 10th birthday when he joined me for a cup of tea from the tea set he had just given me. I loved my father and believed his absence was because of his work, and regrettably, his absence dominated the life he would share with me.
My father told me he knew little about his father, yet he felt an obligation to connection with me. It was from my father I learned the reason there were no stories about Grandpa James. The role of the father was to provide the food that was on the table every day, and the roof that sheltered and protected the family. He was the provider, not the nurturer; that was mother’s duty, and for the era in which my parents and grandparents lived, this made sense.
Grandparenting didn’t happen for all families in the same way. Some families struggled, as they adhered to old ways and attitudes of family life. Grandmothers became surrogate mothers to their grandchildren, and grandfathers disappeared, for whatever reason, from the family circle. As it was for my mother’s father, the male role model continued to be lacking for some families. No names, no pictures on the wall of their existence; they were a phantom of a man.
When changes in government laws began to regulate hiring practices of companies, the doors of opportunity for African-Americans opened. It was a time of growth for my people. It was a time to think beyond the cotton fields. Extended families moved away from the safety of their neighborhoods. Fathers looked for better careers and job training. Women sought professions other than cooks, laundresses, and housekeepers. It was a time when men began to show accountability in the household.
When I joined the world of married people, this family transformation was a reality. In our household, my husband Calvin and I were both breadwinners, and shared the responsibility of raising our children Keith and Britney. As my father aged, I became his caregiver and in return, my father became a grandfather to my children. Possible retirement communities and trips abroad were ideas I shared with friends during group excursions to the gym. I would settle for Daycare centers and fast food restaurants replacing me as a grandparent. Calvin, on the other hand, would spend time stringing fishing rods with Keith or passing a teapot to Britney. These priceless moments would be ideal for talking about his life and family history.
I admire Michele Obama’s mother for helping with her grandchildren. It adds stability to the family circle. She can share family stories with the girls as my grandmother did with me. However, in my case, I want to enjoy my grandchildren’s visits on the weekends and holidays, and when the gathering is over, they can go home and sleep in their own beds. Calvin, on the other hand, wants to enjoy every moment with his grandkids, but most of all Calvin enjoys being a role model for our son. I have no memories of my paternal or maternal grandfathers because they weren’t there to leave any memories. However, for my grandchildren, I’m going to make sure they know their grandfather.
*Note this piece is creative nonfiction; true with fictional highlights.
Historians agreed that an African-American man was the breadwinner of his family during the turn of the twentieth century. Most fathers worked beyond retirement age. This kept him outside the family circle, missing the best years with his children. The face of this man scored with fear and fatigue was evidence of his love. If he survives to old age, his reward was seeing his legacy through his grandchildren.
I never met Grandpa James. A picture, which hung over the doorway to the main bedroom, was the only evidence I had that he existed. My cousins told me when Grandpa James retired he was never home. However, when they did see Grandpa at home, he was always asleep. My cousins were dramatic with their depiction of our grandfather, even cruel sometimes. As grandmother explained to me, this caused my cousins to forget the kindness and compassion of the man. I imagine that for grandpa to sit around the house with the kids threatened his masculinity. To avoid this situation, I believe he retreated to the world of fellow retirees. Places where old men sat around at barbershops and courthouses talking politics most of the day. I was young when I went to live with my paternal grandmother Momee.
Grandpa James had long since died and Momee became the head of household for my cousins and me. She nurtured our souls, kindled our spirits, and from her strength we developed wisdom and perseverance. She was the glue that kept the family together and its oral history alive. As for my father Lawrence, I never saw him much. The most vivid memory I have of my father was on my 10th birthday when he joined me for a cup of tea from the tea set he had just given me. I loved my father and believed his absence was because of his work, and regrettably, his absence dominated the life he would share with me.
My father told me he knew little about his father, yet he felt an obligation to connection with me. It was from my father I learned the reason there were no stories about Grandpa James. The role of the father was to provide the food that was on the table every day, and the roof that sheltered and protected the family. He was the provider, not the nurturer; that was mother’s duty, and for the era in which my parents and grandparents lived, this made sense.
Grandparenting didn’t happen for all families in the same way. Some families struggled, as they adhered to old ways and attitudes of family life. Grandmothers became surrogate mothers to their grandchildren, and grandfathers disappeared, for whatever reason, from the family circle. As it was for my mother’s father, the male role model continued to be lacking for some families. No names, no pictures on the wall of their existence; they were a phantom of a man.
When changes in government laws began to regulate hiring practices of companies, the doors of opportunity for African-Americans opened. It was a time of growth for my people. It was a time to think beyond the cotton fields. Extended families moved away from the safety of their neighborhoods. Fathers looked for better careers and job training. Women sought professions other than cooks, laundresses, and housekeepers. It was a time when men began to show accountability in the household.
When I joined the world of married people, this family transformation was a reality. In our household, my husband Calvin and I were both breadwinners, and shared the responsibility of raising our children Keith and Britney. As my father aged, I became his caregiver and in return, my father became a grandfather to my children. Possible retirement communities and trips abroad were ideas I shared with friends during group excursions to the gym. I would settle for Daycare centers and fast food restaurants replacing me as a grandparent. Calvin, on the other hand, would spend time stringing fishing rods with Keith or passing a teapot to Britney. These priceless moments would be ideal for talking about his life and family history.
I admire Michele Obama’s mother for helping with her grandchildren. It adds stability to the family circle. She can share family stories with the girls as my grandmother did with me. However, in my case, I want to enjoy my grandchildren’s visits on the weekends and holidays, and when the gathering is over, they can go home and sleep in their own beds. Calvin, on the other hand, wants to enjoy every moment with his grandkids, but most of all Calvin enjoys being a role model for our son. I have no memories of my paternal or maternal grandfathers because they weren’t there to leave any memories. However, for my grandchildren, I’m going to make sure they know their grandfather.
*Note this piece is creative nonfiction; true with fictional highlights.
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