In My Head Part III

I have become my own social experiment. Welcome to Part III of The In My Head Series.

Yesterday, I met my friend, the nanny, we'll call her Sonia, and her little girl whom we'll call Sophie, at Pelham Public Library. They've been going their for a couple of years. I've just started venturing out beyond my zip code. As you will recall from previous posts, my experiences as a black mother, trying to find diverse, cultural and social activities for my twins to participate in has become a challenge-not only because of the race/class thing but because I'm shy and a tad insecure.

First of all-prior to having a car, the only place I could take the kids was the little library down the block from my house, which sadly pales in comparison when it comes to wealthier libraries in the 'burbs. Don't get me wrong.  I love it. Still do. It provided  an outlet for me and for them when the twins were babies. I will never forget  heaving the boys up and down the hilly streets of my neighborhood in their double stroller, which as I look back on was good for me. It helped me get rid of a lot of baby fat rather quickly. It's also where I met Sonia and Sophie. The only white people at the library. I remember the first time Sophie came to story hour. She cried and cried. She was so shy. Now...she's the most sociable little girl you ever want to meet. I was expecting the same kind of transformation for the boys..and  for myself as well. I wanted to break out of  my shell and open up a bit-meet new people, have experiences. I admired Sonia for taking Sophie to libraries all across the city where she would meet people of all races and ethnic backgrounds, but I think it's easier for white people.

As I travel to places outside my zip code, I have to work to remind myself especially for the boys sake that I'm not inferior.  I have every right to take advantage of free programs and opportunities as much as every other parent, and nanny in the library. who are taking advantage of free opportunities to enhance and improve their kids life and educational experiences-just like I am. We all want the same things.

As I've said, the boys are too young to pick up on the things I notice. The things I try to ignore like the fact that my kids are the only black kids in the library despite the fact that most of the women there, including me- are black.
"Awwww, Cute..."  said the pretty lady with that frozen smile I've grown accustomed to. It didn't even come off as a compliment, she barely looked at the kids. At least she acknowledged  us,  unlike the guy cutting the grass, who ignored my son's jumping up and down excitedly, pointing and smiling at this strange machine he'd never seen before. If I hadn't called my son over, he would have run Noah over. He completely ignored us.  I tried to smile at him, but he refused to make eye-contact.

 Oh well...

So here we are, in  this massive library, which looks like a museum, or an old mansion. I think I read somewhere it used to be a bank. It was an imposing place to be. For me anyway.  The kids were in awe too,  and they started running around and loudly expressing how impressed they were.  I felt this was neither the time nor place for us to be conspicuous, so I ran to the librarian at the front desk, who was shooting the breeze, taking her sweet time to check out a patron while she saw me standing and waiting.

"Excuse me, where is children's story hour held?" She smiled. That is always reassuring.

"In the basement." Of course.  I hate being conspicuous.

How do I get there? I have to go outside and then downstairs.

So we went outside. There they were:  sistergirls, mothers, aunties- the nannies, exercising, cuddling, and cooing over their little ones. I must admit most of them were pretty friendly-even the one I met at the Pelham library yesterday who scolded me about the kids hair, and just about everything else the kids did,  turned out to be pretty sympathetic when, as usual, I started to apologize for my failings as a parent.

"Take dem out. Tek dem to di park. Le' dem meet other chil'ren. Dem will talk, dem will play. You nuh need daycare. All dat is money wasted. I suppose that's true. I wish I had started this process a year earlier, but as you know-we didn't have a vehicle. Without it, I would never have been able to meet these people. Not to mention the fact that it's hard enough to take the kids out alone even with a car. Anyway, I digress...I was pleased that the nannies were so friendly.

So now we're in the basement again, It was intimidating.  It was a theater. At first the boys seemed thrilled to be in such an interesting and different space.  Zach ran towards the carpet in the middle of the floor and started running his car.

I tried to put Noah down, but again, he would have no part of it.. I considered sitting in the auditorium seats, because, well-even I was a bit intimidated by the set up, but I realized that if I'm going to teach the boys fearlessness, I have to lead by example so I walked to the center of the room and sat with them on the carpet. Noah was fine for a while. Until hordes of kids started piling into the auditorium.

I thought the woman in front of the theater, throwing books onto the floor might be the story teller, but I could be sure. I thought the little girl by her side might belong to her too, but  there were so many other nannies and kids just hanging around you can never tell who belongs to whom. Finally, story time was about to start.  Noah started to act up, Zach was roaming around.  At least he wasn't crying.

The story teller began with a good morning and a few requests: \

"Parents or care-givers, when I start to tell the stories, if your kid wanders around, or starts crying can you please remove them..." O.k. I always take my kids out when they act up but her saying it irked me for some reason.

She continues:
 " I have my own child here, and it's hard enough for me to take care of her and have to deal with all your kids too."  She said some other things, but that's what struck me. She wasn't outright rude, but there was a hit of condescension and holier than thou parenting in her voice. It just made me uneasy and I assumed her comments were directed at me because my kids were among the first kids there and Zach was wandering around and Noah was whimpering.

She then went on to inform us that she "volunteered" at the library-as if to set herself apart in some way, letting us know that she didn't do this because she "had to," but because she wanted to. It just seemed cold to me.

And then to announce that your child is there-among all these other kids-who couldn't care less, was pretentious and unnecessary,  She wasn't unfriendly, but she wasn't warm. She was like a cute little puppy that will let you pet it but it bites. I don't know. That's the image that came to mind.

Anyway...story hour progressed and I kept the kids with me in the auditorium seats because I didn't want to be embarrassed if she stopped story time and asked me to remove the kids-she seemed the type to do it,  I felt bad about keeping them away from the other kids because the purpose of having them there is to socialize. Sonia helped me drag Zach and Noah to the dinosaur march, which Zach enjoyed and I might have, had Noah not been clinging to my neck.  During the march I recognized a nanny from another library I take the boys  to and  we got to talking. She takes care of twins also.  A boy and a girl, two years old-like my boys  I've never seen these two act up. They gleefully participated in the dinosaur march, willfully danced, and didn't create-like my two. They caused quite a racket: squealing, stretching their little arms out for me to pick them up.  I've never seen her twins act up like these guys always do.

I pleaded for her to tell me the secret, and she very sweetly told me that it takes time, I smiled. "Sure."  C'mon, The boys and I've  been at this for two years now. Noah still won't leave my lap.  Granted I only had access to one library for the better part of a year so they've only started to interact with other people  but still...I'm getting ready to put the kids in daycare and I worry nobody will want to take them if they continue to behave this way.

Story time has come to an end. We all get ready to leave and I'm behind my new nanny friend. There's a large crowd waiting to exit. Of course we take our time and exchange pleasantries with all the parents and caregivers while getting our little ones to walk up the stairs and exit the building. Of course, Noah who was fine walking a second ago starts to create. I mean, the kid is screaming, thrashing  himself about, stretching his arms out, begging to be picked up and I, easily embarrassed, give in.

Obvious reason number 1) Crowd too large for me to leave him there and ignore him. I hate to be embarrassed.

Obvious reason number 2) I just want to get the hell outside. Did I mention I'm embarrassed?

Perhaps not so obvious reason number 3) Most of the nannies there are Caribbean. Like my mother, my grandmother, and auntie and other elders who surely expect me to be a better disciplinarian.  I caught a couple of curt glances already- I can hear them admonishing me in my grandmother's gravelly patois,"mi pickney could neva carry on like dat..."

Well, I picked him up. I'm his mother. I can do what I want with my child. Look down on me if you want to. Go ahead and judge me. I think. I'm judging you too...at least my kids are here damn it!

In my head, I taunt them but what good does that do?

As soon as I have Noah in my arms. He let's out a little chuckle;  the boy is smiling.

"It's not funny!" I fume. I'm  exhausted, frustrated and humiliated.

My new nanny friend turns to me, her dark curls bouncing up and down as she helps her twins take wobbly steps up the stairs.

"It's funny for him, He won."

In My Head Part II (At the Library)

Today, I took the boys to the children's library in Mount Vernon. My friend-the nanny I was with in New Rochelle, recommended it. I figured I'd give it a try because I'm trying to expand my and the kids' horizons. I am trying to get out of my comfort zone and network; meet new moms and in the process maybe I'll  make a friend or two.

