Creative Writing 101

Perhaps you have heard of floating dinner parties where a group of friends each prepare a part of the meal, and the group moves from home to home for each course. It’s a lot of fun and works particularly well during the winter holidays when everyone has decorated their homes and wants to show off those decorations. (Oh come on, none of us goes to all that trouble just so we can look at our own decorations!)

Anyway, Marc has created a floating story. He began it in his journal, I’m picking it up here, and I hope that one of you creative spirits out there will pick it up and contribute yet another chapter.

I know that there are quite a few creative writers out there. Just leave your first paragraph in a comment and a link to your site. Copy my entry which includes Marc’s part one (The Introduction) as well as my part two (The First Skirmish), paste it in your journal and add your part. Please don’t neglect to give your chapter a title. I intentionally used two different fonts to distinguish between Marc’s part and my own. Have fun and should you accept this little challenge, please don’t forget to leave your link in the comments!

The inspiration for this mini-story comes from Hy-Art created by Marc, combining the works of Allston and Boldini.

This mini-story brought to you by the art of Washington Allston and Giovanni Boldini.

The Introduction–by Marc

All eyes were on the Contesse de Vermeil when her former lover, le Baron de Genolhac, arrived at the ball with Mrs. Owen Marston, the widow from the United States known simply as “l’Americaine” ever since she’d taken rooms at the Georges V less than a month ago and rapidly insinuated her way into every lesser salon and drawing room in the 16th arrondissement. Emma Marston’s late husband’s fortune had been made supplying the Union Army with uniforms during the American Civil War 20 years earlier, which he made with Southern cotton smuggled through the blockade and repurchased from the warehouses of the Baron. It was an exquisite arrangement that meant the Baron had been hosted numerous times over the years in Marston’s townhouse on lower Fifth Avenue. When a taste for rich food and a surfeit of cigars eventually felled Owen Marston with an attack of apoplexy as he walked up the stairs of his favorite Chambers Street bordello, what could the Baron do but introduce his dear and now considerably wealthy widowed friend to the lights of Paris?

Mrs. Marston continued to technically acknowledge the convention of mourning by wearing black, even as its positively festive style indicated the true spirit of its wearer. She had married at 19, when her husband was 47, having been governess to his children after the death of his first wife. She was now past 30–how far was a matter of some debate–but they had rather less of an idea in Paris than in New York. Only the Baron knew that her origins were rather more humble than the vaguely Bostonian Brahmin biography floated when necessary at dinner parties. In America, money could buy anything, including a past.

Emma timed her entrance into French society well, as the advent of the Second Empire was creating all sorts of opportunity for reinvention. Money talked rather fluently in France as well as it did transatlantically, but while it could get you in the door, it would not necessarily grant you a second invitation. Unlike their British counterparts, the doyennes of French society considered less the social class to which you were born than the breeding which you exhibited. Style, wit, the ability to make interesting observations about the events of the day–this is what mattered most. At least to the Contesse.

She had no idea that she was about to meet her match in Emma Marston.

The First Skirmish–by Sheria

Two months of preparations had preceded the Contesse’s ball, “la danse des étoiles printanières.” For nearly ten years, it had provided the start of the spring season of endless balls, intended to introduce the young women of society to young men, if they were lucky, and to gentlemen old enough to be their grandfathers, if they were not. No one used the cumbersome long title any more, and simply referred to it as “les étoiles,” or the stars. It was the Contesse’s jewel, her shining achievement that secured her place in the bosom of French Society, and as she stared at the woman swathed in black silk whose hand so delicately rested on the Baron’s arm, she was not at all pleased.

As the pair crossed the room, moving towards her, the Contesse raised her delicate lace fan, a gift from an admirer, and languidly waved it across her slightly flushed cheeks.

“Good evening, Contesse. You look lovely, as always.”

“Thank you, Baron. It’s a pleasure to see you here.”

The Contesse’s words hung in the air, polite but yet somehow suggesting that the pleasure did not extend to the Baron’s companion.

“May I present Mrs. Emma Marston, from America. Mrs. Marston, this is our hostess for the evening, the Contesse de Vermeil.”

As the Baron made the introductions, both women acknowledged the other with a slight nod of their well coiffed heads.

The Contesse spoke first, “Welcome, Mrs. Emma Marston, I hope that you will enjoy our little party.”

“I’m already having a delightful time, Contesse. The Baron is proving to be a most thoughtful host.”

“Host?”

“Ah yes, I had planned to return home after my month at the Georges, but the Baron graciously invited me to continue to recuperate from my sorrow as his house guest for the summer. Do you know his summer place? It’s just outside of the city and it is, how do you say it, magnifique? Your language is so beautiful.”

Adjusting his ascot, the Baron coughed delicately and took Mrs. Marston by her arm. She lifted her heart shaped face to meet his gaze and for a moment he was lost in the dark pools of her eyes. She dropped her lashes and turned back to the Contesse.

“I feel a bit warm. You must tell me where you purchased such a lovely fan, Contesse. While in Paris, I must do as the Parisians do. Baron, could we go out on the veranda and walk in the cool night air? It was a pleasure, Contesse.”

To all the watching eyes, the Contesse appeared unperturbed and her guests’ disappointment was almost palpable. There had been no fireworks between the Contesse and the American widow, leaving the pursuit of sixteen-year-old Mademoiselle Adele St. Coeur by the Marquis de Tuilleries, 40 years her senior, the only entertainment of the evening.

Bidding her guests a momentary adieu, the Contesse retired to her private salon, closing the door behind her. From a darkened corner, a young man moved into her line of sight. He was tall and handsome, in a coltish sort of way, as if he might break into a canter at a moment’s notice. The Contesse spoke quietly.

“How was your journey?”

“It was an excellent passage, Contesse, calm seas all the way from America.”

“Good, now tell me all about your stepmother, the widow Marston.”

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda???

