The Question

Without being longwinded, let me just say the exam was challenging but nothing that I didn't expect. I had to do the news analysis and news writing drill in the first 70 minutes. I was timed. My word count for the news writing drill was about 10 words over. I was stopped as I was trying to edit. I got through the experience. I was prepared as well as I could have been.

What I was surprised by was the interview. I felt like I couldn’t and didn’t represent who I was or why I really wanted to do this.

I am disappointed with some of the questions that I was asked. I really didn't expect to be asked questions like, (and I am paraphrasing), “How would I manage a 50 to 60 hour week of graduate school with a family?” I responded that I work in a teaching environment in which a supervisor can come into my room and decide I am not going to be teaching this class anymore, hand letters of transfers to my students, and by the end of the day give me a stack of folders with new ones.

I wish I had included the following:
My work doesn’t stop when I leave the job I get paid for.
I go home and do laundry. I sort, pre-wash, and carry 5 bags down two flights of steps and pack everything in the car. I fold everything and bring it home. I'm finished by 11 PM. There are many times when my husband does it, but I don’t wish to take advantage of him because he often likes to do laundry and grocery shopping. He likes to do it all on the same day. I think that’s too much. He is then exhausted, but cares more about us having clean clothes and food than his leisure. We share. Sometimes I get leisure, sometimes he does.

I go home to cooking dinner. My husband and I take turns.
Sometimes I cook extra meals on weekends to save time.

When I go home, waiting for me is a 5-year-old who needs to do his homework, to be read to, and listened to as he reads. He needs a bath. Well sometimes we don’t make it to bath time. He’s at the stage when he can charm me out of the bath and have a shower in the morning. This is draining. Sometimes it is difficult to get up at 5 o’clock in the morning, get showered and then wake him at 5:30. Somehow he doesn’t have a problem doing this on Saturday mornings.

I pack lunches and snacks. Being a short order cook is trying if I wake up late. Sometimes that happens.

I have a teenager who will be starting high school in the fall. She is on the career path already. With her high school selected, registration completed, and summer academic program chosen, she is also applying for an internship in a lawyer’s office. Somebody had to fill out the paperwork, take her to the appointments and open houses. I was often that person. Thanks to her dad who took care of a few of those appointments and her wonderful teacher who continuously challenges her and presents opportunities to her.

This is the short list. It doesn’t include the cleaning of the urine around the toilet from the little boy. It doesn’t include parenting, which sometimes takes the form of long discussions with the teenager about some crap she did or didn’t do that week and coming up with a consequence for her actions. It doesn’t include the inner workings of the marriage.

As of today, if I get in, I will be extremely grateful. If I don’t, I will be okay. This life I live is nothing compared to some of the women who lived and are living.

Was anyone asking Harriet Tubman, “How are you going to go back and forth to the South to free slaves including your parents, siblings and free the slaves at Combahee Ferry?

“When are you going to have the time to spy for the North, fight for women’s rights, have two marriages in one life time, purchase land, found a home for African American
aged and infirmed?”

“Where in the world Harriet are you going to find time to lead military operations?”

I wished I had told the interviewer this: There are lots of women who do jobs that they have to do, don't want to do and must do everyday. I am one of them. I have decided that I want a job that I love to do. I can attend The CUNY Graduate School of Journalism, because I believe I am capable of the task. “Why journalism? Why now? I was asked. I have already given myself permission whatever your decision. This school is just one point of entry among many.

Yesterday:
I wake up ready to meet the challenge of my day.
My to do list:

1. Entrance exam at 10:30 AM.
2. Buy a new suit.
3. Prepare dinner.
4. Poetry Reading at LaMaMa’s.

I sew another hole closed in my son’s jeans, pack lunches and wave good-bye to the family.

Everything was going smoothly:
I leisurely eat a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, yogurt and peppermint tea. I take a hot bath to relax. I start thinking about the test. I am poor at relaxing on this morning. I am thinking about the four sections of the test. They include grammar, news analysis, 20 items to identify (people or events) and a news writing drill. I start second guessing myself. I’ve spent time scanning news sites online and newspapers stacked in my office, creating index cards with current events of people and places. Getting out of the bath, I decide to look up the Eliot Spitzer’s Health-care plan.


As the clock moves towards 9 AM, I begin to gather my bag, wallet, and keys. I can’t find my keys. I realize I haven’t put them on the hook where I usually keep them. I also realize I haven’t left the house
since, Friday night. They are found in the pocket of the coat I had on.
I stop in the living room for tissues. I shove them in my bag, close the door and head down the steps. At the front door, I am reaching in my pocket for my keys. I don’t have my keys. Maybe I put them down when I got those tissues. I didn’t want to have to use my gloves (again) to wipe my nose. I don’t have allergies but somehow it always begins to leak, as I stand on the windy platform waiting for the J train. I run back up two flights of steps. The door is locked. I search for the keys again. I empty the bag. I try the door again. I am locked out. I am screwed.

I go downstairs hoping one of the neighbors/tenants is home. If someone could just lock the front door behind me, I’d feel okay with leaving. No one is home.

And Then Not So Smoothly:
Going back upstairs, I sit on the steps. I call my husband. I leave a message. He calls back twenty-minutes later. He is very understanding and full of solutions. I am upset and full of defeat.
Leave the house from the basement, he says.
Go across the street to the ATM and take a cab to the school, he says.
Call the admissions director and explain what happened, he says. “People make mistakes.”

I am crazed.

I don’t have her phone number. It’s on my laptop.
It is late. It is now 9:45 am. I was supposed to be there at 10 o’clock. The test starts at 10:30 am.