 I've always been shy. Especially in predominately black settings. I've been that way for as long as I can remember, probably because I'm used to being the minority.  When I was a little girl in Toronto, Canada, I was always the new, and one of few black girl's in whatever group I sought to belong.  My babysitter was a white woman, and the kids in our daycare were all white-save my sister and Roger, who was half Japanese. My sister and I were the only black children she ever cared for. I remember when we would go on group outings, people would always stop and ask (with frozen smiles ) if we, pointing to my sister and I were "hers." She would always say yes and keep it moving. I loved her as much as I loved my own mother.  She loved me as much as she loved her own children. I remember we went to Center Island on a trip once and I got lost. When we reunited, she was in tears, I was in tears but the way she held onto me, the way I held onto her-it was just love. Pure and simple. I never thought of myself as anything less than a loved family member. Neither she, or her own blood family treated my sister or I otherwise.

However, reality is one relentless son of a bitch. Racism was a cold, hard reality, no matter how I tried to ignore it.  I learned about racism mostly at the playground with taunts and stuff,but that didn't bother me.  What worried me was that, Mrs. Woodward, might start loving me when she realized I was just what those kids called me on the playground-a darkie, a brownie...something not worthy to be loved or appreciated.

One day my father was driving my sister and I to Mrs. Woodward's and on the way, he pointed to a house, about half a block a way from hers, where a black-faced * lawn jockey stood, proudly bearing his lampshade, in their front yard. I had thought nothing of it, walking past this house daily. I was actually kind of happy to see another black face around. But when my father saw it, he was enraged.   Racists, he said, his knuckles nearly bursting through the skin he'd been gripping the steering wheel so tight. He said nothing more, simply shaking his head slowly back and forth the entire drive towards towards my babysitters. I will never forget that day,  Or that house.

Then, one day  my babysitter announced  she was planning to get one of those things that made my father so angry.  I burst into tears. In fact, I was inconsolable.  I told her what my father told me. She wrapped her plump arms around me and held onto me tight. She promised me she would never get one and  she never did. She also didn't know they were racist, many people don't. They simply think they are cute ornaments.

I grew up in Canada where racism is not as blatant as it is here. Segregation doesn't exist the way it does here in America. We don't have ghettos in Canada the way we have ghettos here in New York City. Our racial culture is different. Not that there isn't racism, I was in school with whites who made politically incorrect comments all the time (mostly out of ignorance) about any body who wasn't white but we all sat in the same classrooms, rode the same buses and for the most part lived in the same neighborhoods and still played together in the same playgrounds.

 In Toronto, I had a lot of white friends and my experiences were different then a black person who has grown up around black people who've been made to feel inferior their entire life-not only by cruel kids in a park, but by an entire system, which blatantly sets out to enforce racial inferiority. It wasn't that I didn't know racial prejudice existed, it's just that I had the luxury of not having to deal-for example, my friends were wearing Tre-torns and listened to Depeche Mode, as did I.   I considered it odd that when I came to New York City one summer, hoping to find cheaper Tre-torn sneakers then were sold in Toronto, in stores that only sold Timberland, Travel Fox and Adidas, and was looked at like I'd committed raciaal treason because I wasn't interested in Reeboks, Adidas, or Travel Fox. None of the sales persons had even heard of Tretorn. (???)

Anyway, the point I'm making is that I've always felt a bit shunned by black people. Of course when I went to college and became "self-aware" Black Power was in vogue (even among white people) and hip hop was emerging as a force to be reckoned with,  I reclaimed my "blackness." It felt good to be recognized. Even though, I still didn't quite get it. "Blackness."

It wasn't only until I began living in New York, and traveling around these great United States that I recognized how "black" I was, and yet,  am not.

So here we are my head while I'm at the library among my own people. Unlike the park, it's all black people here, at least it will be until my friend and her little girl show up. There  aren't any welcoming smiles for me. Not even the frozen ones that I've grown so accustomed to. I'd take one right now over the looks I'm getting.  I feel so out of place.

When I arrive, story time was already in full swing, Damn. I hate showing up late, but my friend told me that it started at 10:15 and it's 10: 05.  Clearly, they stared early. The kids are having a great time. They all seem to know each each other and since they seem to be  a couple of years older than Zach and Noah, I'm a bit worried they might shun my boys if they try to join in. O.k., O.k.  I admit, that's more my hang up then theirs. They couldn't care less if they are ignored. They will just find something else to do.

 I tried  to take a seat inconspicuously,  but since the chairs are set up smack dab  in the middle of the brightly lit room,  it's  awkward trying to squeeze past some ladies ( I assume they are parents or caregivers) with Zach screaming,  clinging to my neck and Noah whimpering for me to pick him up. Finally, I'm  able to plunk Zach down into an  empty chair to my left. I'm  getting ready to seat Noah to my right, but he ain't having  it. He  climbs onto my lap and buries his head into my chest. I wish I could do that. Where is my friend?

Not even two seconds pass before I'm settled when  there is a sharp tap on my shoulder. I turn, expecting to find a friendly face making a friendly request, but instead, all I can see is an uptight scowl, cleavage and fluorescent pink. "Somebody's sitting there,.."

 "Sorry." I say scooping Zach up and  moving (with Noah's face still buried in my bosom) down a couple of seats.

"Mom?"  The music has stopped, the kids are seated, chatting excitedly, anticipating the next book to be read.  The boys and I are watching and waiting for the librarian to being the story too, but this does not happen. (Of course.)

"Are you mom?"

"Yes." I say trying to appear cool and nonchalant, but feeling rigid and tense. Why do black people have to be so conspicuous?  I wonder as I feel my body heat up  from the intensity of eyes burning holes into me from every direction. I wish I was oblivious as a two-year old but I'm not. I'm a forty year old woman who can't believe the audacity of this ghetto chick and the librarian out to embarrass me.  This shit wouldn't happen in New Rochelle.

Nobody would have asked me to move in New Rochelle.  They would have politely let me sit where I wanted, even if the seat was "taken." They might glare daggers into my back, but I bet they would have directed their child towards another seat among the many that were there. Then again, maybe they wouldn't have, One thing I do  know is that if this did happen in New Rochelle, it would have been done with a lot more class isn't that why we don't have to pay for parking over there? Why there are no metal detectors?

I'm still furious over the "tapping." I'm thinking, as their "teacher",  the chick that tapped me should be an example of friendliness and welcoming, rather than the picture of alienation and divisiveness. Her actions are the reason why we all "just can't get along."

"You gotta get the kids out of your lap," The librarian's saying to me in a tone I found offensive and condescending. He's part of the problem too.

"It's their first time here," I announce defensively while trying to accommodate the twins in my lap. . If things continued like this it would be their last.

It's their first time too!" He proclaims, waving his arm around the room to indicate the kids seated in front of me, and the teachers behind me, One of whom I'd already had the misfortune of meeting.

"They just need to get warmed up," I assured him. Why didn't  he just get on with the program and leave us alone?  And where the hell was my friend? My white friend. I needed her now. I felt like having a white friend might make them take me more seriously, like the black grandfather with his bi-racial daughter at the park.

He paused a moment, looked at me like I was speaking Chinese but thankfully, he decided it was time for him  to read.

Finally. A reprieve. Pete the Cat's cool shoes were definitely more interesting to the kids and they turned to follow him.

I must admit even though his-in-your-face manner irked me, he was pretty good. He was engaging and interactive. The kids responded to him.  I liked that he got them involved.  He was a great storyteller. I wanted to bring the kids back, but the whole tapping thing left a sour taste in my mouth and the incident didn't make me feel much like interacting with anyone, which  was unfortunate because interacting  and making friends was the reason I brought the kids here in the first place.

As I sit, fidgeting, waiting for my friend, there is more music, there is more dancing.  Zach joins them without prompting. While I'm proud of his inhibition, I find myself worrying that the other kids might not want him there.   Flashbacks of  recess in elementary school flood my brain.  Noah's growing  roots in my lap.  

It's now time for another story, but Zach won't sit still. He begins to walk around the library, back and forth as the librarian is reading the story, and trying to hold the attention of the kids who by now are more interested in Zach's exploits. Most of the kids find him more amusing then The Three Little Pigs and their teacher sternly warns them to turn around and pay attention. I take it as a dig at me.  My kid is the source of the distraction. I am "one of those" mothers. I'm not disciplining him right.

Finally my friend and her little girl arrive. I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life. Curious eyebrows rise. Most curious of them all, the woman that tapped me. I am redeemed.

She's now prancing around the library like a bright pink peacock, her boobs practically jumping out of her shirt. She's taking pictures and flexing her  "educator" muscle;  using poor grammar and broken English the entire time. She makes me furious on so many levels but I'd be here for years explaining all of them.