The North Carolina 2008 Legislative Session officially ended on Friday, July 18 at 4:40 pm. I cleaned off my desk, tied up a few loose ends and left work at 6:30 pm. I had a meeting this morning that began at 10:00 and was over by 11:30. I’m off until Thursday. If you hear a sound, it’s me sighing contentedly. The other sound is me loudly singing along with Jennifer Hudson’s new single. It takes me back to the R&B songs of my youth, where there was a melody that you could sing along with and lyrics that you could understand. I’ve posted a YouTube video that some enterprising soul put together of images of young Ms. Hudson with her new single, Spotlight playing in the background.

I’ve been working on catching up on the journals that I haven’t read for the past two weeks. If I’ve missed you, I’ll be by tomorrow.

I stopped by Marc’s place and he has posted a meme that I found interesting. The entry is the Roads Not Travelled, echoing Robert Frost’s poem (at least to these former English teacher ears). By the way, if you don’t know the poem, please check it out. It’s one of my favorites.

Back to the meme, Marc writes about alternative paths, the untraveled roads that we might have taken. He provides some of his “might have been scenarios” and ask of the reader, “what are your top five alternate untraveled roads?”

This is a really difficult question for me. Perhaps its because I’ve travelled at least part way down a variety of paths, at least career wise. I’ve worked as a cook in a Jamaican restaurant where I learned to make Jamaican beef patties and Bouillabaisse. I worked in a factory that made motors for hair dryers. My job involved shoving a little round thingamajig into a hole and then pressing a foot pedal that shot out enough heat to solder the wires to the tip of the little round thingamajig. It was highly technical work. I also worked at a book store in Chapel Hill known as the Intimate Book Shop (no, it wasn’t that kind of a book store, just a family owned business that tried to create a cozy alternative to the big chain stores, although we did sell all of the Anne Rice, writing under the pseudonym A. N. Roquelaure, Sleeping Beauty trilogy).

I took a rather roundabout route to becoming a teacher, and finally a lawyer.

I’ve rambled enough, so here are my five might have been scenarios.

1. I left home at 18, moved to New York and became a back up singer for James Brown. While performing at the Apollo, I was discovered and became a solo act as a blues singing diva.

2. I opened a soul food restaurant in Atlanta that became a hangout for the best blues artists around.

3. I fell madly in love with a biker, married him and started wearing leather and a cute diamond stud in my nose. He dies in a motorcycle crash and I sing Leader of the Pack at the funeral.

4. While performing in a musical version of Cinderella in a summer drama program in my home town (I really did play the wicked stepmother and performed a version of an Anthony Newley song from Stop the World, I want to Get Off entitled “I Want to be Rich”), I’m discovered by a Broadway producer who invites me to New York where I become the sensation of Broadway.

5. I skip teaching altogether and go straight to law school after undergraduate graduation. I become an accomplished litigator in tort law, and successfully represent client in lawsuits against companies with deep pockets. I make lots of money, retire at age 42, move to Jamaica and engage in a string of affairs with the boy toy of the moment.

There is a bit of true desire in each of these scenarios, but I’m not telling you which bits. Ultimately, I suspect that I’ve taken the right road and it has made all the difference.

Satire, the Obamas, and the New Yorker

I’ve been reading comments again. I mention them because what I’ve read in comments on blogs, AOL journals, and news stories on the Internet, influences my take on the cover of the upcoming issue of New Yorker magazine, due to be released on July 21, 2008.

People whom I like, with whom I exchange comments and e-mails, continue to write things like, “I’m frightened by Barack Obama,” “Isn’t he a Muslim?,” “Michelle Obama is a racist,” “She hates white people,” “His middle name is Hussein,” (true, but I think that the comment is meant to suggest something more sinister), etc.

I try to understand what motivates these comments. Don’t worry, I haven’t labeled anyone a racist; I don’t toss that label about lightly. I’ve personally experienced enough racism in my lifetime to recognize it clearly, and I don’t believe in crying wolf. Besides, a true racist doesn’t need anyone to tell him or her that he/ she is a racist.

I really mean it when I say that these comments or variations thereof are written by people with whom I enjoy exchanging ideas and who I think come from a place of sincerity in expressing their concerns. Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t share their concerns and I don’t understand them. They don’t have any basis in fact, but nonetheless, I do get that they weigh heavily on people’s minds. I’ve even sent private emails to a few, asking them to explain to me, in detail, the basis of their fears and beliefs. So far, no one has done so.

By the way, I don’t question anyone’s right to select the candidate of their choice, I’m just dismayed by the persistence in clinging to beliefs that are grounded in misinformation and blatant lies. Dislike any candidate because you don’t support his/her politics or beliefs but for heaven’s sakes, don’t base your decision on some emotional belief that a candidate represents some dark, evil force. Hell, I’m not even afraid of GWB, and he’s done some pretty scary stuff in the last eight years.

Just for the record: Barack Obama is not now, nor has he ever been a Muslim; you may not like his former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, but he was the pastor of the Christian Church to which the Obama family belonged for 20 years. Michelle Obama did not make a racist comment about hating white people or white America, what she said was “…for the first time in my adult life I am proud of my country because it feels like hope is finally making a comeback.” I’ve said the same thing and I meant it from the bottom of my 53-year-old heart. I’m proud of how far this country has come in my lifetime. Having grown up with legal restrictions on where I could sit, eat, go to the bathroom and get a drink of water in a public place, I am awed that a man with African heritage may possibly become president of these United States, and that he has gotten where he is by appealing to a diverse cross section of the American people. I don’t even know what to say about Barack Hussein Obama’s given name. I confess that I find it hard to believe that anyone could seriously fear anyone based on the person’s name. My first name, Sheria, is an alternative spelling for the Sharia, which is the name of the body of Islamic religious law. Anyone trembling in their shoes yet?

Which brings me to the New Yorker cover, (bet you thought that I would never get there). The magazine has released a statement about the controversial cover,

‘In a statement Monday, the magazine said the cover “combines a number of fantastical images about the Obamas and shows them for the obvious distortions they are….The burning flag, the nationalist-radical and Islamic outfits, the fist-bump, the portrait on the wall? All of them echo one attack or another. Satire is part of what we do, and it is meant to bring things out into the open, to hold up a mirror to prejudice, the hateful, and the absurd. And that’s the spirit of this cover,” the New Yorker statement said.’