He tells me he is coming home. I am glad I had breakfast because I broke my routine and didn’t pack any lunch or snacks for myself. Traveling light. Had I packed my bag first, (like I usually do) this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps I can take the test tomorrow night when my interview is scheduled.

I write while I wait. I listen to my iPod. I journal in my black and white notebook about how angry I am with myself. I begin to question my abilities. Perhaps my organization skills are not up to the challenges of graduate school. I remember my email with the admissions director. Didn’t she say that because the Saturday appointment was changed, that she could arrange a time that worked for me? I am feeling a bit of hope. But not for long.

I have to use the bathroom. I pace up and down trying to distract my-
self with my “Song Sister’s” play lists, which includes Mary J. Blige, Cree Summer, Joan Jett and CeCe Peniston. By the time Cece is midway into “Keep on Walk’in,” I’m walking up and down a lot faster than she is singing.

My husband calls. I tell him my dilemma. He is sorry. He is full, of suggestions. I could go down to the basement and get some kind of container. I already tried that. The portion of the basement that has anything of use is locked. He is sorry. He tells me he is in on Houston St. and is heading for the Williamsburg Bridge. I can’t talk anymore.

I head up to the roof. It is my last resort. There’s lots of snow up there. I look around. I wonder if the public school a block away can see me on my roof. I am wearing a bright orange sweater. I squat leaning over the ledge that connects my roof to the building next to me.
At that moment I am no better than the dogs that leave yellow stains in the snow. What an irritation. I am annoyed with myself, but relieved.

By the time my husband arrives, in his apron full of clay from the art class he is teaching, I have done a full inspection of the third floor hallway. We need to fill a crack with some of that foam that keeps out the mice and bugs. He gives me a juicy kiss. I have been rescued.

The Development of Events in The Opposite Way:
There is another ironic twist to the end of this story.
As I pour over our original emails, I notice that the Saturday exam was originally for 10:30, but that the Monday session was for 11 AM and not at 10 AM as I had thought.

I email the admissions director pour over my dilemma. She is sympathetic.

I can take the test on Wednesday evening right after my interview.

I have a cup of tea and head out to buy my suit.

Walking In Ida B. Wells Barnett's Footsteps

Ida B Wells Barnett- anti-lynching crusader,women's rights advocate,
editor of the Freespeech and Headlight newpaper and journalist.
1862-1931.

Disappearing Acts:
Whenever I have had these long breaks between postings I always feel some sort of explanation is due.
I have perhaps 2 maybe 3 friends who look at this blog. They are the one’s that send emails like:
“Where are you Warrior Pen?"
'Why haven’t you been posting?”
“Hey, what’s going with your blog?”
“What’s going on with you?”

At the moment, my life is a delicious slice of chocolate cake. I want to savor it until the last bite! I have been working on two essays for two different anthologies. I have been journaling in my black and white notebook. I am preparing for my first poetry reading in a long time. And the big thing is, I am a candidate for CUNY’s Graduate School of Journalism. I have been invited into the second round. I was invited to take the entrance exam and sit for an interview.

Back Tracking:
Just after starting my job with the city, I applied for graduate school (See October 17, 2006 posting). It was after one of those encounters with my supervisors that forced me to really examine my situation. I have loved teaching for a long time but working in an atmosphere in which education takes a back seat to job placement, is not the same. I have also been spoiled; teaching in places where I know I can push students to their fullest. As an Adult Education Instructor in a job placement environment, it is stifling and depressing. I have very little time with the only other two instructors to plan a real solid curriculum and share lesson plans. While I love working with many of my students, I often feel like I am applying band-aids to wounds that need stitches.

I have wanted to talk about applying to graduate school here, but felt it was too weird since my blog was part of my school application. Writing a blog about applying, while knowing the admissions director would view it, seemed a little too narcissistic.

It’s not that seeking a master’s degree has never occurred to me. I had a lot to consider. We have only been in our house for a year. How am I going to help pay the mortgage? My daughter is entering her first year of high school. Thank my lucky stars that she is studious and was awarded scholarships to her two top choices. I still want to be available to her. I worry about balancing the demands of the course work, having a community of support for what I am doing and the needs of my family.

On a typical day I complete much of what I need to do on the way to and from work. I have been writing on the train. That’s how I do everything these days. I fill out permission slips and read the school newsletters while holding onto a pole. I have read 7 books since January all while commuting. If only there were a washer, dryer and folding tables on the subway. Think of the possibilities.

So after that horrible day at work, I went to one of those perspective meetings. I felt nervous. I listened to other students in the room talk about their existing careers in media. A few people were already working for magazines. There was even a couple from Florida had been writing for newspapers in Latin America. It was the kind of scene in which I felt everybody in the room already knew more than I did.

Like Filing Your Own Taxes:
I took the information packet home and began to work on the online application right away. It was a good thing. It seemed like a never-ending process that would surely beat me. There were many evenings of plugging information into a window only to discover that much of it had to be resubmitted because time had run out for the session. Is there a language for this sort of computer-internet aggravation!

I bought a book to study for the GRE. Thirty bucks of nothing but stress. I found that I am horrible at memorizing lots of vocabulary words for the sake of a test. I also did much of this on the train. On other nights I sat at my desk taking those practice test and scoring miserably. Oh and by the way, the CD-Rom
doesn’t work on an Apple PowerBook G4.

I took the GRE Exam a few days after Christmas. It was a circus. Not the exam, but the flurry of activity in my house. It was everything from fixing heating and plumbing, to handling a flurry of mice (a building across the street was being renovated), to family members visiting because they were on vacation. I cursed myself for scheduling the exam during a holiday time but when is a good time to take a test you are afraid of? I needed to have the test taken by the application deadline.