I sit watching the kids, contemplating  whether or not I should come back. I feel a bit slighted, like my own people had treated me wrong. At least in New Rochelle, white people smiled at us and although it pains me to say it-it was encouraging. Smiles have that affect. Genuine or not.
 Here, it was as if people were trying o discourage us.They didn't make eye contact, they didn't try to connect. Even though we shared the same skin tone, I felt so different from them. I felt like they didn't want to see me.  I felt like an outsider. Even though I should have belonged.

I tell my friend about the teacher asking me to move. I wanted her opinion on the "vibe" here.  She laughs.  She knows what I'm getting at.  "Those daycare people, they think they own the place." I have to laugh too. This is my problem. I take things too personally.  
"I'm the only white girl here," She tells me.  I've been coming here for two years, People are who they are.  The important thing here is the kids and what they learn. They learn from watching you. How you treat people. How you react to situations. They will become what you show them."  I know she's right. The world isn't going to change to accommodate my wishful thinking. I can't keep running away whenever  reality might reveal its sometimes ugly side.  This is the lesson I want to teach my kids.

 So, we'll come back...

And we did, the following week.  It was a different crowd, but the same vibe among the elders.  I got dirty looks from some teachers. Sigh...I assume they didn't like the fact that I allowed Zachary to wander during story hour, and even though I begged him to come and join his brother and I, he was happier running his toy like a train across his makeshift railroad of brightly colored stools(that you sit on--NOT bowel movements). Noah refused to leave my side but I dealt with it. Despite all the eyes on me,  I took my friend's advice; I stopped focusing on them and focused on my kids. When it came time to dance. I did. Noah didn't want to but Zachary eventually joined, albeit briefly until some other kids started running around the back of the room and he chased after them. He made some friends.
The kids will be alright.

So will I.

Today, when it came time to leave, my friend's little girl lost her princess. My friend asked the librarians to help us find it, and the librarians asked the kids and their caregivers to stay put until we helped her find the toy. The caregivers returned our smiles of gratitude with looks of scorn. They didn't help us look. They seemed to take offense to us even asking. Well, it was my brave white friend who asked. I would never have been so bold. These people intimidate me. The expressions on their faces said "she shouldn't have brought the toy in the first place." I wondered if they were pissed because she was white, and assumed that one of the "black" kids stole her toy.

All of  these issues and  experiences run through my head as I grapple with this new role I've assumed; as I try to figure out the best way to socialize and educate my kids. My own thoughts about race and class,  my personal experiences as a black woman and now mother/role  model play a large role in my thinking and my behavior.  What I know is that as a black woman raising two black boys in a racialized setting, I'm more defensive/cautious about their interactions. I wear my heart on my sleeve and when it comes to my kids  I'm protective-overprotective. I sense that they are well-intentioned and like me, they just want to impart love and all the good feelings to their friends-the way I did when I was growing up. I had an ideal childhood in Canada. Though, racism was there it wasn't prevalent the way  it is here, and if they can have the kind of childhood I had, until they are confronted with the ugly truth, I'll be happy. All of us has a rude awakening at some time in our lives.

All  I want right now is for them to be in environments that are nurturing, encouraging, stimulating and loving. I want them to be nurturing, encouraging and loving towards other people-regardless of race, class, creed or religion. The concern grows greater as I prepare to go back to work and I must entrust their care and socialization to others.

I don't want them in a monolithic environment, like what I've witnessed at the library. I didn't grow up that way and I'd like to think I'm enlightened because of it-on the other hand, I worry about them being the only black boys among a majority of frozen smiles...when they become men, the world will become a different place for them. They must learn how to live in it.

So, that being said, when I'm feeling intimidated about someplace I haven't been, or worried about how I might be received, I think bout my friend and the other three white people who were the minority at the library today. I'm grateful for them because they showed me that everyone experiences a frozen smile at some point in their life. I learned  that I should never be intimidated or debilitated by them, What is most important is that I am  NEVER going to be the one to give one.

*If you're curious about lawn jockeys...

In My Head at the Park

Today I took the boys to New Rochelle. First we went to the park, then we went to the children's library. What a magnificent space. It was homey, comfortable and cozy with a little hearth, sofas and lounge chairs-all that was missing was a stove, pot and kettle. It was the perfect nurturing environment.

It was hot today. My kids and I (apart from one nanny, a grandfather pushing his beautiful bi-racial daughter on the swing) were the only black people in the park. It's not that I'm not used to it; it's just that for some reason, here and today-I felt...black.  But that could be me. I'm overly sensitive about these things, especially when the huge disparity between race and class practically screams for one's attention in such a glorious, lush, green, and white park such  as this.

Nobody was overtly obnoxious; there were subtle nuances...of course the boys didn't notice a thing. It's what's so remarkable about children.  They are wonderfully oblivious and shameless. Innocent and pure in their intentions. They just do what their hearts tell them to do without fear or inhibition.  They will insert themselves into any body's game if they want to play, and if they aren't feeling particularly cooperative, they have no qualms about letting you know. Not like adults who have to pretend to be tolerant, read: politically correct), letting their children play nicely with your little black boys even though the icy frozen smiles they greet you with when these little black boys (who are a bit tall for their age )  get a bit too close to their golden-haired, flaxen skin, blue eyed beauty, express certain sentiments that need not be spoken.

And, as a mother who wants to spare her child any and every heartbreak, you want to tell your boys to back off, but since golden beauties people don't say or  do anything-except stand there, like statues, the frozen smiles plastered upon their rock hard faces, neither do you. You let them  run after one another, push each other on the slide, laughing and playing while you can feel your heart, your poor, mother's heart begin to crumble at the thought of how you'll have to explain the cruelty they will undoubtedly face as black men in America. And it will be worse then because their hearts will be broken too.

Of course New Rochelle is an affluent suburb, and affluent suburbs tend to have snooty residents.Well...I can be a bit snooty too, without the zip code to back it up-but, since it is the norm in this society to lord whatever you have to set you apart from your fellow man, woman  or even animal to do so, (forgive me-I just watched Dawn of Planet of the Apes) that's what you do. Well, it's what I do. I'm not proud of it but I do it. I have an advanced degree. I am an intellectual. My cultured upbringing in indicative of the kind of person I am-I represents diversity and tolerance. I am the antidote to prejudice. When I open my mouth to talk, I don't sound the way " they" might expect someone like me to sound.  I find myself perhaps trying a bit too hard to speak so they can see that I'm not at all what they think I am, or what I think they think I am--a "mammy"  nanny fresh off the boat.

http://www.thestar.com/news/gta/2015/05/25/midtowners-battle-the-rise-of-the-midrise.html

 I find when it's too hot I think too much.  I know better than to be paranoid or over sensitive about these things. Things are what they are. I am who I am. I can't be responsible for every ignorant idiot on the planet-I can't do anything about the way they think.  It should provide me with some comfort  that my good  friend, who happens to be a nanny and a white woman, and the beautiful little girl (also white)  she cares for, is a great playmate for them right now.. Everything else is irrelevant.  Seriously, All of the other stuff  shouldn't matter right now, Why should I be upset that the black grandfather pushing his gorgeous bi-racial granddaughter on the swings, refused to acknowledge me or my kids? Why should him ignoring us, yet giving my white friend and her little girl  a warm and hearty hello have any effect on me?  I don't know. But it does. It just tells me that maybe he's a bit like me in the sense that he elevated himself above the "black help" in the park by having a bi-racial granddaughter. Like he was now a part of some exclusive club. He had arrived and he  belonged.
\
My tall, dark-skinned black boys and their black mother were an affront to him in some way--like our presence may bring down the property value of the park or something and probably, more important some of his self-pride as a black man who had arrived.

I don't share these thoughts with everyone. Only you guys. Maybe it is all in my head, Maybe I am overly "sensitive." A young trainer, who also happened to be playing with her kids in the park gave me and my white nanny friend a couple of passes to Equinox Gym in Scarsdale. She said they have great programs there for the kids. Me? At a gym where the discount monthly fee is $225 a month?  Scarsdale is much whiter than New Rochelle-and richer too. Hey! Maybe she recognizes I belong there! Then again, I was with my white friend after all...I wonder if the other black nanny got a pass. Whatever. I'm flattered. I hate myself for that.

