Mind Your Own Ass, Thank You Very Much!

I started working out yesterday. It is something I have been meaning to for me for a while. When I lived in Harlem I ran for a year with my daughter, 3 mornings a week to support her joining the track team . The itch to work out hit me yesterday. While I love taking a hoe to the dirt and singing a good old work song, a work out brings on just a bit more sweat. It's not like I have acres to plow. Although, at about 3 AM this morning turning over in bed, my thighs felt like lead, I felt like I had planted 40 acres without a mule. I am determined. A half an hour of using the stairs in the hallway and some good old fashioned race walking does the trick. I learned race walking from my mother-in-law, who at 56 still has a group of walkers every morning.

And speaking of getting in shape, I've been fixing up my site. I am adding lots of links. I'm trying to find as many women of color who are posting when I found this gem. The sweat hasn't dried yet from tonight's personal house party in which I stepped my "fat ass" to classic house tune, "Yolanda."

A sister can't get a break. Welfare Queens, Crack Ho's and now our ass is a problem too! May I suggest a reading of Janell Hobson's Venus in the Dark, 2005. Mind your own ass!

4th of July

It’s night over Bedford-Stuyvesant and the sound fireworks sizzling are still in the air. I couldn’t help but wonder about the people who chose to set them. Perhaps for them it was just something you do on the 4th of July. The calendar in my bathroom greeted me this morning with this quote at the bottom of the page, “America the beautiful, who are you beautiful for?” The quote is from Savage Inequalities, Jonathan Kozal’s 1991 book about the crisis in New York City’s public schools. Those words disturbed me. This week my block was cluttered on trash day with the furniture of people who have moved out this week. I couldn’t help but think that the look of the furniture, old, stained couches and box springs with the wood frame showing, was an indication that all has not been well for those folks in a long time. All is not so beautiful, but yet we carry on.

Our 4th of July was pretty typical. We played music, set up a table in the gallery and prepared food. My husband set up the grill and barbecued the typical eats for our tenants, on the second floor and us. When I wasn’t fussing at him about the shots of fire in the air as he was prepping the grill, I was busy digging in dirt. I was making the soil ready for planting. For about two hours I was using a hoe to break the ground and then disengaging large stones and pebbles from the soil. I set them in a pile and eventually used them to boarder other plants that have taken root. There is a small bush of catnip and another plants whose name I can’t remember, but has the most beautiful leaves pink in the center of a dark green. It looks bright and happy. So far I have transplanted 3 plants and the only one that looks great is that one. Gardening has been a series of trial and disappointment. Yet, I am determined to plant. My great grandmother did it, my father does it still. I am carrying on that tradition of connecting with the earth, no matter where I live, no matter how small the plot of land.

It has been a battle of me against the squirrels. I started some plants indoors a few months back. My friend Sheela had given me a wonderful gift of gladiola bulbs and starter cups. I planted them and set them in the hallway where the light is perfect. The directions said for best results start indoors and then transplant outside. I was thrilled when in a few weeks they began to sprout. I decided to take them up to the roof and grow them there. I have this vision of growing plants on the roof as well as the backyard. My vision was short lived. One morning I went up to check on their progress and saw that the cartons were ripped apart, the bulbs dug out and tossed all about. The soil I had planted them in was everywhere. Some of the bulbs were on the other side of the roof. Upon further investigation, the bulbs had teeth marks in them and other bulbs were just gone. I was freaked out. Last week I watched from the window as a squirrel sat in a pot of pansies and dug them out. He was not disturbed, by my banging on the window. He just kept on working on that plant until he had pulled the whole thing out and left the green stem on the ground. One of my tenants suggested I grow chili peppers. That’ll fix ‘em.

On another note, a friend sent me this opinion piece by Keith Olbermann. Click on the title and you'll be linked to the article. I’ve changed my format with Blogger and am still working on the page set up. I so dug what he said. Check it out. Until next time, I’m here just trying to keep this small portion of the United States beautiful and sustainable.

What the %$@! Was the President Talking About?

Is it me, or was there just too much damn clapping during the President’s address? I don’t want to support any troops on the field or any troops that may be on their way, because enough is enough. It has been almost four years since this war started and I say this congress should not authorize any more money to this guy to do more damage.

And what is this about giving Americans the opportunity to put on the uniform to help serve? And why is this congress standing up and clapping about it? This is not what we voted for.

“Fighting AIDS in Africa, fighting poverty and disease. . . all lip service as far as I am concerned. 1.2 billion dollars to combat malaria? There is a genocide going on in Dafur. While the likely hood of getting malaria is high, it is more likely that one will not survive the massive raids of murder and group rapes of opposing ethnic groups.