The night before, I sat for three hours practicing writing responses to analytical questions in 30 and 45-minute intervals. I hoped that my ability to prepare others for the General Equivalency Diplomacy test would be to my advantage.

As the January 2 deadline approached, I watched the snail-mail and email waiting for recommendations that I had requested from a number of trusted friends and colleagues. They came from smart, wonderful women that I had worked with in a variety of ways. One of these friends accompanied me to the post office on the day that I submitted the signature page of the online application.

Snow Day:
There are two sections on the exam. They include, news writing drill, news analysis, grammar and currents events. I wished the world would stop spinning and hoped no other last minute scandal would pop up.

At a baby shower for a coworker I hardly know, I tried not to think about the index cards in my bag. I had created my own list of every thing I could think of in recent news. Here’s a sample of my list: D. Klye Sampson, Ban Ki-Moon, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Sudan, Wangari Maathai and General Kevin C. Kiley.

After the baby shower, I went to a family dinner at my son’s school. It was a nice diversion. The school cafeteria was packed. You can’t keep a New Yorker away even in a snow storm. The food was great. A chorus of 1st through 6th graders sang Bill Wither's “A Lovely Day.”

When I got home last night, I received an email stating the Saturday exam would be cancelled and held on Monday instead. It was just like being in the 6th grade. A snow day! It was just what I needed. One more day to figure out how to write news analysis.

Sardonicism-the right medicine.

I came across this post because I was interested in stacking up my cabinet for the next time I am ill.

I found it on AnitaRoddick.com. She is the founder of The Body Shop. Who knew, while looking for items to keep me spiritually, mentally and physically sound, that a dose of laughter would be included. It came to her husband by way of an email. The friend who sent it, included this note:

“The source of this fine item, Ed Kane, was educated at Harvard, so he knows what "sardonic" means. I went to Princeton, and though I majored in English, I wasn't sure what "sardonic" meant. I thought it meant something like "sneering," but I wasn't sure. So, being unusually cautious in this instance, I looked up this word in my twenty-pound dictionary. It means "characterized by bitter or scornful derision; cynical; sneering." But the rest of the dictionary entry was more interesting, given the state of public discourse in our Republic today. Here's part of the etymology: "alluding to a Sardinian plant which when eaten was supposed to produce convulsive laughter ending in death." Well, look out. This is the Bush Jr. administration. Read it anyway. Avoid convulsive laughter.”

By the way, I'm glad to know Michael Moore is alive and well. One of my students who's about 22 years old, told me last week that he thought Michael Moore was dead. I'll be sure to share this with him and let him know that Michael Moore is still kicking. The post was titled, Dispatch: Michael Moore in His Most Sardonic Mode.



Dear Mr. President: Send Even MORE Troops (and you go, too!) ...from Michael Moore

Dear Mr President,

Thanks for your address to the nation. It's good to know you still want to talk to us after how we behaved in November.

Listen, can I be frank? Sending in 20,000 more troops just ain't gonna do the job. That will only bring the troop level back up to what it was last year. And we were losing the war last year! We've already had over a million troops serve some time in Iraq since 2003. Another few thousand is simply not enough to find those weapons of mass destruction! Er, I mean... bringing those responsible for 9/11 to justice! Um, scratch that. Try this -- BRING DEMOCRACY TO THE MIDDLE EAST! YES!!!

You've got to show some courage, dude! You've got to win this one! C'mon, you got Saddam! You hung 'im high! I loved watching the video of that -- just like the old wild west! The bad guy wore black! The hangmen were as crazy as the hangee! Lynch mobs rule!!!

Look, I have to admit I feel very sorry for the predicament you're in. As Ricky Bobby said, "If you're not first, you're last." And you being humiliated in front of the whole world does NONE of us Americans any good.

Sir, listen to me. You have to send in MILLIONS of troops to Iraq, not thousands! The only way to lick this thing now is to flood Iraq with millions of us! I know that you're out of combat-ready soldiers -- so you have to look elsewhere! The only way you are going to beat a nation of 27 million -- Iraq -- is to send in at least 28 million! Here's how it would work:

The first 27 million Americans go in and kill one Iraqi each. That will quickly take care of any insurgency. The other one million of us will stay and rebuild the country. Simple.

Now, I know you're saying, where will I find 28 million Americans to go to Iraq? Here are some suggestions:

1. More than 62,000,000 Americans voted for you in the last election (the one that took place a year and half into a war we already knew we were losing). I am confident that at least a third of them would want to put their body where there vote was and sign up to volunteer. I know many of these people and, while we may disagree politically, I know that they don't believe someone else should have to go and fight their fight for them -- while they hide here in America.

2. Start a "Kill an Iraqi" Meet-Up group in cities across the country. I know this idea is so early-21st century, but I once went to a Lou Dobbs Meet-Up and, I swear, some of the best ideas happen after the third mojito. I'm sure you'll get another five million or so enlistees from this effort.

3. Send over all members of the mainstream media. After all, they were your collaborators in bringing us this war -- and many of them are already trained from having been "embedded!" If that doesn't bring the total to 28 million, then draft all viewers of the FOX News channel.

Mr. Bush, do not give up! Now is not the time to pull your punch! Don't be a weenie by sending in a few over-tired troops. Get your people behind you and YOU lead them in like a true commander in chief! Leave no conservative behind! Full speed ahead!

We promise to write. Go get 'em W!

Yours
Michael Moore

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.