I believe the statement; the New Yorker is known for its use of satire and for its liberal leanings, two of the things that I like about the magazine (surely, by now you know that I am a flaming liberal and proud of it). However, I wish that they had thought about it a bit more. As a former English teacher, I’m pretty certain that satire is not a form of literary expression that most people get. When Jonathan Swift’s satirical essay, “A Modest Proposal,” was first published in 1729, it was met with great outrage by many who didn’t perceive the satirical tone of the piece in which Swift proposes that the Irish poor ease their economic woes by selling their young children to the wealthy to be eaten as a great delicacy. Swift writes: “A young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee, or a ragout.”

Before you get all excited, he didn’t mean it; he was using his writing to comment on the hypocrisy of the government in blaming the poor for their own plight. He wanted to point out the inhumanity of allowing families to starve while the wealthy had an excess of food, goods, and luxuries. Swift wanted the reader to find his position appalling enough to act, to call for reform, to do something about the problem. This tradition of satire dates back to the great tradition of Roman satire, and echoes the writings of Horace and Juvenal.

However, I digress. The problem that I have with the New Yorker cover is quite simple, far too many people will miss the magazine’s stated intent entirely. They won’t read the accompanying stories. The cover will merely reinforce the misinformation that they already believe. Most people’s familiarity with satire is limited; the unit that I did on satire was always the most confusing for my students. In particular, visual satire often leaves many people totally confused.

I also find the cover insulting to Michelle Obama. I really can’t recall any presidential candidate’s wife being subjected to this type of depiction in the past. Maybe I’m just a touchy black woman, but in every hierarchical ranking in this country, whether it is regarding wages earned or marriage potential, black women always come in dead last. If you’re a black woman who speaks your mind, you are labeled difficult or the really big one–intimidating. Early in my teaching career, I had the following exchange with a colleague.

“Sheria, I just find you intimidating.”

Me: “Have I ever threatened to slap you?”

“No, I didn’t say that, just that I find you intimidating.”

Me: “Tell you what, when I threatened to slap you, that’s when I’m trying to intimidate you, otherwise, you have nothing to worry about.”

Sometimes a woman gets tired of being called intimidating.

Alas, the cat is already out of the bag and and the cover cannot be undone. I have to decide if I want to read the comments that are already being generated by the news coverage about the cover. I should know better but I can’t resist. Intimidating? No. Inquisitive? Yes.

Do Unto Others…

I am behind on reading and commenting on journals; I’ve tried to catch up a bit today. Just because I didn’t leave a comment, doesn’t mean that I didn’t stop by for a visit. I owe you a comment on the next trip.

I didn’t plan to write an entry of my own today; I’ve been reading a really good book that my sister recommended, and my plan was to read a few journals, and get back to my book, 19 Minutes by Jodi Picoult. However, as I read journal entries and the comments that some engendered, I was struck by a recurrent theme, a willingness to give in to our pettier impulses, a rush to judgment of others, to assume that laziness, dishonesty, and lack of a willingness to work are what leave people impoverished or homeless or just without the basic necessities of life.

Don’t get me wrong, I read much goodness and kindness in these journals too, but it’s the judgmental observations that chill me. Far too many of us toss them off so casually, without even thinking about what our views do to others or what they do to and say about us.

Several comments that I read eagerly affirmed that people on public assistance spend their food stamps on cigarettes,T-bone steaks, and nonessential food items. I’m not certain what the nonessentials are. There is also the Greek chorus chanting how people drive SUVs while collecting public assistance and live in public housing while driving Escalades. Then there are those who attest to witnessing the food stamp users who leave the grocery store with their beer and wearing Adidas and sagging pants, and then climb into their SUV. Clearly, the rest of us are missing out on a good thing. We should quit our jobs, sign up for public assistance, and live the high life.

When I first began my legal career, I worked for Legal Aid, which provides free legal assistance in certain areas of law to low-income persons. Some of my clients were facing things like eviction from housing or repossession of a vehicle. Others had been denied Medicaid, SSI, or some other federal or state assistance. Some had been fired and then the former employer tried to block them from receiving unemployment insurance benefits. Some owed money to hospitals for medical treatment and the hospitals creditors were threatening them with collection agencies. Legal Aid doesn’t handle criminal cases, but I did represent women seeking 50B (civil protective orders in NC’s courts) in domestic violence cases and I also did child custody cases. Most of my clients received public assistance of some sort and I learned a lot about the welfare system while I worked at Legal Aid.

I have no doubt that somewhere there is someone, maybe a few someones, who have figured out how to milk the welfare system for all that it’s worth. Much like the top executives at Enron and other corporate businesses figured out how to rob people of their life savings. Criminal behavior doesn’t always wear sagging pants, sometimes it wears business suits and white collars. However, the majority of people receiving public assistance of some sort are not living the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

You cannot use your food stamps to buy alcohol, tobacco products, pet food, or laundry, household and paper supplies. By the way, they are no longer food stamp coupons, it’s an Electronic Benefit Card (EBT), which may be used to purchase food meant for human consumption, and plants and seeds for food production that are sold in a grocery store. The SUV dealership does not accept food stamps. If you are interested in how much your monthly food stamp allotment would be, click here.

If you detect anger in my post, then you are not imagining it. I’m not angry because some people think that those who are receiving public assistance are a bunch of miscreants who abuse the system, I’m angry because those misbegotten points of view actually impact the lives of the very real people whose survival depends on that public welfare system. Every person who believes the half truths of the Chicken Little clones who are constantly espousing myths and lies about the welfare benefits system makes very real decisions in voting for public officials at the federal, state, and local level. Those elected officials are the ones who decide what monies are allocated to what some call social benefits program; I prefer survival programs.