Thanks for checking out these links.Each of them, in their own way-get at the heart of the issues I'm trying to resolve, Thanks for listening.


http://www.buzzfeed.com/christophermassie/watch-this-rare-recently-surfaced-speech-old-obama-speech-fr?utm_term=.bqL0AvEb8&sub=3788034_5812380

Beautiful Sky

God. It's been a crazy few days. Back and forth between Brooklyn and the Bronx, PMS,...the twins. I've had no time to write. I feel bad about that because I made a promise to myself to at least write something every day but it's been difficult.  I was also doing better about exercising every morning until recently, I've just been too tired to devote to the routine I started.  I was able to do at least 15 minutes a day of strength training so that's not nothing.

Also, the house is filthy. I can't work when I feel like there are all of these other things that need to be done. By the time the kids get up, groomed, dressed and fed, the day is practically over. I don't want to write.  But I know I must. So, today, I committed to it-but the thing that pisses me off is that it's almost 10:30 and I wanted to have been done this portion of writing already but the bathroom wouldn't let me wait. It had to be taken care of, which actually is not so bad considering that I was able to take care of the bathroom while the kids were eating. But I wanted to read them a book while they were eating because they pay better attention when they are preoccupied with food-but of course, I missed that boat too. So, they were cranky and wanted out of their high chairs;  ( I can't blame them for that-and I was anticipating them watching a little Cat in the Hat while I worked) but they didn't want to watch t.v. they wanted to run a muck in the living room,which I'll be honest, sometimes I allow them to do because I'm just too physically exhausted to fight but today I knew I would get nothing done, beat myself up about all the time I wasted so I had to throw them back in the bedroom behind the gate whether they liked it or not. Of course, they did not. As we speak, it's like the two of them are competing for ear-bleed scream of the day award. It's brutal. But, here I am doing my best to ignore them.

I realize that I am being a bit too hard on myself. I have to do things as I have time to do them, it's just that well with the little time I have, I don't want to do anything. Hence my perpetual conundrum.
Anyway, I've also not been writing because I've been taking the kids out to the park so they can run around which is all they want to do anyway, and that's fine because by the time I get them home they are crashed out. But after the effort that it takes to get them out there...by the time I come home and get them fed and they are in bed...well...you know how it goes.  So, I try to take some pictures and get my creative juices flowing while I'm out there and I took this picture that I'm sharing today. I'm going to go because I have some other business I must attend to before I take them upstairs to wreak unholy havoc on grandma's house.

Here ends today's morning pages...

All Lives Matter

 A Thug Is A Thug Is A Thug. How anybody could have the audacity to politicize a perfectly good word because of its “racial” implications is ridiculous. One man speaking to reporters claimed that when he fought for his country he was considered a patriot, but now that he fights for "his people," he is considered a “thug.”

Merriam-Webster's Dictionary's definition of the word thug is as follows: " a violent criminal, or a brutal ruffian or assassin, Deliberately cutting fire hoses, burning down a drugstore,  pelting police and causing them bodily harm, looting and acting without regard for the lives and safety of others-lashing out-is the behavior of brutal ruffians. A thug is as a thug does, irrespective of race, creed or socio-economic background.

Freddy Gray's unnecessary and as we have now come to learn, illegal arrest which caused his fatal injuries are inexcusable. Yet I experience conflicting emotions while listening to pundits intellectualize, politicize and proselytize the cause of the Baltimore riots.

Rebellion, political protests and clashes between the haves and have not's is not a new phenomenon. Thomas Jefferson said that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing....The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”   Of course he was writing from the safe distance of Paris, much like I am writing this from the comfort of my living room far away from the chaos that engulfs West Baltimore.

Gentrification is slow to reach West Baltimore. Residents of West Baltimore have had to endure the burned out, vacant row-houses that have discouraged investment in the neighborhood for decades.  In marginalized communities across the United States predatory lending is rampant; credit is king and debt is a way of life creating a culture of poverty, which ensures that the cycle of poverty continues for generations. In 1968 after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Baltimore rioted in protest of the same conditions that plague Baltimore today:  subpar housing, distrust of law-enforcement, unemployment, inadequate schooling, social and economic injustice.

We have learned that Baltimore spends the third highest per capita on its public schools. According to the Baltimore Sun, Baltimore ranked second among the nation’s 100 largest school districts in per pupil spending.

Of course it’s easier to get angry, burn buildings down and lay blame everywhere but where it belongs than it is to be pro-active about  doing the work that will create positive and long term change such as finding after-school or community based programs that offer support to low-income families so that their children are given an opportunity to escape the conditions that keep them trapped. Naturally, in a capitalist economy there will always be barriers that can impede progress such as race, class and gender but these are facts of life. I doubt you will find any successful person who came from humble beginnings that can say their journey was a simple one. There is no quick fix to achieving success; one has to want it and earn it. 

 

Today, unlike 1968 Baltimore's top brass is black. The mayor and State's Attorney are black. Three of the six indicted officers are black. Stephanie Rawlings Blake has already come under fire for the language she used to describe the lawlessness that erupted in Baltimore. She has since back tracked and said she shouldn’t have used such language.  Of course, I disagree: a thug by any other name is still a thug.  Criminal behavior should never be condoned or justified. But, she is a politician and she can’t alienate her constituents or the police department she must rely on. A house divided against itself cannot stand.   In the meantime, while we await the outcome of the Freddy Gray investigation with baited breath, I can’t help but wonder if the protestors chanting black lives matter in response to the recent deaths of black men at the hands of law enforcement might take to the streets to voice their outrage over the death of an innocent NYPD officer. Officer Brian Moore was doing his job; attempting to protect the community he served from thugs like Demetrius Blackwell, who shot him in the face and killed him. The irony is heartbreaking. Enough is enough.  All lives matter.

White Honda Civic-Morning Pages Draft

Her white Honda Civic taunted me. It was parked right in front of my driveway, blocking me in. If I wanted to go out, which I did, I would have to run upstairs and ask her to move it, playing right into her bony, manipulative hands. She always did this shit and I had no fucking way out.

I sat in my apartment fuming. I didn’t want to see her, especially not today. The boys had given me hell today and just as the doorbell rang, heralding another unexpected visit, I was rushing them downstairs to eat and nap so I could take a break. As long as that white Honda civic stayed parked in front of my apartment, a break was the last thing I was going to get. 

Good Afternoon. Today, I'm really not in the mood. But here I am. Writing these pages with the expectation that it will translate into my becoming a better writer and perhaps having my blog recognized by more than four people.

No offense you guys, but this invisibility is wreaking havoc on  my confidence-to the point that I posted that hideous picture of myself in the early stages of pregnancy hoping that somebody might see it and want to comment on it and that it might  go viral and jump start my career.

Pathetic. I know, but there is a method to my madness. I keep telling myself that. '

I'm wondering why people who say things I've said, not any better or worse than I've said it, have their stuff recognized by millions of people, their blogs get tweeted on Huffington Post, they get interviewed about their tiny little blogs that they never thought would get noticed but theyeventually captured the attention of the world and now, here  they are famous authors! People read them. People see them.

That's all I want. Is it too much to ask?

Is it because I'm not a journalism, communications or English major? Or does my writing really suck that bad?  We'll soon find out because I'm going to devote this blog (apart from the morning pages) to trying out my stuff. I will finish my novel  (thirteen years in the making) in the meantime and that's my goal. I just want to finish the novel.

The story is in me. It has to come out. I'm freaking constipated by the bloody thing. Thirteen agonizing years of constipation. So I will do what I must. Writing is the only thing I want to do with my life and I want to get paid for it.  That's against most odds, I know but I am a woman of faith. Also, I've been trying to get work that pays me more than what I'm making where I currently work. Yet,  even with a master's degree I can't  seem to get an interview. Not even for an assistant's position. I've been trying for an editorial assistant or any assistant's position in publishing.  Problem is the salary is way below what I should be earning especially at this stage and age of the game. I've never made what I'm supposed to be making with an advanced degree.  It was the reason I went to school in the first place, yet I haven't been able to use my degree at all. I don't know why I'm constantly low-balled, humiliated, debased, degraded.  It's the fucking story of my life.  What, I'm begging any of you-well, I guess the four of you-to tell me, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Maybe I'm not meant to do more. If this is the only "published" writing I do than I will be happy with it. I will be grateful.

No. I won't. I'm tire of falling into shit. Taking jobs just because I hated the one I was currently in, without really thinking it through. I don't want to be hasty. I don't want to be impatient. It's my life and I want to have some peace knowing that I made the right choice because it was the right choice, because it was my choice. Not because I was rushed into it or pressured into it.