The Sound of Music at the Laundramat

The 24-hour Laundromat on Ralph and Fulton was alive tonight with sound of music, literally. As it played on two television screens, people began humming little bits and pieces. First two men began humming and then singing "Favorite Things." as the film opened with that wonderful overture. I tried not to pay attention but began laughing when one of the singing men admitted to the other, "I can't help it, and we did this play when I was in high school. It sticks in your brain." They wished each other happy holiday and parted. I threw my clothes in a washer and tried to mind my business. The remaining singer continued folding and singing "Favorite Things." As I turned to put clothes in a second machine our eyes met and my sheepish grin was so obvious, that he said, " Are you laughing at me too? I see you," He said smiling. "Who can help it, " I said looking at Julie Andrews spinning on the mountain side as she sang, "The Hills Are Alive.” “It’s on every year." I said.

The singing spread faster than a spilled bottle of detergent. A little girl glued to the scene of Liesl and Rolf singing, "You are sixteen going on seventeen," went one better by imitating all the dance steps. She was pretty good. Another customer sat folding clothes singing with abandon, not caring if anyone heard her singing, "So Long Farewell." I swear I heard someone hit that high note at the end.

By the time the cast was singing "Do-Re-Mi", I couldn't help myself from joining the woman folding clothes beside me, for "Re, a drop of golden sun."

I know that no one's thought of it yet, but if this was planned right, "The Sound Of Music" Laundromat sing-a-long could really take off. The notice could read " Celebrate Edelweiss in Bed-Sty!" What d'ya think? It could happen. We could take the "Sound of Music" sing-a-long thing to a whole new level. It could become an annual event. Who's game?

The Earth Tilts 23.5

My son’s school celebrated the Winter Solstice last night. It was a welcome shaking of my spirit from the doldrums. Perhaps doldrums is too tame. I was feeling quit evil. Perhaps it’s teaching in a classroom for 6 and 1/2 hours a day with no windows. I was feeling so out of balance that I was tempted to kick the dangling shoe off the foot of a pain in the ass subway rider who annoyed me out of my seat. I stood waiting for my stop and contemplated how to snatch the shoe and toss it out the subway door when I reached my stop.

Forget your “Silent Night” and “Here comes Santa Claus.” That’s for amateurs. This is New York. I’m not talking a bunch of props and kids moving and singing like clones. This was original music and lyrics created by the music teacher DeVeor Rainey. Songs like “I’m Not Afraid” and “The Winter Blues” told of the distinct darkness of the winter, and the feelings that come along with it. These songs didn’t leave you mournful; they filled all of you with great possibilities.

Kids between the ages of 5 to 17 performed in an orchestra of violins, a percussion orchestra wearing t-shirts that read “Sparkling Rhythms” singing and dancing with such abandon that it was like a modern day Free to Be You and Me.

Some of the most cleaver moments of the show were the great transitions between performances. We chanted “The earth tilts 23.5!” Even my fourteen-year-old daughter was impressed that such a fact had been incorporated into a chant and that 5 and 6 year-olds knew it. “Look, their using real instruments” she said, as the kids played an assortment of xylophones to Djembe drums to bells and rain sticks.

The finale included another song created by the music director, (who had the best dance moves and conducting gestures I’d seen). It was a mix of drum and bugle corps, carnival calypso and New Orleans Funeral Parade.


About twenty kids danced carnival style to a call: "Me hands start a clapping” and the response: "Must be the music.” Before we knew it the audience was up and dancing. Parents and teachers were invited up to repeat the dance steps of the children and lead a conga line around the auditorium.

This is what a holiday is about. It’s someone singing a song and playing a drum, and the rest of us joining in.

The Oceanhill Art Sanctuary is Open!

So the gallery is finally open. Thanks everybody for putting Ocean Hill on the map!





















oceanhillartsanctuary@hotmail.com

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.

The Tide is High

Lately I feel like I am drowning. I get caught up in the tide doing what I have to do, as opposed to what I want to do. The ability to keep my mind on the work of teaching is constantly competing with the amount of writing I actually do these days. The lives of the students are more interesting and often I have to remind myself that I am there to give instruction.

Now don’t get me wrong. Like anyone who has worked in a particular profession for a long time, there have been great moments and the not so great. Once a parent pulled a knife out of his pocket and threatened me for “laying a hand on his little girl”. That was definitely a low period. I was teaching in an after-school program that catered to children of homeless residents in a hotel in Brooklyn in the mid-eighties. I was thrown into a situation with very little instruction. My co-workers were mostly women who worked as teacher’s aides during the day and the after school later in the day. The woman I was paired with was the meanest witch I had ever encountered at 21 year-of-age. She was often seen yelling at 6-year-olds and shoving children she did not like. Well, she didn’t like any of them. The worst was the way she and other co-workers stood around gossiping about what they knew about the families. They would often point out the kids who had AIDS. I went home upset or crying on a regular basis. I was glad when they lost their grant (Is it any wonder?) and the program was closed.

There have been lighter moments. When I introduced the work of writer, J. California Cooper, to my current classes it was like listening to the sounds of satisfaction around a Thanksgiving dinner table. Or when the student who told me they hated math, especially Algebra, said, “It’s because of you that I finally get this.” The other day we were looking at a world map after reading about the elections in the Congo and a student realized that Madagascar is a real place and not just a movie. Even Timbuktu was a revelation.

While helping students discover and fulfill their capabilities, I can’t ignore my own. So I am pushing myself to remember to work on my own writing and the last few months of my internship on the radio show. If I don’t focus on the stuff that means a lot to me, I may as well let the tide take me under and drown.

At first I was devastated by the introductory weeks of my new job. I felt as if I had landed in Oz again and this time there was no tin man, scarecrow or lion to help me. There were however, these amazing students who were not in the business of saving anyone. Someone should have been in business of saving them. As with all travelers of long and winding roads, if I may borrow from the Beatles, some of us make may have a bumpy ride but we find our way. Others get caught on the roundabout.