During his administration, Ronald Reagan liked to tell of the Chicago Welfare Queen. According to Reagan, she had ripped off $150,000 from the government, using 80 aliases, 30 addresses, a dozen social security cards, and four fictional dead husbands. The country was outraged and the “Welfare Queen” driving her “Welfare Cadillac” became permanently lodged in American political folklore. What didn’t get nearly as much attention was that the press attempted to track this “Welfare Queen” down only to discover that she didn’t exist. The closest that they could come to a real, live welfare queen was a woman who had used two aliases and managed to collect $8,000 in benefits to which she wasn’t entitled. (Interestingly, there was a wealthy couple living in Pasadena, California in the 1980s who engaged in welfare fraud to the tune of $377,000, filing claims for public assistance for 38 nonexistent children but they were not poor and clearly should have never qualified for welfare assistance.)

In addition to the EBT (formerly, food stamp) program, the major other funding for public assistance goes to TANF or Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, formerly known as AFDC. TANF payment amounts vary somewhat from state to state. Under TANF, states receive a fixed amount from the federal government based on what they spent on welfare programs in 1994 without regard to subsequent changes in need. TANF frees the states from many federal constraints on how they manage the funds. The program reduced the federal welfare. Based on a cursory check of the Internet, it appears that TANF monthly payments average less than $300. Sort of hard to imagine making payments on an Escalade on that income.

The bottom line is simple. Those of us who know better have got to start making as much noise as the town criers who shout half-truths, misrepresentations, and down right lies about the individuals and families that find themselves in need of a helping hand in order to have life’s basic necessities. A society that doesn’t take care of its least fortunate is devoid of values. Shouting about the greatness of America means nothing if we take no steps to ensure that everyone partakes of that greatness. For every person who is convinced that people who depend on public assistance are living the good life, eating steak daily and drinking imported beers, tell you what, quit your job, apply for TANF and get your piece of the pie. Don’t forget to pick out your SUV.

The music is an orginal composition by Jeff Majors (on the harp) setting the 23rd Psalm to music. The vocalist is James Murphy. Majors has an album, Sacred, with equally beautiful songs on it.

About Men

Whenever I’ve been away from blogging for a while, I always find it difficult to pick one thing to write about out of all the stuff that has caught my attention during my hiatus. This entry has been buzzing in my head for the past two days.

I got off work early this past Thursday; it was only 8:00 pm. I decided to take advantage of my early release by stopping at the CVS on my way home to spend a lot of money picking up necessary (soap, shampoo, body lotion,hand lotion etc. ) and unnecessary items (new foundation and concealer which I didn’t really need at this time but I had coupon for $3.00 off on Revlon products). I tend to wander through the entire drug store just to see if there are any items that I don’t need that I can add to my shopping cart. Yes, I use a full size cart at the drug store; I never know how much stuff I may not need.

So as I wandered among the cotton balls and lip glosses, I made eye contact with a gentleman who appeared to be also shopping in the CVS. Southern courtesy means that you don’t just pass someone without acknowledging that person’s presence, so I smiled and said hello and he did the same. I continued on my journey, managing to walk past the entire selection of L’Oreal nail polish that was on sale without buying a single bottle. I passed the same gentleman a few more times, and each time we nodded and smiled and continued on (once you’ve spoken the first time, subsequent passes only require a nod and a smile). When I got to the checkout counter, there was one person, a woman, at the counter but the gentleman with whom I had a nodding acquaintance was standing off to the side. Not wanting to be rude, I asked if he was in line to checkout.

“No, I’ve got a little problem. Could you let me have twenty cents?”

I’m not going to deny anyone twenty cents, so I reached in my wallet and handed him two dimes.

“Thank you, miss.”

I smiled and turned, intending to place my many items on the counter, when it hit me that it was likely that he had only one item as I didn’t see a cart of any sort.

“You can go ahead, I’ve got a lot of stuff.”

“Thank you, I hope that you don’t mind, but I needed the money so I could buy a beer.”

Up until that moment, I hadn’t notice the 40 ounce bottle of beer in his hand. I’m not certain what he expected that I would do, perhaps insist that he return the twenty cents and give him a lecture on temperance?

Instead, I laughed, and said,”Sir, who am I to judge you?”

He paid for his beer, and stood by as I began loading all my goods onto the counter.

“Miss, can I ask you something?”

Whenever a person asks this type of rhetorical question, I always wonder what he or she would do if the response was, “Hell to the no.” (I learned that little phrase from Whitney Houston. She used it on she and Bobby Brown’s reality show.)

“Sure.”

“Are you married?”

Fortunately, I was not drinking any sort of beverage or I would have certainly spewed it all over anything and anyone within ten feet of me. As it was, my laughter just sort of bellowed throughout the store. When I got myself under control, I was able to muster a response.

“No, I’m not married, nor do I want to be.”

He shook his head ruefully, and turned to go out the door, then he paused, lifted his beer in salute and exited.

One of the things about men that fascinates me is that it is rare to meet a man who doesn’t believe that he has something to offer to any woman. Woman are born with an insecurity gene. My friends that are beautiful women by anyone’s standards, fret about the size of their thighs, jeans that make their butts look too big, breasts that are too small or too big; in the words of Gilda Radner’s Saturday Night Live persona, Roseanne Rosannadanna, “It’s always something.” It’s rare that women are ever convinced of their own attractiveness.

On the other hand, none of my male friends have ever asked me, “Does this outfit make me look fat?” Do men ever ask each other, “Do you think that my gut is too big to wear my speedos at the beach or would a hair transplant make me look younger?” Is it arrogance or just healthy self-esteem that allows men to more easily assume that they are desirable no matter what? I know, some of you are thinking that I’m generalizing way too much, that men have their insecurities too. I’ll concede that but even at their most insecure, most men still have more self-esteem than women.

When I was on e-harmony, there were the guys with the movie star good looks who didn’t bother to even address their looks in their profile, their pictures said it all. However, more likely was a profile in which the guy identified himself as attractive, good-looking, a nice looking guy, above average in looks–terms that didn’t necessarily match the photograph that accompanied the profile by any stretch of the imagination. I never based my decision as to whether or not to favorably respond to a potential suitor on his appearance because in my experience, a man’s physical attractiveness grows on me as I get to know him. If he’s warm, funny, and kind, then I will come to find him attractive.