Our “heroic kindness” is being stepped all over.

Why is Makimbe Mutombo being singled out in this address? Because he is from Africa? Because he is from the Congo? Because now he is in America, a United States citizen, another black person who has “made it” and an example of what the rest of us could do, if we just work real hard. How many of us have the opportunity to open a hospital? How many of us are living in communities in which loss of funding for the hospital is reason for possible closure ?

Why is the inventor of Baby Einstien attending this State of the Union Address? “Children have the right to live in a world that is safe”? What about the children of Iraq? What about the children of service men returning as less than human from the trauma of war? What kind of parenting can these returning parents ( if they return) provide? What about the children of the gulf coast, and the children of immigrants being separated from parents when they are being deported? And the Harlem guy who saved a fallen passenger in the train tracks? Sure he got lots of applause. What did his heroic act have to do with fighting in Iraq? Why would he be pro-war? How do we know he even talked to the president about his feelings about the war? All of these folks deserve our applause for their concern for fellow human beings. Why are we are being distracted by all this apple pie, clapping and smiling. Does the president think that by aligning himself with these humanitarians that he is somehow also a humanitarian. Give me a @#%^&*break! The state of our union is in a shambles.

Paper Ballot

So I went to vote. I had a last minute panic when I reached for my wallet. Did I change my address on my New York State I.D.? Whew! I was safe. My new address was on the card. Were there any questions to respond to? Why hadn’t I gotten any voter information in the mail? In my old neighborhood you would have seen lots of Election Day activity. There would be volunteers passing out leaflets right up to the point where signs say no campaigning beyond this point. Was I going to be disappointed again?

The voting site was in the Senior Citizens Center on Halsey Street. It’s around the corner from where we live. My husband and I walked over. I strolled in feeling proud and smart wearing my “HATE stole her CHOICE” t-shirt. We are directed to the table for our district. Two women, each with a role book, greet us. We present our identification. I am so proud I remembered to change my address. One woman thinks my name is too long, and that it won’t be in the book. I trust it will. She reminds me of my great-grandmother’s best friend. Her hair is styled in a 1940’s pageboy, finger waves and all. She has a gold crown on one tooth. She can’t find my name.

The woman beside her looks for it. They find my husband’s name. He makes a joke about woman’s suffrage. I nudge his shoulder, wishing he would be quiet. All the poll workers are women. The second woman can’t find my name. I’m thinking, perhaps I’ll have to get in the car and drive to Harlem. My husband goes into the booth to vote. As soon as he comes out we’re going uptown. The woman at the table with the hair like Veronica Lake asks me if I want a paper ballot. I haven’t considered that. I take it. The women point out a table on the other side of the room. They tell me to use the standing cardboard to cover my ballot with it. “So no one will see,” they tell me.

I’ve never used a paper ballot. I am suspicious. I am given a ballot and an envelope. The envelope in which I am to place the ballot has directions all printed in red. I read everything carefully. A warning at the top says to check only one. I mark the box that identifies me as someone who has, recently moved. I begin to check the ballot. I check all the items and review them a few times. I seal the envelope.

I take it back to the table and expect to place it in a box. One of the women at the table says I can give the ballot to her. I hesitate. I don’t trust her. I don’t even see a ballot box. I give her my ballot. I stand there. I watch her write something on the envelope. I’m silently watching her. She’s gonna throw it away. I know it.

I am upset. Frustrated with myself that I haven’t obviously remembered to check the box when I changed my address on my State I.D. You know the box that asks if you are a registered voter. I guess if you move, you are no longer a “registered” voter.

As soon as I got home I filled out a change of address card for the board of elections. My husband found the form. He is redeemed. He even went with me to the mailbox with me at 8:30 PM after putting out the garbage.

I went to sleep listening to the returns on the radio. I am so glad that through the course of the day, the Democrats took the House, Donald Rumsfeld resigned, and the Democrats also took the Senate. I imagine that if the Democrats had only needed one vote to take the House, I would have been arrested. The headlines would have read:

“BROOKLYN WOMAN GOES BALLISTIC OVER UN-CAST BALLOT”

Cure For Election Blues

This is the first time I have gotten up on an election day and felt discouraged. I am losing my faith in politics just like I have lost my faith in religion. I was having flash backs to the last two general elections. I am haunted by the memory of waking up on the floor of my living room, around 2 AM, to find that somehow things had changed drastically. Didn’t I go to sleep hearing ABC News announce Al Gore as the winner? I felt the pain of watching John Edwards’s concession speech. I was so sick over that crap; I didn’t go to work that day. I didn’t even call in. Worse, I recently complained to my councilmen about noise in my neighborhood and didn’t even get a response. This morning I was fed up with politics in this country, in this city, in my borough. Just frigg’in mad.