I usually teach adults who come to class of their own free will. However, I now work in a program that sponsors public assistance participants. If the atmosphere of the office is one of disdain for these folks, that’s putting it mildly. There is an unseen, unknown hierarchy that only the veterans know about and understand. I’m still unclear. Depending on one’s position, you refer to the public assistance participant workers as “clients”. I have even heard some folks refer to them as “rug rats”. I am a teacher. Everyone who walks into the classroom with an attitude of I are ready to learn is always referred to as a student.

The students have the option to use two of their workdays for a variety of training options. They vary from computer classes in, nursing assistant, food service, a driver’s license or GED classes. Participants have 6 months to complete the program, which includes resume writing, job search, and by the grace of those with hiring power, a full-time job.

A majority of my students are women of color. With the exception of one or two they all have children and some women have grandchildren. A number of women have relationships with husbands or boyfriends who are imprisoned. I have spent three months getting to know them.

As in any classes that I have ever conducted, I always manage to find the students who are really there to learn. They are the one’s who stand out like stars over New York City. Only the best, the brightest and most determined twinkle. I have a total of about 6 stars out of the 17 who started with me in August. Another 6 of a previous instructors class that got passed on to me, completed the exam in September. It was wonderful to share in their success. Some people in the office acted so surprised. It was as if they had never seen people fulfill a dream.

* * * *

I know that many people believe what is said about people living on public assistance. The old myths and misconceptions of people living on welfare and driving Cadillac’s are still with us. Only expensive sneakers have replaced the Cadillac’s. I am a witness that really poor folks are just working folks. They are working for welfare checks.

Imagine working for $8.00 dollars an hour with two children, one school age and the other in daycare. Every day you drop them off and go to your job picking up garbage New Yorkers cast off. Imagine your school age child suddenly having behavioral issues in school, because his teacher, with whom he was so connected, went on maternity leave in October. The school calls you at work, and request you come pick up your child. You cannot leave. You need to fulfill your hours or lose pay. Your boss threatens to fire you. He reminds you that this is the third week in a row you had to leave early. He or she says this to you in a way that borders harassment. Imagine that 3 absences from work means not only dismissal from the program, but cancellation of your rent subsidy and food stamps. How would you cope? What would you do?

It has been difficult to teach in this capacity. The goal of the organization is job placement. Yet I hear lots of students complaining about job choices. I hear that job searches are sometimes limited to places like White Castles. I suppose White Castles is an okay place to work if you are fifteen and living at home with able bodied folks to take care of your basic needs. It is not a job for a single mom with three kids. A job like that can’t possibly qualify one as employed. A job like that can’t possibly mean you have made it.

I feel complicit in a system that doesn’t work. In my opinion the program sets the participants up for failure.
I wonder about the past success levels of such a program. I wonder which is more likely to lead one out of poverty. If many of us had a choice between work and education, which would we choose? If you have choices you are already fortunate. I am convinced that it is the lack of choices that separates us.

I've Been Here Before

Today I got an email from a friend.

A paragraph read: “How is your work going? Why haven't you written a new blog since August 9th? Don't let that shit hole stop your momentum, woman.”

I feel I owe her, and myself, some kind of explanation.

I went back to work full-time. I started a week before my last published blog. I say "published" because a number of items sit in the draft box. But, back to our story. I’m a GED instructor for the city. I won’t care to mention the agency. I’ll just say it’s one that was in the headlines about a month ago for a lawsuit by the employees. Do your homework, folks.

The first couple of weeks were not bad. I was told to spend the first couple of weeks preparing lesson plans. Anyone who has taught adult education knows that it is foolish to start creating lesson plans until you meet and assess the needs of the students. I planned anyway, figuring I could stick to icebreaker activities, journal writing exercises, and looking through the limited materials. It was comfortable. I came in, sat at a desk, wrote plans, and looked at some student folders.

I have two supervisors. I have more contact with one than the other. I soon found that neither one of these supervisors has a background in either secondary, or primary education. The ironic thing is that the immediate supervisors title is "Education Analyst." There are three Education Analysts on staff. I would later find out that none of them have ever taught in a classroom, much less a GED class. I also realize that the goal of this city agency is to get clients off public assistance and into employment. The Education Analysts work with job developers and make contacts with possible employers for job placement. Apparently none of the Education Analysts or Job Developers know that the best shot of getting a job in this day and age is by obtaining a high school diploma. But what do I know? I’m just the teacher. These folks push work assignments and job placement so they can demonstrate a high rate of dropping folks off the welfare rolls and into jobs.

My only source of support was the previous instructor who would be teaching at another site. Eventually a third instructor would be hired. Each would prove to be extremely valuable in their preparation of materials, curricula, lesson plans and experience.

Things started to go downhill at about the third week or so. In the first month I had my schedule changed from teaching two sections to teaching three. The first group was a GED class. I was assigned to instruct 15-17 students in, not a classroom, but a conference room that seats 10 comfortably. There was no curriculum. I would create that. No math assessment had been done, so I had people in a GED class who should have been able to multiply but could not, and students in a pre-GED class who should have been able to subtract but had trouble.

I had my lunch cut to a half an hour, even though on my timecard I am told to write an hour. I was chewed out for taking a 15 minute break when my students took a break. I was told: "The students are on break, you are not on break." I was reprimanded for wearing jeans on a Friday. Then reprimanded for going to the cleaners during lunch to retrieve a pair of slacks to put on as show of good faith that I could follow the dress code. All of the chewing out happened on the same day.

I am not discouraged by any of this. I have a plan.

You’ll have to read the next entry to find out what it is.