I’ve had it on reliable authority from my male friends that this isn’t typically true for men. Attraction is either there from the start or it never develops. I don’t know if this is an absolute or not, what do y’all think?

Perhaps I’m just too demanding. The guy in the CVS who didn’t have any obvious means of transportation and lacked enough money to buy a two dollar bottle of beer, had enough chutzpah to inquire as to my availability. Of course, I can’t help but think that what he really wanted was a source with more beer money for the evening.

Napoleon Dad

I’ve been fixin’ to write a post all day but I’m just getting around to it. By the way, “fixin'” is southern for “having something to do but delaying getting it done while you distract yourself with doing other things.” You can see why we use “fixin’,” it’s a lot shorter to say. I feel down right multilingual. I speak passable French, a modicum of Spanish, and fluent Southern, Ebonics, and standard English.

A few months ago, my sister and I commissioned Marc Olmsted to create a special picture for our father’s birthday. Regular readers are familiar with Marc’s Hy-Art in which he combines one or more classic works of art into an original interpretive work of art. Follow the link to Marc’s Etsy site where he sells his art. However, the birthday present for my dad is another of Marc’s original creations, aptly named “Thou Art,” or “you in art” in which Marc inserts you into a classic work of art. I’ve been the subject of a Thou Art by Marc on more than one occasion. Each time, I loved the results, so I asked him to create a Thou Art of my father.

My mother is the big talker in our family. She is one of the most entertaining gossips that I know, mainly because when she’s telling us about the shenanigans of one of her many siblings, she does spot on imitations of not only their voices but their mannerisms. She doesn’t just tell me about Aunt Dorothy’s worries that her old boyfriend may think that she is still lusting after him if she moves from New York back to North Carolina, she becomes my slightly daft aunt, caught up in worries about a man that she dated some fifty years ago and hasn’t seen since.

In comparison, my dad is a quiet man, although he rouses himself if the discussion is about politics or world affairs, subjects that don’t interest my mother nearly as much as the continual doings of her siblings. Years ago a good friend told me that my father resembled the actor, Richard Roundtree. I reporter her comment to my father and he literally beamed. My dad is still a handsome man, proud of the fact that he is as trim as he was as a 17 year old when he lied about his age to enlist in the military. In addition to being a vet, my dad is also a retired police officer; he served as a police officer on the Wilson police force for 25 years, retiring with the rank of captain. I’m proud of him. He was one of four black men who integrated the Wilson police department. He is featured in a local museum, the Oliver Nestus Freeman Round House Museum, covering the history of African-Americans in Wilson County; when he was asked to provide materials for the museum, including a biographical sketch, he asked me to write it for him. I was proud to do so and I confess that I take delight in visiting the museum and seeing my words about my father on its walls.

I sent Marc a photograph of my father taken 20 years ago. In the picture, he is beaming as he holds his grandson, my nephew, in his arms. I love the smile on his face. Marc selected a setting for dad that delighted me and my sister, and her husband Bob. (Bob likes it when I mention his name in my blog.) He appropriately named it Napoleon Dad. I framed the image and my sister, Bob, and I presented it to my dad for his birthday on May 27. He was totally delighted, immediately recognizing that the original image was of Napoleon Bonaparte and thrilled with seeing himself sitting astride Napoleon’s magnificent steed. He immediately announced his plan to carry the picture (a framed 8 by 10) with him on his walk the next day to show to his buddies. Both of my parents are avid walkers, however my mother walks with a group of mall walkers at the local shopping mall; my dad prefers walking the sidewalks of Wilson that used to be his beat when he was a foot patrolmen, new to the police force. The picture now graces a shelf on the built in bookcases in my parents’ living room.

My thanks to Marc for helping us provide my father with such a unique present and one that brought that same wonderful smile to his face.

If you are interested in commissioning Marc to create a one-of-a-kind picture of you or a loved one, click here to see more of his “you in art” creations or email him (makemarc@aol.com) directly.

My Vice Presidential Aspirations

I’ve decided to help my country. I was inspired by my blogami, Marc, to engage in my patriotic duty and offer myself as Barack Obama’s running mate. Of course, I have some strong competition from Marc. Before you go any further with reading about my qualifications, mosey over to Marc’s blog and read his entry for today, Pros and Ex-Cons. I’m still recovering from the time that I spent rolling on the floor and laughing after reading it. He challenges his readers to also complete his meme on the pros and cons of your qualifications to be the Democratic vice-presidential candidate. After you check out Marc’s list, complete the meme by writing your own list of the pros and cons of your qualifications to be VP and be certain to leave a link letting Marc know about your entry. Oh, and don’t forget to come back and read my list.

Pros:
1. I’ve never been a stripper. No one will be crawling out of the woodwork with video of me doing the full monty. (Can women do a full monty or do you call it something else?)

2. I’ve also never hired the services of a prostitute. I have gone across state lines with men but I’ve never paid them to come with me. Double entendre intended.

3. My friend Marc is willing to sleep with any gay Republican who agrees to vote Democratic. He said so in his blog. He also said that I would sleep with any straight Republican who agrees to vote Democratic, but I have my standards. Only if he’s tall, good looking, and hot will I sacrifice myself. However, no money will exchange hands. See pro #2.

4. I can deliver the southern vote. I’ve read Gone With the Wind multiple times; not only do I want to be Scarlett O’Hara, hell, sometimes I am Scarlett. I know all the ways to use y’all in a sentence and I know exactly where “down the road a fur piece” is, and I can locate “over yonder” on a map. In addition, I’ve drunk many an RC Cola after placing peanuts in the bottle.

5. I like to wear red. Red is a power color; it also photographs well. I will be prepared for the many photographic opportunities that are an ongoing part of the VP’s job. It will also make it easier for the Secret Service agents to keep track of me in a crowd, although it could be a negative if I have to dodge any sniper fire in Bosnia.