 Now is my time. I know I've been saying that for years, but this time is different. I've got kids now. I've got their  futures to think about. I don't want them to be anything like me. Also, I want them to know that if they truly want something, even if they are good at it, they still have to work for it, which I can admit has been a problem all my life. Things were natural for me. My sister always said I never really had to work hard for anything. Piano exams, I always got higher grades without studying or practicing as hard as I should have. I imagine how great I would be if I stuck to it. Like my sister for example. She works. She's an actor. I remember when she first started she was told she'd have better luck becoming a neurosurgeon. I was the one who took that statement literally and felt like if she was told that, what would they say to me? She didn't let it stop her. She literally pounded the pavement and knocked on doors until one opened.

She's a teacher now, another of her passions BUT, she has a role in a sitcom opposite Thandie Newton and Cole Hauser. Not bad. She waited a long time and put up with a lot of bullshit and rejection to get to that point but she is living her dream. She can die without regrets. I suppose that scares me too. I don't want to be on my deathbed, knowing that all I had to do was devote some time and energy to what I claim is my passion without expecting the world to accept what I have to say just because I say here I am.  Perhaps that's been my problem all my life. I expect things to fall into my lap, if I'm good at them. Like I shouldn't have to work just because I have a natural talent for something.  I'm not afraid of hard work but I don't want to work at things I enjoy. I'm also scared to death of rejection too. I hate to sound like an elitist, especially when I haven't published anything of substance but there's a lot of bad writing out there. I don't want to be a bad writer. Does that make sense?   Also, I 'm tired. I'm not ever in the mood nor do I have time to write the way I did when I didn't give a shit about it you know?  Raising the twins is work. I'm potty training two of them at once so forget it. When I get a minute to myself, I just want to binge watch t.v. and zone out until they wake up from a nap. I make too many excuses. Yes. I know.

My husband always says, "I don't get why you don't just send your stuff out.." Or my mom will say, "I was watching such and such show the other day and this young girl was talking about her book and she reminded me of you," or I read these articles all the time from people who don't write as well as you and they get their stuff published in so and so magazine, Then I get angry. I tell her I'm working on it.  She sighs and says,   "So I've been hearing for thirteen years."

 I know. I'm making excuses, but that's what these pages are for. Anyway, I'm going to answer my mom's question by posting a link to a woman's blog who, like my mom said-writes exactly about what I've been writing about for two years: how motherhood has changed her life.

It's changed mine too-and although I've said what she's said. I like the way she said it. Maybe there's something to that. Her blog has changed my life.  Motherhood will make me a better writer and so far, I have kept my writing promise despite the fact it's becoming more difficult to do since my eldest twin, Zachary has figured out how to escape the confines of his crib,where I desperately need him to be when it's writing time.

Oh well. This is where the work comes in I suppose. Hey. Look at me! Mommy's still writing!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashli-mazer/this-is-what-motherhood-did-to-me_b_7073842.html?ncid=tweetlnkushpmg00000067

Forgive me...

Please bear with me as I figure some things out.  I'm a work in progress, much like this blog.

I'm just trying something.

This is a test.

Sent from my iPhone

Promises...Promises

I apologize in advance for any spelling, grammar or usage issues with this post. As a writer, I know I shouldn't be making those kinds of excuses but it's more important for me to write, than get it right.

Also, I'm just not in the mood to write at all (which is why I have to do this). What makes things worse is that while I'm trying to keep true to my word, make the time to do what's write-excuse me, right-and prioritize what's important to me, which of course is my writing and these pages.

I have the news on because sometimes I'm inspired by what's going on in the world and they gave about five minutes to the news of the guy that died in Baltimore from a severed spine while at least 15 minutes to the freaking Royal Baby...I hate to sound like an asshole, but really? I just don't give a shit about the Royal baby. I have a feeling most people don't. Even the London correspondent claims this  baby is not big news-they are calling it the spare to the heir.  Yet, here I am talking about this shit and not the tragedy in Baltimore. This is the state of news today and it's sickening. Now they are talking about Don Johnson's Miami Vice outfit. (This is MSNBC in case you ever want to catch breaking news) Oh wait, the reporter is talking about the suspicious packages found at City Hall in St. Louis. They don't have much info about it yet, but I suppose by the time I come back to write again the world will know more.

As for the incident in Baltimore. I haven't really got much information. I think the Mayor of Baltimore is also waiting for answers. As usual, I didn't intend for the pages to begin this way. My time is limited so I have to be brief, but of course I have to get the writing in. I can't believe it's 11 already.

Anyway, I must say I'm not surprised. As one correspondent claims, it seems as though it's open season on Black men. While I'M not going that far I have to say it's troubling that despite all the media attention surrounding the recent deaths of black males in police custody, I'd think that cops would be extra cautious. Apparently not. You know it's also troubling that -well, again I don't know the circumstances so I don't want to speak to soon but c'mon black men. It's suicide to do anything remotely illegal these days. Why in the name of all that's holy are you in a situation to be involved in any kind of altercation with the police? I hope it wasn't a situation where the young man got mouthy; I'm hopeful that it's not a situation where tragedy could have been avoided had he not been in the wrong place at the wrong time, though lately it seems that might be anyplace.

I hate to say it, but I have two black boys. I mean they aren't old enough to go anywhere by themselves yet but when they are, I'll have to impose a strict curfew. I am afraid of them being out after dark where the chances of them having an unfortunate encounter of any kind are increased.

It's scary.

And my son somehow escaped from his crib so I can't delve into the details about Freddie Gray even though I'm hearing this guy blame the Mayor of Baltimore who is black and female for essentially sucking up to the white administration in order to become mayor so this is why there hasn't been enough done to curb tensions between police and the black community of Baltimore...

I guess now I may have something to work on for tomorrow;s pages.., oh, and in the meantime they trial in Tulsa where the guy mistook his gun for a tazer begins,...

http://www.msnbc.com/msnbc-live
.

Story Hour Mom

Lately, I've been in a James Blake state of mind.  Oh wait. It might have a little something to do with the fact that I'm  listening to both of his albums as I write these "anytime pages."  Seems tonight they are for venting.

Today started out pretty well. Actually, this weekend wasn't bad at all-after picking my husband up from work, he claimed he needed to pick up some scotch bonnet peppers for a dish he was making but when we got to the grocery store, he informed me that first, we'd be going to a fancy little bar in the same plaza! Surprise!!!!!

Look,  I never say no to a drink at any hour, happy or not, but I wish he would have told me because I might have made more of an effort with my appearance.  I was not dressed for this. Fortunately it was still early. The bar hadn't really even begun to do business yet. I would be out of there before anybody could see me and snicker.

The sad, but sweet thing about my aloof but always well-meaning husband is that he thinks that I am beautiful regardless of what I'm wearing or not wearing.  I'm flattered that he wasn't ashamed of me but that's my husband. He's humble, genuine, sweet and compassionate to a fault. He once dated a woman with a goatee, and two teeth and didn't care what anybody said because she was a damn good  and beautiful on the inside and out. Her goatee was apparently the result of hormone replacement therapy. I'm not sure if it explains her missing teeth but I suppose that's neither here nor there at this point.  I'm not saying a woman with a goatee and two teeth can't be attractive, I'm just saying it's a bit hard to trust him when he says I look beautiful. His frame of reference is a bit skewed.

I know how vain I sound. I cannot tell a lie. I want to feel and look like story hour mom now and again. I want to get dressed up and look fierce and be envied. I know it's wrong but I just want to feel beautiful, young, fresh and vibrant. It's been a long time since I've felt any of those things.
 (courtesy of Mingles in the Bronx )

Lately, I don't ever go anywhere requiring  the effort which by the way has me resenting the fuck out of Story Hour Mom. She breezes into toddler story hour fresh off the pages of InStyle magazine (at least that's the message she's quite convincingly trying to convey), nails freshly manicured and brightly painted, rocking a wicked hairstyle that I  could only pull off in my wildest dreams; too risque for a mom of toddler twins.

Her outfit was a bit too trendy (and tight) for her age, but she had the body for it, and the bitch looked fierce.

How dare she sashay into the library  (a library of all places!-there are children with insecure moms here!) exuding that ridiculous amount of swagu?  I overheard her talking to the librarian and she mentioned that she had two younger boys at home too.  Is she for real? I checked her out again from head to toe as discreetly as possible from the corner of my magnifying eye glasses.  The shoes. Damn her. How does she chase young children in those?

 She's obnoxiously spirited and happy and joyful; a chipper chatterbox spewing ridiculous tales and anecdotes, doling out stupid advice to any idiot who'll listen.  Like a bunch of drooling sycophants the other moms hang onto her every (grammatically incorrect I might add, ) word. I am not fooled. I don't even flinch when she flashes a flawless smile at me, looks me up and down and tells me what a beautiful job I'm doing with the twins. Taking them out to the library and  managing their melt-downs all by myself. I wonder how I must look to her.  I absolutely love the shade of her matte lipstick.  I hate her.