When Bombs Blast Through Our Doors, and Rockets Rain Down

My husband purchased a new DVD release today. Half way through it I had to leave the room. There were hostages. There were police. There were bank robbers. The moment the hostages were released, they were fired upon. It was a movie I could not continue to watch. I'm sick of guns. I'm sick of violence. I'm sick of movies, music, games and stories filled with guns and blood. There is so much of it in the real world. Who needs blood letting for relaxation?

One day last week I was leaving for work. I was walking towards the train station with my son. The station is two blocks away. When we approached the street where the elevated J train runs down Broadway, I heard a popping sound. The woman walking a few feet before me stopped walking. From where I stood holding the hand of my five-year-old, two men went running down Broadway in front of us in the direction of the subway. The woman in the front of us continued in that direction. I guess she thought it was safe to continue. I turned and headed home. I found it hard to explain to my son what I was thinking. I told him it wasn’t safe. I asked my husband for a ride to work that morning.

I can't bear the pop of a gun. I wonder who is on the receiving end. I wonder about those on the receiving end of guns in Bedford Stuyvesant-Brooklyn, Manhattan, New Jersey, and the so-called nice places like Long Island and Connecticut. I wonder about those who do the shooting. I worry about bombs and rockets landing in Lebanon, Beirut and Palestine. I wonder about those who pay for the bombs, rockets and guns. I wonder why some of us can keep going on about our business. I suppose some of us would only begin to pay attention to the suffering that goes on when groups of armed folks show up at our door or bombs blast through our windows and rockets rain down on our roofs.

Can't Sleep-Beirut is Burning

I am not able to sleep. It is the first time in a long time that I have awakened and not able to fall back into dreams, nightmares or nothingness. Perhaps it is my writing spirit rising. This is my first blog in a long time. I have been writing, just not on this blog.

I went on a ten-day tour of the south in the United States. It was a Freedom Ride- a study tour of the Civil Rights Movement. I came home last Sunday evening. I have slept off and on everyday since then. The fact that I am awake at 3:59 in the morning must mean that I have finally gotten my rhythm back.

My mind is so busy that my body won't permit sleep. Beirut is burning. Should I be ashamed to say I am rooting for Hezbollah? They originally were a militia group set up in South Lebanon to protect the community of Shiites on the boarder of Lebanon and Israel. They have since provided educational and medical services. They have seats in Lebanon’s Parliament. It is also important to note that the national army of Lebanon is fighting alongside Hezbollah. It has been helpful to have conversations about Hezbollah with the host of Live From Palestine on the radio show. It is unsettling to say the least each week to put those phone calls through to Palestine and wonder if you can’t reach your guest because they are dead. I have respect for what they have been to the people of Lebanon. They are no different from the Black Panther Party. Did you know the Black Panther Party started the free lunch program?

I am thinking about the people in Congo who are voting in democratic elections, the first in forty years. I am thinking about how while I sit here writing people are already lining up at the poles to vote. I am thinking about how some of the voters will have walked many miles to get to their the polls. I am more worried about these things than the bills waiting on the radiator in my living room. Should I be?

I am concerned about the fate of my neighbor who is renting his apartment in the building next to me. A For Sale sign went up in front of their building on Friday morning. By late afternoon someone had taken the sign down and put it across the street in front of an unoccupied building. I don’t remember seeing the sign at all since then. This is Bedford Stuyvesant. A For Sale sign in front of a building folks have called home for thirty years is a threat. One has to take drastic measures.

For ten days I have been learning at the feet of the people who helped change the world I came into. I walked the paths of their blood, sweat, tears and blood. Yes, there was lots of blood. Their fight created the push for desegregation, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. They made change using the strategy of non-violence.

When the tour began Israel crossed into Lebanon claiming retaliation for two kidnapped soldiers, I was making a commitment to nonviolence. I was rediscovering Dr. King’s thoughts put into action. I stood on the ground where he lost his fight, where Medgar Evers was gunned down as he carried sweatshirts that read “Jim Crow Must Go”, met the man who integrated “Ole Miss” and 95 year-old Amelia Boynton Robinson. She has been fighting to remind America, and us that we are not citizens too, we are citizens. Today she is assisting a group of citizens in the fight to reclaim their 1800 acres of land in Harris Neck, Georgia. I returned to a hotel room every night thinking about the conversations, freedom songs, lectures I had had during the day and watched Americans being evacuated from Lebanon on CNN. I worried about our radio show contacts and their friends and families. I worried about the people who can’t get out. I worry about those who have nowhere to go.

The trip was timely. I know these lessons I’ve learned will be put to use, probably sooner than I think. I’ll write more about the trip in upcoming post.

If you are still awake and need to read more, I suggest a visit to hopefulbeirut.blogspot.com
and beirutupdate.blogspot.com.

Starting A Garden

I’m starting a garden. For two weeks I’ve been cleaning up the backyard of our new house. There were fallen leaves and some trash left from when the house was being renovated. I found a couple of glass marbels, broken ceramic pieces, and rusted tools. I have to admit I hated being in the yard with my dad as a kid. His commands often disturbed my sister and I from our cocoons of disco music, television and me from my writing. I hated doing the task of edging up the lawn with some tool I still can’t even name. My garden will be different. Less sterile. I envision a rock garden.

The last occupants put up a plastic green fence over a metal fence that separated the neighbors yard to the left. Perhaps it gave them a sense of privacy. I took it down. The ugly green plastic was hiding a lovely vine of ivy. It makes for a natural fence and almost completely covers the metal fence. Honeysuckle is also growing above the ivy. A month ago trees from the neighboring yard on the right, were budding purple flowers that I thought were a type of lilac without the scent. A friend told me it was wisteria.