Cons:
1. I sort of stalked a man when I was in college. Oh come on, don’t tell me that you and your best friend have never staked out some guy’s room to see if he’s seeing that slut who came on to him at the floor party last night?

2. I once wrote erotica for the enjoyment of a man with whom I was in a relationship. (I was following in the footsteps of Anais Nin.) He may still have copies of it and for all I know, by now, he could be a McCain supporter.

3. Back in the 1980s, I had a membership in a video club. I can’t recall the name, but it had a wide collection of foreign films and art house stuff that was somewhat adult in nature. I’ve seen the unexpurgated version of Guccione’s Caligula.

4. I am not a morning person. No breakfast meetings with foreign dignitaries before 10:00 am.

5. I don’t play golf. I can see no point in trudging around in the sun trying to hit a little white ball into a little hole. I totally don’t get the traps. Someone should smack the architects who build sand traps and water holes into the golf course; they should know better!

Of course, every candidate needs a theme song. Inspired by a recent post by Marc, I’ve selected Whitney Houston’s version of “I’m Every Woman.” It’s not a political song, but it’s got a great beat. I figure that I could start each campaign appearance with a few dance moves.

I’m Every Woman
Whatever you want
Whatever you need
Anything you want done baby
I’ll do it naturally
Cause I’m every woman
Its all in me
Its all in me

(chorus 1): I’m every woman
It’s all in me
Anything you want done baby
I do it naturally

(chorus 2): I’m every woman
It’s all in me
I can read your thoughts right now
Every one from a to z

I can cast a spell
Of secrets you can tell
Mix a special brew
Put fire inside of you
Anytime you feel danger or fear
Instantly I will appear, cause

(chorus 1)

Oh, I can sense your needs
Like rain on to the seeds
I can make a rhyme
Of confusion in your mind
And when I comes down to some good old fashioned love
I got it
I got it
I got it, got, got it, baby, baby, baby

(chorus 1 & 2)

I ain’t braggin
Cause I’m the one
Just ask me
Ooh, and it shall be done
And don’t bother
To compare
I got it

I’m every woman (repeat till fade)
I’m every woman (repeat till fade)

Don’t forget to do your own meme with your five reasons why you should be vice president and five reasons against the idea. Y’all drop by Marc’s place and leave him a link.

Embracing Hope: Why Obama Rocks My World

The world of my youth was a world of separation. The railroad tracks separated our town into black and white. There were two libraries, the Wilson County Public Library and the Wilson County Negro Library. Everyone ate barbecue from Parker’s but my mother had to go to the back door to pick up our order; only white people were allowed to enter the front door and sit in the dining room and eat. The train station had two waiting rooms, one for whites and one for coloreds. The one for whites was bigger, brighter, and cleaner. In facilities where there was no separate area for us, the signs read, “no colored allowed,” or “white only.” There were even two hospitals. I don’t recall the name for the white hospital but the colored hospital was called Mercy. These are my memories of growing up as a colored child in Wilson, North Carolina.

I was born in 1955; I turned eighteen in March 1973. The public school system in Wilson ignored the court ordered integration that came from the Brown decision in 1954, and it was 1971 before the school system fully integrated. I was in tenth grade. My dad, who had been one of four black men who integrated the Wilson police force in the 1960s, worked a detail at the only high school in the city of Wilson, Fike Senior High. The KKK had set up camp across the street from the Fike to make their opposition to the presence of Negro students at the school perfectly clear. The police were there to maintain order. My dad says that when he first joined the police force, the black officers weren’t allowed to drive patrol cars. He was on the force when Dr. King and then Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. I remember him wearing his riot gear as he went to work. I was thirteen.

Darden, which had been the black high school before integration in 1971, became a school for tenth grade only. All sophomores, Negro and white, attended Darden; all juniors and seniors attended Fike. Darden lost its status as a high school for participation in sports, choral competitions, drama competitions, and all other extracurricular activities. When I began my junior year at Fike, I signed up for chorus. The chorus teacher commented that she had noticed that the Negro students all had a lot of vibrato in their voices and asked us why we sang that way. At Darden, we had sung spirituals, jazz, and R&B as well as some classical pieces. At Fike, the spirituals, jazz, and R&B were not regarded as appropriate music for choral presentations. I dropped chorus and took art instead.

A new employee at my office is also from Wilson. She is my sister’s age, two years younger than I am. She is white. She doesn’t remember any of this. She says that her year at Darden was a lot of fun. She has asked me if my class ever has a reunion. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her why there is no class to have a reunion. There are the black students who attended Darden when it was a high school and the white students who attended Fike. When we integrated, all it really meant was that we attended school in the same buildings.

We never became a class. When we got to Fike for our junior and senior, we were still separate, just in the same buildings. Fike was on the white side of town and the KKK felt that it was on its home turf. It was difficult to build bridges among the students when grown men in white robes and hoods were standing across the street shouting epithets at us every day. It was also common knowledge that some of the armed police officers who were supposed to protect us had white robes and hoods in their closets at home.

I had thought that I was done writing about race. Friends whose opinions I value, have cautioned me that I only upset myself when I write of these things. I had decided to move on to other matters and let it be. However, I’ve come to realize that although they are well meaning, they don’t get it at all. Writing about my experiences, what I know to be true, doesn’t upset me. What upsets me is that so many people want to pretend that these things never happened, that they are some distant echo of reality, that what I know to be true is insignificant. That’s upsetting and something that I refuse to accept.

Why am I thinking of these things now, at this time? Because I am witnessing an amazing revolution, a revolution of heart and mind that I never believed that I would see in my lifetime. I am filled with a deep joy as I contemplate the very real possibility that a man, who has brown skin like mine, may well be the next president of this country, my country that for so long has rejected me and my people. I had long ago accepted that there were wounds to my soul that could not be fully healed, wounds made by bigotry and hate, by an unrelenting message that because of the color of my skin, of the skin of my people, we were inferior. Don’t misunderstand, I never believed that we were inferior but it was far too daunting a task to have to constantly fight against the belief by the larger culture that we were, a belief bolstered by pseudo-scientific claptrap like The Bell Curve.