As with any illness, you’ve got to take something or do something to make yourself feel better. So I did several things. Here’s what I did.

1. I thought about Saddam Hussein. I'm glad he wasn’t hung on nation wide television last night as some last minute push for more folks to think the Republicans are tough on Terror. The fact that this didn’t happen gave me enough strength to go get a cup of tea. Well, I would have done that anyway. I exaggerate.

2. I read my emails. One misinformed Forward reminded Black voters that Affirmative Action was on the November Ballot. I sent a response telling the sender that Affirmative Action in on the ballot in Michigan, not New Jersey. I think I’m going to start deleting a lot of forwards. There is always some missing piece of information.

3. I signed CODEPINK’s Voter’s for Peace Pledge.

4. I’m reconsidering my vote for my Senator. Even though I’m all for the “take back the House” mantra I’ve been hearing on liberal radio all afternoon, the two party system is so limiting. Voting for her would take back the house. But take it back to what? She’s just like every one else who promises the moon during the campaign. Once folks are in office they begin to make compromises with those across the aisle to keep their place. Check out her website http://clinton.senate.gov/issues/nationalsecurity/Iraq. Make sure you click on that map of Iraq and watch her video on YouTube.

5. I read an interesting article in the NY Times “Weighing Other Hives Challengers”. Those are my choices? Where is our third party in this country and the folks who back it?

6. Read Greg Palast’s article “How They Stole the Mid-Term Election” which my faithful minister of information, Rich Flanders sent in an email. Don’t get discouraged read the article. It appears in the November 6th edition of The Guardian, UK.

7. I looked through The Civil Rights Movement, A Photographic History, 1954-68. If I couldn’t be inspired by that nothing would do it.

8. I decided to look up my political districts. I knew all my folks when I lived in Harlem, but in Brooklyn I’ve been clueless. I now know who’s who for my local and federal officials. I learned all their positions on various issues, and the committees on which they serve. I’ve placed all their names, office hours and contacts on my bulletin board in my office. This was actually a good exercise. I don’t want to be passive. I’m sick of not knowing. I want to check up on these folks on a regular basis. So expect to hear from me, Edolphus Towns (10th Congressional District of Brooklyn, U.S. House of Representatives) Velmmanette Montgomery (State Legislator), Darlene Mealy (City Council). Searching for the judges who are appointed
in this area is a task for another day.

9. I took a big dose of music. I listened to folk singer Hollis Watkins. I taped his lecture last summer while on the Freedom Summer 2006 tour with ACRES (American Civil Rights Education Services). Hollis Watkins teaches students freedom songs that he led during the freedom rides and jail time to inspire members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.

10. Finally, I pulled out the t-shirt I'm going to wear to vote. It’s mustard yellow and has a picture of Denise McNair. Denise McNair was one of the little girls who died in the 1963 bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The shirt says, “Hate stole her choice, You still have yours.”

I think that last one was really the cure.

Brother Can You Spare A Dime?

I couldn't watch the President's address the other night. I couldn't even vent my anger and frustration about the situation. I was on the subway passing 42nd and Times Square with no energy to go join the World Can't Wait/Drive Out the Bush Regime event. I'd spent 3 hours working with adult students some of whom were really struggling with a reading and comprehension exercise. I was asking myself, Who were their teachers before? What was destroyed in ________________ who sits at the back of the room with the blank stare. Why does he not seem to be connecting to what we're talking about. Not even when were talking about a topic he bought up. Why is it that he seems not to have the words to express himself?

So, while Bush rattled on about freedoms on the march/move or whatever, I watched two homeless black men on the subway each in his own world talking to both the imaginary and the real. They were probably about my father's age. My father, the last of the union men, the last of the factory men has managed by some strange twist of fate and a (lawsuit or two) to have worked at the same company for about 38 years. He will retire in about a year or so. I worry about the two men all the way home. When I arrive at my stop, I wave to the one man remaining in the car. He doesn't notice me. He is busy grooming his hair and rubbing his hands over his face. His bare ashen ankles like sugar cane stalks, stretch from a pair of over sized sneakers. His sneakers are the last things I see as the doors close.

These men are not figments of my imagination. They look like men I've seen before. As a child they were the men who hung out at the news stand in my small town of Freehold, New Jersey. But these men have lost something. Family, dignity, and the ability to connect with a world that has continued to ignore and leave them behind.

With Detroit in trouble, the spotlight on poor regulations in the mining industry (and no journalist to tell the story) and the people who have fought the good fight exiting daily I can only see times getting even tougher for the "mythical little man."