A rock garden makes sense to me. The rocks will be slate and stacked; they can be wonderful places to sit. They will never rust. A rock garden would also be beautiful in the winter. A place that can be enjoyed all year long.

I also image growing hostas, those beautiful leaf plants that grow in varieties of blue, green, white and gold leaves. The wonderful thing about these plants is that they can grow in pots that can be placed in the front of the house as well. They will beautify the steps leading to the main entrance and inside the gated area that leads to the basement.

Growing vegetables is another part of the vision. My great grandmother used to grow collard greens and tomatoes. Growing them means I can begin the process of becoming sustainable.

This is just the beginning of my green thumb. I haven't always had luck with growing and maintaining plants. I have one now to transfer outdoors. I have been saving seeds. An avocado seed, some apple seeds, and red bell pepper seeds. I wonder if they will actually produce anything.

A compost pile is brewing in my kitchen. I found a website that suggested using cartons to start a simple compost. I discovered this morning that I should get a better container. A friend of mine sent me an email last night about a container I can buy at the Brooklyn Botaninical Gardens for just 20 dollars. His suggestion arrived just in time. I don’t like fruit flies with my morning tea!

Response to a question.

This morning I couldn't help digging through boxes of unpacked books so I could respond to a question on a bulletin board discussion. This was the question:

Webster's New World Pocket Dictionary Second Edition 1991
defines FEMINISM as: Movement to win equal rights for women


From your understanding please give me your definition of the word "Feminism"

Is it wrong to be a "feminist?"

By definition, since the word is for human (women's) rights, is it possible for a man to be a "feminist?"

Why do some men/women make the word sound so negative as if being a "feminist" is like being against MEN?

What do you think guys?

Here is my response, thanks to bell hooks.

People don't read.

Please get a copy of bell hooks, Feminism is for Everybody : passionate politics. Her introduction begins:

Everywhere I go I proudly tell folks who want to know who I am and what I do that I am a writer, feminist theorist, a cultural critic. I tell them I write about movies and popular culture, analyzing the message in the medium. Most people find this exciting and want to know more. Everyone goes to the movies, watches television, glances through magazines and everyone has thoughts about the messages they receive, about the images they look at. It is easy for the diverse public I encounter to understand what I do as a cultural critic, to understand my passion for writing (lots of folks want to write, and do). But
feminist theory- that's the place where the questions stop. Instead I tend to hear all about the evil of feminism and the bad feminist: how "they" hate men; how "they" want to go against nature- and god; how "they" are all lesbians; how they are taking all the jobs and making the world hard for white men, who do not stand a chance.

When I ask these same folks about the feminist books or magazines they have read, when I ask them about the feminist talks they have heard, about the feminist activities they know, they respond by letting me know that everything they know about feminism has come into their lives thirdhand, that they really have not come close to enough feminist movement to know what really happens, what it's really about. Mostly they think feminism is a bunch of angry women who want to be like men. They do not even think about feminism as being about rights- about women gaining equal rights. When I talk about the feminism I know- up close and personal-they willingly listen, although when our conversations end . . ."

And I'll stop there. Get the book. Get many books, go to lectures, go to meetings- there are lots of groups around.

How can feminism be wrong? How can feminism not be for everybody? When women have equal rights, equal pay for equal work, housing and equal opportunities to purchase property, equal opportunities for health care and education everybody benefits. It is the woman who cares for the family and the earth. We have to continue to fight to take care of ourselves, and our communities. Our communities include everyone.

Suggested readiing:

Women, Race and Class- Angela Y. Davis
When and Where I Enter-Paula Giddings
Ain't I a woman-bell hooks
We Real Cool: Black Man and Masculinity-bell hooks
Feminism and the Women's Movement-Barbara Ryan
Women and the Politics of Empowerment-edited by Ann Bookman and Sandra Morgen
In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens-Alice Walker

Happy Reading, Happy growing!

I end my response there. If you think I have lots of time on my hands, I don't. I'm reading tonight at Poets House. I should be practicing. I should be cleaning my house so that during the reading I'm not thinking about my sitter looking at my son's underwear on the floor in our bathroom. I am just very passionate about feminism.

Can You Say Busy?

Five Reasons I Have Not Posted:

We moved from Harlem to the People's Republic of Brooklyn. We didn't just move, we bought property. It’s a three family brick in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I can sing all the songs from Rent and no one will hear me. I am a homeowner.

I have been writing poetry. I have been learning poetic forms. I know what a villanelle is. I have written a sonnet. I have read and met Quincy Troupe. I belong to a community of writers. We will be reading at Poets House this Wednesday. I am a Poet.

I have a new job. I will start in July. I will work for the city. I am a poet who owns a home and must meet mortgage.

We'll I actually don't have five reasons; it just sounded good as a working title. I have to get back to the poetry.

Life is good. I have other reasons life is good that are just too personal for this blog.

This Writer's Life

I've been reading a lot these past two months. I've read Stephen King’s book "On Writing", revisited bell hooks "Remembered Rapture - the Writer at Work", "Out of the Dust" by Karen Hesse and "On Our Backs- Volume II". It has been helpful to read these books together. At first glance you may wonder what does "On Our Backs- Volume II" erotic fiction have to do with "Out of the Dust", a book about the dust bowl of the 1930's. They span a variety of approaches, from essay to memoir to prose verse and the art of erotica. Eating requires a balanced diet and so does reading.

In Stephen King's work, I enjoyed the first section of the book in which he chats about growing up with an imagination against a working class background. He includes the time he worked at a mill while finishing high school and saving money for college. I enjoyed getting a look into this writer’s head. Though I don't consider myself a big fan of his work, I think he has a great imagination. I took a few things from his work. One is the idea that he takes one small incident, a situation or a conversation one hears in a crowd and spins it. He advises the reader to pay attention to how real people behave. He says that one must tell the truth if the dialogue is to express how people act and speak in very ordinary situations. I loved reading the On Our Backs stories and picking up on what people really say when they are engaging in sex. It was the best example of what King says about telling the truth.