I’ve been working over time to refrain from admitting to anyone, least of all to myself that at least part of the reason that I support Barack Obama is because he looks like me. I’m done with that. I admire Hillary’s strong female base who have not shied away from admitting that they rallied around her in part because she is a woman, and they identified with her accomplishments as a woman in a male dominated world.

What Barack Obama has done is astounding, in a culture that is in its infancy of letting go of the racial apartheid of a less than 50 years ago, the culture of my youth, a culture that I know not through history but because I lived it. I get misty eyed and I have a lump in my throat just thinking about it. Every time I hear Barack Obama speak, I feel a sense of pride and joy that is intoxicating, and I shed all of those scars born of bigotry and I feel newly born into a world of promise. Finally, I can say with no irony, no sense of fabrication, to a little black baby, “Someday, you may be president.”

I make no apologies for my unabashed support of Barack Obama. I have no more tolerance for those who profess that he scares them, that they worry that he’s going to sell out this country. That’s total nonsense and you’re too ignorant for words to even believe it. If I hear or read one more person assert that he’s a Muslim and that he’s going to help the terrorists destroy the United States, I’m going to scream. And so help me, if I read or hear one more white person say that he is a reverse racist, I’m going to forget that I believe in nonviolence and slap somebody up side the head. By the way, my head was wagging when I wrote that last line.

Barack Obama is a man of principle. He is a man of intelligence. He is the man to lead this country forward on this journey of healing and I’m proud to claim him as my candidate of choice.

As a seventeen year old, I dragged around my guitar in a battered case with peace signs all over it, and sang songs about peace and love, but I was filled with the despair of youth, that the world in which I lived would never “give peace a chance,” nor ever find those “answers blowin’ in the wind.” I thought that the racial division that filled my world would outlast my lifetime. My heart cried for the ongoing list of martyrs–Emmett Till, Medgar Evers, Jonathan M. Daniels, James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner, King, JFK, Bobby….

The Civil Rights Memorial that stands in front of the Southern Law Poverty Center includes the names of many of the people who risked and lost their lives in the pursuit of justice. I visited the memorial in August 1993. I recall my visit very clearly, because it was on that trip that I decided to go to law school. The memorial is black granite. It bears the names of the martyrs on a large disc in front of a curved wall that bears a favorite line of Dr. King’s, “Until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” A steady stream of water bubbles out of the disc and washes over its surface, and water cascades down the curved wall. When I visited the memorial back in 1993, I sat and stared at it for a long time and I cried, not so much for the dead, but for the living because I had no hope that we were going forward and I feared that their deaths had been in vain. I am allowing myself to believe that I was wrong. I am engaging in the audacity of hope, and it feels really good.

Below is a poem that I wrote after viewing the civil rights memorial in Montgomery, Alabama.

Memorial in Montgomery
casting long shadows in the afternoon sun
the wall is smooth, black
warm to the touch

the water falls down like healing rain
slides, swirls
drains away
washes clean…

close by, rising from the earth
stands the remembrance of struggle
a litany of the martyred
finite circle of sorrow and joy

cross over the river Jordan
fall down, fall down
like the walls of Jericho
like the walls of Jericho

dark mirror of tears take me home
wash my heart in justice
bathe my soul in peace
fall down, fall down
like healing rain

The Caffeine Entry

Imagine if you will, a short, pleasingly plump, female hamster with adorable curly twists, running non-stop on a wheel for two weeks straight. Imagine that said hamster, having jumped off the treadmill for a brief respite, is now doing a happy dance and singing “Hallelujah.”

Let me be clear about something; I am very lucky to have a job that I find exciting, never boring, and intellectually stimulating; however, that doesn’t mean that on occasion I don’t want to scream poor, poor pitiful me as I slog through 50-plus hour work weeks when the state legislature is in session. North Carolina has a biennial legislature, so the current session is the 2007-2009 session. Every other year is a short session to make needed adjustments to the two-year budget passed in the previous year. This year is the short session which means that it did not begin until May and that the session will most likely end at the end of June or July.

Consequently, all of the legislators have been in a bill filing frenzy and I, and my colleagues, have been running on that little hamster wheel trying to write and publish, on a daily basis, an analysis of each and every bill that is filed. My typical work day has been 11 hours with one exceptionally long day coming in at 12.5 hours.

Okay, enough whining, I have a journal entry to write. The only problem is that so much has happened in the past few weeks that I can’t settle down on what topic that I want to address. Of course part of my inability to focus on a topic is that I’m buzzed on caffeine. (My sister reads all of my journal entries so this message is to her: it was an accident!)

I’m supposed to avoid caffeine because I have a wacky heart arrhythmia known as atrial fibrillation. My A-fib is classified as chronic which means that although medication helps, my heart does not stay in a regular sinus rhythm. My cardiologist recommends that I stay away from caffeine, as it is a stimulant. I am pretty diligent about doing so, although I cheat two or three times a year and have a piece of chocolate but I don’t drink caffeinated beverages at all.

Last week, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some decaf coffee beans. Today I had a craving for iced coffee. As I was pouring the beans out of the dark brown bag into my little coffee grinder, I had this nagging feeling that I was missing something but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I filled my very large insulated mug halfway with the coffee (made very strong to avoid dilution by the ice of the coffee flavor), added non-dairy creamer and two packs of equal, then added ice.

The first really large cup was so good that I had a second. Then I started feeling weird, little flutters in my chest, slight nausea and some mild dizziness. I decided that I was dehydrated and drank more iced coffee. Finally my brain caught up with that nagging feeling that I had when I was making the coffee.

“Sheria, what color bag does the decaf coffee that you always purchase come in?”

(I often have discussions with myself, doesn’t everyone?)

Self, “Green.”

Other self, “And what color is the bag that you used to make your coffee today?”

Self, “Brown. Oops!”