Let's move on, shall we?

Sunday morning: hubby and I went to our Cozy Cottage (diner-we don't actually have a cozy cottage yet) for a delicious breakfast and to get out of the house.

It was... nice.  It felt like it did when we were dating and we could stay out all night long doing whatever it was we did when we were young and unfettered, doing it until the sun began to creep up into the sky spreading daylight. Back then, our only concern was which diner had the best breakfast. We'd fine one and eat our scrambled eggs, bacon and Belgian waffles and talk for as long as the coffee refills kept coming.  When we had our fill we'd waste the rest of the day at his place, wrapped in each other's arms  in front of the t.v. watching old movies. What a time we had back when we were our only raison d'etre.

Of course we are living a completely different life now.  I never imagined how different it would be.  No spontaneous anything anymore. These days I have to schedule taking a shit. Free time is an oxymoron.

Honestly, I don't know what all of this has to do with James Blake but for some reason his music takes me "there."  Where? I have no clue.  I don't care...all that I know is I'm fallin'...fallin'...fallin'...might as well fall in...

For more on my obsession with James Blake and the affect of his music check out my Tumblr reneelizz.tumblr.com) post entitled "HBO's Togetherness and James Blake."

Thanks to James Blake and The Wilhelm Scream, Mingles and Story Hour Mom for the inspiration for tonight's post, which  despite my intentions, seemed to have a mind of its own.

http://jamesblakemusic.com/

Hypertension

I am hyper. I am tense. First, I must apologize because while I have continued this conversation, I left out the crucial details I wanted to discuss. Never mind, when my head is clearer, I shall get back to that.

Of course, the continuation of this post is later than expected but  I did, at least stay true to my word. I'm writing my morning pages at night because I wasn't really in the mood to write them this morning.

You will be wondering why I didn't want to write them this morning, which actually ties into why I didn't have time to finish yesterday's post. I had a doctor's appointment.  Lately, I've been having some issues with my blood pressure. My doctor has been trying to put me on medication.  I was quite adamant with the doctor, over the course of these visits that I refused to take medication and that  I could lower my blood pressure naturally, which I did for one visit, but yesterday's visit didn't do much to convince her I didn't need the pills, because it had skyrocketed again.

My issue is simple: I don't trust pharmaceuticals. I can self medicate if I want to do drugs that are going to do my body harm. I mean, these water pills, which even at the low dose she's prescribing can do some damage to my kidneys, which I took a hemoglobin to ensure they were healthy enough for this medication that could potentially do them harm? I don't like it. I refused, again. Vociferously.

So then my doctor showed me a chart of my blood pressure history, which was pretty normal until the my world turned upside down with the twins and my mother-in-law and being unemployed. Also, I've put on some pounds which have undoubtedly contributed to my hypertension. All of this can be reversed-without medication.. I know that I can lower my blood pressure naturally. I know that if I just work out rigorously and vigorously like I was doing before my life changed, I'll be fine.

I've been working out-every morning for half an hour at least...I know I have to do something but clearly it isn't enough-especially now that I'm ...old. I'm tired and I have twins to be chasing around which, I thought would contribute in some way to my exercise but it has not. My stress has increased in ways that I never imagined. Mom in law, kids, work, money etc. etc. But I told the doctor that I recognize all these issues have contributed to this, and if she'd just take a look back and see...

She did take a look back and see. That life no longer belongs to me, she says. As the kids get older, the stress, though it may look different, sound different-will always be there, And since my blood pressure has decreased only once during these visits (by the way, while doc is "looking out for my well being," each visit costs me 15 bucks and she's been seeing me  every two weeks. ) Need I remind EVERYONE that I'm unemployed?  Also, I beg you to take into consideration the fact that whenever I go there, I'm in a rush-and I'm anxious about having my blood pressure taken because it's always to high and because I'm not ready to die and I don't want to go on any medication and-I assume you get the point-It is a lot and it doesn't improve matters.

My doc is  right to be concerned.  I am fully aware of the dangers of high blood pressure.  I recognize it's a blind-side killer. She's also right about the stress continuing, but she doesn't know me, so I kinda resent her pushing the blood pressure meds on me because I don't know if her concern is genuine or if she, like anybody else responsible to a corporation or industry, have to make that corporation or industry money and since I'm a perfect candidate for some new drug that the pharmaceuticals need to make money on, so why am I not on it?

I don't want to tempt fate but  I am confident that I can lower my blood pressure naturally. I did it before, I can do it again. Although, I was much younger and which much less (read no) stress.

Stop using salt, cut out refined sugar, cut out the carbs, which reminds me, I forgot to pick up pistachios today! I got some beets I plan to juice tomorrow, some raisins  to add to my unsweetened (blah) oatmeal and I'm ready to rock this!
Of course I'll need to increase my home work outs (read: intensify, step it up, SWEAT!)  until I can officially get back into the gym.
Stop drinking...during the week, What can I say? I'm a work in progress. Please don't judge me.

Lastly, stop being angry: assholes are going to be assholes and me raising my blood pressure by getting angry, flipping out, cursing, unleashing the full weight and fury of my wrath upon inconsiderate drivers, grocery shoppers, ignorant passers by who just have no manners and can't say excuse me, or hold the door for me when my hands are full with twins or groceries,  will never prevent an asshole from being an asshole-besides assholes seem to breed like cockroaches. For every one you stamp out, another million are born.

Therapy? Meditation?  I've heard it can do wonders to relieve stress, reduce high blood pressure. I guess I need it.

In the grand scheme of things, being on medication is not the worse thing in the world. It could be worse. I could have cancer. I could be dying of an incurable disease. I know that.  It's just that my pride won't let me accept the fact that I am getting old. It also won't let me accept that at the young but old age of 40 I could have a heart attack, suffer a stroke or heart failure. I am only 40 years old. I just became a mother. My boys need me. I need them.  As much as they suck the life out of me, they keep me alive. My life belongs to them and that's why I have to live.

Ahhhh....these morning/anytime pages are like blood letting and it feels good. It's cathartic and necessary. They must continue. And so must I.


.

Ok. So...in keeping with my promise to blog/write every day, I am going to start what are the equivalent of morning pages, in case I don't have enough time to get into what I want to get into today.  (Oh, and for the record, I posted twice yesterday to cover my ass for today, which has already started out a bit hectic. My time is severely limited today. See photo below.

Let me say a little something about morning pages. Right after the twins were born, I realized that I was going to have to get serious about writing, if I ever planned to do it again because as you might imagine, my entire world was flipped off its axis.  I was completely turned around.  The funny thing was that I found that I forced myself to write. For maybe a month. And I did that with the help of Julia Cameron's book, "The Artist's Way." I doubt there is an artist alive who hasn't read this book or found it useful.  Thirteen years ago someone mentioned the book to me, and I had always been meaning to buy it but my priorities were different back then and writing or being an artist meant something completely different to me then. Again, we'll get back to that.

The irony is that my mom was in town from Toronto helping me with the twins and we took a trip to Barnes and Noble to have some coffee and chit chat. It's funny that every time my mother comes to town we end up there and somehow she ends up buying me a book that transforms my life. At least for a time. Well, I was actually looking for the latest Zadie Smith novel and they didn't have it.  As I was wandering down the aisles, "The Artist's Way"  practically jumped off the shelf and into my arms...Oh, I'm sorry. My time has run out for today. I'm being summoned. To be continued...

You have been warned. Off the computer.  Now.

I know I'm jumping ahead but, what the hell. I'm on a roll...and making up for lost time.

I know this is late; in more ways then one. You see, I'm turning this blog into a semi journal, so bear with me.

I found out i was pregnant on Ash Wednesday, April 19, 2012: unofficially. Holy shit, that's almost three years ago to the date! I don't look anything like that now by the way. (That's my vanity talking...another issue we can address at another time. I trust you'll be back? Please. Don't let the picture frighten you.)

Anyway, after 6 pregnancy tests and staring at myself blankly in the mirror, wondering what was really going on. Who was this person staring back at me? I had so many conflicted emotions. First, I was ecstatic, overwhelmed with joy that  I wasn't sixteen and in high school; second, panic and frustration that I was 39 years old.