By the time I reviewed bell hooks chapters on writing "Class and the Politics of Writing" I was able to understand an issue I've been struggling with for quite sometime. The idea of "fear of disclosure" has been a big factor as to why I have not put out the stories that I want to write. In my family, and I'm talking my side of the family, my mother has not always been my biggest fan. I've battled with this one for a long time. I guess this is why I've stuck to articles in this blog that are pretty much commentary on social injustice which is a big interest of mine. I have not always made the personal political, as my feminist teachings have argued. If the personal is political the fact that topics I've dealt with in the past have been met with my mom’s only two responses “how dare you” or (silence) has been a big reason for not writing lots of stuff that are so revealing. But more and more I'm drawn to the subjects that have made life for me very interesting these days. Bell hooks talks about getting intimate with one’s thoughts.

Another thing that King talks about is having an office and when one writes to close the door. While at the moment I don't have a door to close, in a few weeks I will. As a mom, I find this one somewhat hard to imagine. While I have dreamed of having a room of my own, if I may borrow from Wolfe, I can't imagine quite closing the door. Now while Stephen King’s children are grown and moved out, I have a 13 year old and a 4 year old who will turn 5 next month. The youngster still manages to creep into our bed every night. Almost every evening one of us is forced out of the bed for lack of space. What usually does it is his arm swinging over onto my throat or his laying on top of the covers causing me or my spouse to be pinned under a section of sheets like a mummy or having to roll the intruder off of the blankets so one of our asses isn't sticking out in the chill.

I imagine this room full of quiet sunlight. My desk will face the window overlooking my new backyard. Well actually it’s a neighbor’s backyard but there are quite a few trees to gaze upon. I will write at a simple desk bought from a local guy selling used goods. I will purchase a typewriter, like the one I first started writing on years ago. It will be the backup for my laptop. There will be an altar with photos of Zora Neale Hurston and Audre Lorde to honor and seek advice. A foot of mudcloth will hang on the wall, purchased at the African Mart on 116th and Malcolm X Boulevard and think of my beloved Harlem in my new home in Brooklyn.

I know my children will be knocking on that door. They can't help it. My children bother me. They don't always bother their dad with stuff like, " I can't find my truck!" or "Did you wash my sweater?"

I've had the luxury of writing for 6 months. Every morning, I send family off to school and work. If I start writing as soon as everyone leaves, I can give myself 4 to 5 hours of writing. Writing this way means leaving everything else until later. I’ve gotten pretty good at this. This time is my time; to develop ideas, write and rewrite, think, research, write some more. Sometimes the writing gets good as soon as I should be stopping. Stephen King talks about interrupting the writing and using that interruption as a means to have something to go back to. Approaching the work this way helps. I know I will go back to it at the end of the day.

In order to write, I have to be organized. I prepare a couple of meals at one time. This gives me a few days with no cooking at all. I try to keep the laundry at a minimum of two loads and give this task to my daughter. I teach two evenings a week, so I use one day to plan lessons for two weeks of classes. I also have a radio show I participate in once a week and the poetry class to read and write for. I can do all this because I’ve learned to plan.

Wednesday is tricky. I have learned to reverse this day. I don’t do any household chores. I write less. I sleep for 4 hours during the day. I heat up a meal previously prepared for dinner. I leave at 5:30 in the evening for the poetry class and the radio show at 2 am Thursday morning and I'm home and in bed by 7 o’clock. Later that afternoon I have lunch with a friend for encouragement and I'm teaching class by the evening.

My husband is my anchor in all this. We have adjusted the work schedule in order to allow me time to write. A few years ago I worked full-time in order that he may complete his undergraduate degree. Now he does the full-time. I’ve got this window to make something happen with my writing. I know I’ll be going back to a full time schedule of working in a few months. But I’ve got a rhythm now. I think I can keep this beat going no matter what happens next.

Cave Canem Called

Hard work has paid off. I was selected to participate in the Cave Canem Spring 2006 Workshop at Poets House. It is the first congratulations letter I've received in a long time. I've been sending out submissions of all kinds. Articles, poems, proposals of what I thought were great ideas. I get many rejections or no response at all.

So getting that email was sweet.

I thank all the poets and writers who have heard me. Here are a few.

Thank you Audre Lorde. The only reason I went to Hunter College is because you were on staff. I wrote a note to you and slipped it under your office door. It was a pitiful note begging to get into one of your classes. I went by the office for a week looking for you. You were on sabbatical. You were also beginning your battle with cancer. When you came to Hunter to be honored by the Poder Collective, I missed the event. I was always one step away. The closest I ever got was when I met your daughter who blessed me with kind words after a reading. I was always one step away. Thank you for leaving your words and instructions. Your words have made a path for me.

Thank you Zora Neale Hurston. You made me believe I was not crazy for wanting to remember my Geechie folk, their language and their stories. Your picture is on the altar beside a great company of writers. Your picture is beside my great-grandfather's cigarette case and my great-grandmother's Conch Shells. Because of you I've learned to love myself best, when I'm laughing.

Thank you Ann Petry. Your novel, The Street spoke to me through the wind on 116th street as I tried to make sense of a difficult time. Your words jumped right off of the page and surrounded me like a quilt. I struggled between Lenox and Adam Clayton Powell Blvd because your words gave me the courage to do it.

Thank you James Baldwin. Your work is a reminder that there is no limit of what I can do with words. You remind me to look at the world and tell it what I really think about it.