So here I sit, having had two and one-half large mugs of iced and highly caffeinated coffee. I promise you that I am not in danger of dying but I will be up until the wee hours of the morning. I’m dosing myself with plain old water in the hope of somehow defusing the caffeine high that I’m currently on, but I’m still buzzing like a bee on steroids.

Consequently, I can’t seem to settle on one thing to write about–there’s Hillary and Barack, Princess Beatrice and the British tabloids, the emails that I keep getting about French porn, or the advice on bathroom etiquette that my sister sent me earlier this week.

I just paused to read an email from a friend and was inspired by his comparison of Hillary Clinton to Evita Peron to create my own little vision of Hillary channeling Evita Peron. Of course, as I’m high on caffeine and doing the hamster dance, what began as a simple parody of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” turned into a little video project. The lyrics are pasted below the video. You’ll have to wait until another day for the French porn and the bathroom etiquette tips.

Hillary’s Song
Don’t cry for me, my America
I’ll never, ever leave you
All through Bill’s wild days,
and my mad existence
I’ve kept my promise
To go the distance

Roses

I’ve had a good Sunday. I talked to my mother this morning and caught up with her week.

My mother grows beautiful roses in her own yard and she is a volunteer with the Wilson Rose Garden Society. She has her own section of the rose garden to tend to and she takes her duties quite seriously. She had been to the city’s rose garden early this morning to dead-head her section of the rose garden in preparation for the upcoming rose garden show. To encourage constant blooming, you have to cut off the spent roses. The act of removing the spent blooms is called dead-heading.

My mother has always been the gardener in our family; my father is not allowed to participate in the gardening activities, although he doesn’t know this. Every now and then, seemingly unaware that my mother has expressly forbidden him to “mess” with her gardens (flower and vegetable), my dad will attempt to plant something new, move an existing plant to another spot, water something, or sin of all sins, fertilize something.

I can always tell when he has engaged in these activities because when I visit my parents. my mother meets me at the door leading into the garage. After we hug, it begins.

“Step over here for a minute before we go inside and take a look at this flower bed.”

I dutifully follow her to the flower bed on the right corner of the front lawn, under the oak tree. (By the way, generally my dad isn’t home. He likes to take long walks or ride his bike on a daily basis and doesn’t usually come back to the house until after 5:00 pm and even later on summer days.)

“What does that look like to you?”

Both of my parents are fond of trick questions. The trick is to get you to say something that one of them can use to confirm that the other is wrong, has said something wrong, or has done something wrong.

I think carefully, and then venture the safest response possible, “I don’t know.”

It is always better to appear totally stupid and incapable of thought than to give either one of them ammunition to use in their ongoing game of, “I’m right and you’re wrong!”

“It’s a weed. I told your daddy that it was a weed but he thinks it’s a flower and that it’s going to bloom. Anybody could see that it’s a weed. That man doesn’t know a thing about growing anything!”

My mother grew up on a farm and she considers herself an expert on growing all things because of this. My dad grew up in a small town and therefore, according to my mother, knows nothing about growing anything.

“Walk around the house with me and let me show you what he’s done to my verbena. He claims that he didn’t put any fertilizer on it but I know that he did and it’s scorched that plant and I don’t know if I can nurse it back to health.”

“Mama, can we check out the verbena later, I’ve been on the road driving and I have to pee.”

My mother is actually a very good gardener, but she exaggerates my father’s alleged ineptitude. However, he is content to mostly stay out of her gardening affairs and only slips up on occasion. My sister and her husband, Bob, are both avid gardeners and while I’m not in their league, I have a pleasant flower bed out front and roses in the back.

In addition to talking by phone with my mother, I also visited my sister for a few hours this afternoon. Her allergies are giving her a hard time, so I went over to keep her company. We discussed a great book that she had loaned me to read, which I finished last night, called The Pact, by Jodi Picoult. I highly recommend it; I couldn’t put it down. We also watched some really tacky Lifetime movie which we both enjoyed a great deal. Since returning home, I’ve tried to catch up on reading other journals today. The state legislature is back in session and I have been consumed with work for the past few weeks and gotten behind in my journal reading.

As I checked out journals today, I was struck by the consistent theme in several journals of dealing with the loss of a loved one–fathers, mothers, and grandparents. The book that I just read was also about death and loss.

I realize how fortunate I am to still have both of my parents, for all of their continual nonsense and I know that there will come a time when I long for the opportunity to be put in the middle of one of their “choosing sides” debates. All of my grandparents have long passed and I took a few moments to look at the photographs that I have of them in my library. I was particularly close to my paternal grandmother, Viola, and a photograph of her sits on my desk in my home office.

She became seriously ill right after I began law school in 1994. We expected her to die quickly, especially after the doctors had to amputate her legs due to complications from circulatory problems. She was a tall woman, 5′ 10″, and the sight of her small frame after they took her legs broke my heart. Fortunately, she was in the last stages of Alzheimer’s and I don’t believe that she was ever aware of the double amputation. She held on for nearly three years, until I graduated from law school and took the bar exam. She died before I received my bar results but I have no doubt that she heard the joyful shouting that I did at the mailbox on the day that I received the notice that I had passed the bar. I think it was her last gift to me, letting me finish the journey that I started before I had to fully deal with her loss.

I used to visit her grave on occasion when I went to visit my parents in my hometown. I finally stopped going to the cemetery because one day I realized that she was not there, underneath the mounded earth. She was with me, always with me. I realized that I carried her in my heart and all the graveyard held was dust. Sometimes, when I close my eyes and listen carefully, I can almost hear her call my name.

My preference is to embed videos; however, the embed link on YouTube has been diisabled on this video by request of the poster. I found the same video on AOL, but WordPress won’t accept a video link from AOL. So, to hear a really great song, and watch the video, click here. The video is by Brooks and Dunn. The song is called Believe. I find the song moving on a spiritual level and I also think that Ronnie Dunn is so hot when he sings, and he moves me too. What? I’m a middle-aged woman; I need my fantasy life!