Needless to say, I  made an appointment to have the news made official. Sure enough,  they confirmed it,set up ally tests and here i am 16 weeks and 2 days later pregnant, confused, overwhelmed, overjoyed, shocked and awed by the fact that I am carrying twins.

Yes. Twins! I was shocked but as soon as they gave me the news, I thought back to the evenings my husband and I sat on the couch and prayed before our evening meals. Before every meal, and after giving thanks, He prayed for twins. Now, I pray too. But even I was skeptical. There are no twins in my family that I know of, and my husband wasn't aware of twins on his side either.

 One thing i have learned throughout this pregnancy-aside from the fact that my body does not belong to me anymore, but that we do serve a mighty God and there is a purpose to the chaos that is existence. Ever since i became pregnant I only care about the lives inside of me. I've learned a lot about myself. I have not always been a nice person. And that scares the shit out of me because I do believe in Karma.

Anyway, I think now I know what love is. Or selflessness.  Everything else is secondary:  the job i hate, the disappointment I felt when I realized I couldn't/wouldn't have a drink in 9 months!!!!??? Before the pregnancy, I couldn't last five days.  The boys kinda cured my "affliction." (Perhaps we'll delve deeper into that another time-I've put you through so much already.)  

So I'll end here for now, and let you know that every morning, despite the fact that I don't want to get out of bed and board that freaking 5 train during rush hour to a job that I would rather not be doing, I rub my tummy and remember it ain't about me anymore. In fact, as I heave myself out of bed and go to work, I realize I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. 

Before I begin, Craig in lieu of an email, I wanted to dedicate this post to you.

This should pretty much catch you up on where I am right about now. As for the question you asked regarding A Hard Day's Night; yes it was a job I should have applied for thirteen years ago.

 I'm not worried about being blackballed. If someone is interested in hiring me they will. I'm qualified. In fact, I'm overqualified, and I refuse to settle ever again. I think that I had to experience that humiliation in order to realize it. Like I said, I'm getting older. I don't have time for regrets, well not regrets that I'll regret.

I WANT YOU TO SEE ME, TO HEAR ME TO FEEL ME! I know how corny this sounds but I'm getting pretty desperate lately.

I've been writing for far too long now. It's about time I get some feedback, some followers, some hate mail-whatever.

I know how cliche this sounds as well but I still have to say it. Or maybe I've been saying it too much-I am a writer. If I don't write, I'll die. A slow, agonizing, pathetic death. I'm miserable.

This is scary, but it has to be done. I'm too old to start over and I'm too old to make any more mistakes, well mistakes are inevitable I guess, so what I mean is that I want to be taken seriously as a writer and this means I have to open the fuck up. There. I said it. I cursed. I don't like to curse, but at this point I felt like it conveyed the frustrations I'm feeling at the moment. I don't like to curse, but sometimes I have to, but I've always (because of my good Christian upbringing) felt badly about doing it. However, I realize that it's affecting my writing in that it's not sincere. Not that I have to curse to be sincere, but I do have to open up.

So...that being said, I'm inviting the world into my writing life. My life is precious and beautiful and strange and what I write about reflects that. It should reflect the good, the bad and most certainly the ugly. There's a lot of ugly.

Well fuck it. (Shit, I'm on a roll.) Here it is: My life, my love. My thoughts. My world. Love it. Hate it. Follow me. Don't follow me. I don't care. I'll keep living. I'll keep writing. For me, those two things are mutually exclusive. I make love, peace, war with my words.

My friends, you may do with that what you must.

The story begins today, but it actually started two years ago with the birth of my twins...and let the journey begin...

Finally Found A Place 2 Go

I’ve been looking for “A Place2Go for some time now. I mean, I’ve been places, they just haven’t been “that” place. The food, the company or the ambiance wasn't what I needed it to be. A few nights ago, at a little spot in Westchester, I found all 3. At the behest of a an old young friend, I skittishly hopped on the I 95 North to New Rochelle headed towards "A Place2Go", a Jamaican infused, induced, influenced, inspired-whatever you want to call it spot that has completely shattered not only my universe but (being Jamaican I can say this) every single unsatisfactory, unfavorable, take-it-for granted preconception I've ever had regarding going out for “Jamaican” because I obnoxiously assume that I’ve had Jamaican food all the ways it can or should be done, so what’s the point? It just seemed a waste of time to me-until now. This place Effen rocks- (Let me defend the use of the word “Effen” here. This is the name of rapper 50 Cent’s new vodka and I thought his word of the Swedish word for “smooth” was pretty clever. Also, I’m dying to try the cucumber vodka but none of my local “wine and spirit” shops carry it—wink, wink; nudge, nudge), from its tuff cocktails, like the tropical Long Island Iced Tea Honestly, this is the best Long Island Iced Tea I’ve ever had. Usually they are a mish-mash, hodge-podge of hard liquors that are a bit too harsh for my palette and which I drink if I’m on a limited budget and need something that’ll kick in hard and last. This Long Island was perfectly balanced, without the harshness and believe me, it lasted. It was as smooth as fruit punch, and it’s one of those drinks that sneak up on you. I easily could have had more until after a few sips in I felt the kick in the ass that reminded me I was driving and chilled. As soon as I get someone to be the designated driver, I’m going back for more. The calamari I ordered was fried to perfection and my home girl’s fried chicken wings-were too; cooked perfectly all the way through and not-greasy at all. My issue with wings is that they are either fried nicely on the outside, but the inside could do with a lot more cooking or the inside is cooked but the skin isn’t crispy enough. By the way-I’m not even a wing person, but I ended up finishing hers. Oh! And can I say that the side of coleslaw was as gorgeous a garnish on the side as it was tasty? And I liked that my calamari was a top a bed of my favorite green: baby arugula, which is not something I usually find at my around the way-Jamaican joints. Needless to say, I ordered some more wings: Buffalo and Jerk-to go. Actually, if I could, I would have ordered every single appetizer on the menu: pepper shrimp, deep fried jerk chicken balls, crab cakes, codfish cakes…and let me tell you that even though there’s nothing extraordinary-sounding about the dishes I’ve described, you had to see them to believe what I’m telling you. You hear me? I witnessed them. I also had an opportunity to talk to the chef, and that brother's enthusiasm for not only preparing tantalizing twists on classic Jamaican cuisine, but his understanding of the importance of visually stimulating food is evident in every single plate that is served. Each item brought out of the kitchen was a colorful feast for the eyes; inviting you to taste and see; to experience… It is obvious di ‘bredda" luv weh im do.’ Traditional entrees like jerk chicken, jerk pork, oxtail, and snapper were presented with flare and with pride. Each garnish was placed with precisions; not simply flung on the plate, smothered in onions, gravy or hidden beneath a pile of vegetables obscuring the objet de art. When somebody makes that much of an effort with your food, it makes you feel special; that you are someplace special and that you are worth the time and effort it takes to create the delectable flavor you will savor long after you’ve finished your meal. From the old-school to new school tunes playing in the background, the friendly wait and bar staff, you feel like you are hanging out in your best friend’s stylish and unpretentious basement, laughter permeates the air, good vibes a plenty, making its rounds throughout the entire place. Everybody is feeling it. Everybody is having a good time. Everything is copasetic at A Place2 Go. They wouldn’t have it any other way. They couldn’t have it any other way. Finally, let me say this: A Place 2 Go gave me one when I desperately needed it; I want to shout out the chef, the staff, the management, waiters and bartenders for their excellent service and professionalism and mostly for the Irie time. I know that they put a lot of effort into ensuring your experience is a good one that that you will come back. As a matter of fact, many of the people I talked to that night were regulars. While I’m saying this, I have to shout out to my sista girl, twin mom partna) NaughtyRas for introducing me to this lovely little get away that’s not too far away from my own backyard. Nuff respect y’hear girl? I can’t thank you enough. I plan to make that place a habit. Next time I’ve got to check out the band. Nothing much else to say but this: Make 273 North Ave, New Rochelle your Place 2 Go. You won’t be disappointed.I’ve been looking for “A Place2Go for some time now. I mean, I’ve been places, they just haven’t been “that” place. The food, the company or the ambiance wasn't what I needed it to be. A few nights ago, at a little spot in Westchester, I found all 3. At the behest of a an old young friend, I skittishly hopped on the I 95 North to New Rochelle headed towards "A Place2Go", a Jamaican infused, induced, influenced, inspired-whatever you want to call it spot that has completely shattered not only my universe but (being Jamaican I can say this) every single unsatisfactory, unfavorable, take-it-for granted preconception I've ever had regarding going out for “Jamaican” because I obnoxiously assume that I’ve had Jamaican food all the ways it can or should be done, so what’s the point? It just seemed a waste of time to me-until now. This place Effen rocks- (Let me defend the use of the word “Effen” here. This is the name of rapper 50 Cent’s new vodka and I thought his word of the Swedish word for “smooth” was pretty clever. Also, I’m dying to try the cucumber vodka but none of my local “wine and spirit” shops carry it—wink, wink; nudge, nudge), from its tuff cocktails, like the tropical Long Island Iced Tea Honestly, this is the best Long Island Iced Tea I’ve ever had. Usually they are a mish-mash, hodge-podge of hard liquors that are a bit too harsh for my palette and which I drink if I’m on a limited budget and need something that’ll kick in hard and last. This Long Island was perfectly balanced, without the harshness and believe me, it lasted. It was as smooth as fruit punch, and it’s one of those drinks that sneak up on you. I easily could have had more until after a few sips in I felt the kick in the ass that reminded me I was driving and chilled. As soon as I get someone to be the designated driver, I’m going back for more. The calamari I ordered was fried to perfection and my home girl’s fried chicken wings-were too; cooked perfectly all the way through and not-greasy at all. My issue with wings is that they are either fried nicely on the outside, but the inside could do with a lot more cooking or the inside is cooked but the skin isn’t crispy enough. By the way-I’m not even a wing person, but I ended up finishing hers. Oh! And can I say that the side of coleslaw was as gorgeous a garnish on the side as it was tasty? And I liked that my calamari was a top a bed of my favorite green: baby arugula, which is not something I usually find at my around the way-Jamaican joints. Needless to say, I ordered some more wings: Buffalo and Jerk-to go. Actually, if I could, I would have ordered every single appetizer on the menu: pepper shrimp, deep fried jerk chicken balls, crab cakes, codfish cakes…and let me tell you that even though there’s nothing extraordinary-sounding about the dishes I’ve described, you had to see them to believe what I’m telling you. You hear me? I witnessed them. I also had an opportunity to talk to the chef, and that brother's enthusiasm for not only preparing tantalizing twists on classic Jamaican cuisine, but his understanding of the importance of visually stimulating food is evident in every single plate that is served. Each item brought out of the kitchen was a colorful feast for the eyes; inviting you to taste and see; to experience… It is obvious di ‘bredda" luv weh im do.’ Traditional entrees like jerk chicken, jerk pork, oxtail, and snapper were presented with flare and with pride. Each garnish was placed with precisions; not simply flung on the plate, smothered in onions, gravy or hidden beneath a pile of vegetables obscuring the objet de art. When somebody makes that much of an effort with your food, it makes you feel special; that you are someplace special and that you are worth the time and effort it takes to create the delectable flavor you will savor long after you’ve finished your meal. From the old-school to new school tunes playing in the background, the friendly wait and bar staff, you feel like you are hanging out in your best friend’s stylish and unpretentious basement, laughter permeates the air, good vibes a plenty, making its rounds throughout the entire place. Everybody is feeling it. Everybody is having a good time. Everything is copasetic at A Place2 Go. They wouldn’t have it any other way. They couldn’t have it any other way. Finally, let me say this: A Place 2 Go gave me one when I desperately needed it; I want to shout out the chef, the staff, the management, waiters and bartenders for their excellent service and professionalism and mostly for the Irie time. I know that they put a lot of effort into ensuring your experience is a good one that that you will come back. As a matter of fact, many of the people I talked to that night were regulars. While I’m saying this, I have to shout out to my sista girl, twin mom partna) NaughtyRas for introducing me to this lovely little get away that’s not too far away from my own backyard. Nuff respect y’hear girl? I can’t thank you enough. I plan to make that place a habit. Next time I’ve got to check out the band. Nothing much else to say but this: Make 273 North Ave, New Rochelle your Place 2 Go. You won’t be disappointed.
A Place2Go

Hard Day's Night

Good Morning, to the best four followers in the world. You guys motivate me man. After yesterday's events it's good to know that you are here. Helping me through. I'd truly be lost without you. Finally, I got a call to interview for a position I've waited nearly 13 years to be considered for. My day of reckoning had come. This interview was supposed to change my life , yet in a bizarre way it reminded me of how far I've actually come. The chick who called to ask me to interview for this life-changing position actually did me a favor. She told me to come in THE DAY AFTER she scheduled me for said interview. Of course, she can blame it on my incompetence. All those cute, perky-twenty-something'sin their trendy short skirts and high heels see an old, tired (certainly un-trendy) looking woman sitting in the waiting area to interview for an entry level job on the wrong day. Even though I would never have made this kind of mistake, I know how it looks. Pathetic. I feel pathetic. I wrote it down, I recorded the time, date, everything she told me to bring for the interview, I show it to the chick but of course it doesn't matter now. She won't even look me in the eye. She tells me the hiring manager has other interviews (understandable) and she might see me if she has time. "In the meantime you can fill out this paperwork and wait," she says. And I did wait. I sat and waited with my head down and back turned and filled out the paperwork. I just had a feeling the whole thing was a bust this morning when I thought I'd have time to take the twins to the library and be home with enough time to get them settled and get myself together. But when I brought them home, they didn't settle as quickly or quietly as I'd hoped. At that moment, I found myself excited for an opportunity to have another experience besides "mommy." I'd had enough of the tantrums and the crying and I needed a life outside of the boys or I would definitely lose it soon. When my suit didn't fit and I spent about five minutes crying at my image in the mirror, depleting the time I had in the bank, I should have seen it as an omen. When my nail polish started to peel, I should have left it alone, but I took up more time as I tried (horrendously unsuccessfully) to touch them up. Now my finger nails were covered in a globby mess of gun-metal blue, which matched my suit quite nicely, (before the peeling) if I may be so bold. Anyway, I did make it out of the house with a couple of minutes to spare. However, you'd think when I got to the subway platform and the doors shut in my face with the next one across the platform not taking any passengers that I would just call it quits and go home to play referee as I'd become accustomed to doing. Just give it up. But no, I kept it moving because I thought this was my moment of truth. Finally. But, when I got to the interview and security couldn't find me in the system, I recognized that I'd made a mistake. I didn't belong here. I wasn't wanted here. As I rode the elevator up to the 8th floor, I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and I just looked...WRONG. The gentleman at reception was so kind. He really did try to find me among the scheduled candidates. It was just not meant to be. He told me that he was filling in, the receptionist had gone home sick and that's probably why he was unable to find my information, but I should go ahead and start filling out the paperwork... And that brings us back to the beginning: The chick comes back out into the waiting area after the kind man at reception goes to find out if he can help me. I tell him before he goes, that everything happens for a reason, and he responds, "you could be right, it could have been an error on our part," and I love him. But he disappears and I don't see him again. She flatly tells me to continue filling out the paperwork, but the hiring manager will not be able to see me today. (I'm confident she DID SEE ME, but decides I'm not worth her time) but I should leave my application at the desk, and if the hiring manager has time she will reschedule an interview next week. "Thanks Renee," she gets up and walks away. I'll never forget the slant of her voice, her pock-marked, over-made-up face or the way she refused to look me in the eye, shake my hand or apologize for the inconvenience. We both know this is all her fault. I'm sure my friend knew it too. I start to fill out the paperwork, trying to save face. I know they won't call me, and I definitely don't want to work there. As I sit, writing away,keeping my back towards the voices that gather to check out the spectacle that is me. I hear a nasaly, high-pitched voice proclaim, "It's my turn." Ugggh....covering phones. I am so beyond that right now. I have done it far too long and longer than I should have. I am 40 years old, with a master's degree. This is the last time I get low-balled. Besides I have twins to provide for and I require a salary that can accommodate that. I don't need six figures, but I certainly won't accept what they are offering. I don't have the time or the luxury to settle and hope that something better will come along. Thirteen years is long enough. I've overpaid my dues. The irony is that even though I wouldn't get to interview here, it's the only interview I've actually prepared for. I didn't finish filling out the paperwork, instead I wrote them a little note, thanking them for wasting my time, alerting the hiring manager that I have a master's degree and that the Glass Door reviews were right; their salary is way below industry standard. Don't bother re-scheduling an interview. I knew they wouldn't but it gave me great satisfaction to advocate for myself like that. So. I handed my "paperwork" to the adorable, smiling young receptionist. "Do I need to...?" She asks still smiling. She knows very well what she does not need to do. I return her dumb smile, shake my head no. I leave the office, change into my converse, slip on my shades, and walk towards Madison Avenue in search of sushi. It's a beautiful day outside.