Miracle and Wonder

Paul Simon lyrics 1986…

These are the days of miracle and wonder
This is the long distance call
The way the camera follows us in slo-mo
The way we look to us all

The way we look to a distant constellation
That's dying in a corner of the sky
These are the days of miracle and wonder…

We Didn’t Start the Fire

When I was kid, back in the day when Billy Joel was growing up, I read a long poem in McCall’s magazine. I liked it so much, I memorized it. In the early 1990s when I heard the song, We Didn’t Start the Fire, I immediately remembered the poem. Perhaps Billy, as a boy, was also inspired. Whether it was the inspiration or not, it became one of my all-time favorite songs with the perfect video.

The ‘60s kitchen reminded me of our ‘50s kitchen. Each shot is worth a thousand words and so many memories, though, as a child, I never saw a pregnant woman. They stayed indoors. I remember my mother and godmother talking about a neighbor they hadn’t seem in months and decided she must be in the family way. Sure enough, early summer. There she was cuddling a baby on the front porch.

The Life magazine reminded me that once I started working, I got a subscription to Life for my mother. She never got it. The rag went bankrupt and I didn’t get a refund.

My brothers had Davy Crockett caps and we all had cap pistols. My godmother got a kitchen table and chair set like the one in the video with what appears to be aluminum legs. Later, her new kitchen appliances were yellow. My brothers had Hopalong Cassidy and Gene Autry watches – no lunch boxes. We all had Brownie cameras with flash bulbs.

Once a month, my dad took my brothers to the hobby shop for AMT model car sets. My friends and I became quite proficient with hula hoops.

In the early ‘70s, my white coworkers talked about valium continuously and popped pills in the afternoon. I had no idea what it was. Over lunch they talked about how well birth control worked , but now that they were off the pill, they couldn’t seem to get pregnant.

By the time I got to college in the ‘70s, most tie dye shirts covered braless tits. I went braless myself one time wearing a heavy knit tunic top over my bell bottoms.

GIVING THANKS

The greatest gifts – for them I give thanks

 Above all things, Thank you God for my friends, for my best friend Gerard Francis Johnson who walked with me for 50 years and a month. After knowing each other for nearly six years, he believed in me enough to share the fact that I was a person, too, a child of the Creator, that my voice given me by that Creator could speak, that my ideas could be shared. He welcomed me into the world.

 He was best man at my wedding (truly the best). He is the godfather of my son. He was the first person that I called after I got engaged as well as the first person that I called (collect) when I found out about the other two women in my husband’s life. In every emergency, he came without question and I love him dearly.

 Thank you for my friend, JoAnn Allen who has walked with me since I was 19. She shared her family with me and just shared news about her daughters July wedding.

 Thank you for my friend Saran Ann Edward Haskins who has walked with me from the cradle, and into eternity we will go.

 Thank you for my friend Mabel Dean Reed in Stratford, California. Mabel was the first person that I bared my soul to as an adult (on the first day that I met her, no less), and through your goodness and mercy, she massaged my heart and expanded my love for you and for all people.

 Thank you for the five years of friendship you gave me with my cousin Debra Ann Jackson.

 Thank you for my mother whom you chose for me at a late age, but was the greatest blessing of my life and continues to inspire and motivate me.

 Randy Rodriguez who saved my life

 For all the friends who in times of trouble you sent to me.

We walked together for short periods as You guided me and led me in the right way.

Crystal Worth in Atlanta.

Charles de Witt in Memphis.

And so many college and post grad students from 3 university campuses.

 For giving me a place in your creation.

Above all thank you for my children, without whom all of the many friendships would not have taken the twists and turns they did. Some friendships would not have been formed. I would have had no one to share the sound of a cloudburst, or a circular rainbow, or ball lightning – no one to stand on the sand in awe and wonder. No one to experience trees to touch and to feel and to know life.

 Thank you for my collective Red Hat Sisters, women who crossed the same paths in different ways in many places.

The Muses

Remembering the Muses, I hope they remember me

The #Muses have always been with me. Part of my childhood was spent among them. We lived in New Orleans’ #LowerGardenDistrict on #Carondelet Street between #Thalia and #Melpomene (#Comedy and #Tragedy), a very diverse neighborhood. My youngest brother and I spent our summers reading library books and learning, playing board games, including chess and backgammon, and playing cards.

Dad had run away from home. The big house we’d lived in on Third Street near the #RexFloatDen had been dismantled. The new landlord who inherited the property from his aunt, began knocking the walls out at 12:01 a.m. on June 1st, beginning with my room where I slept in bed, Mother sitting watch. Cantoni planned to have the huge fourplex changed to 12 apartments by the first of July, at which time the new tenants would pay $300 rent. My dad had been paying $30.

Mr. Donaville arrived at seven and was shocked to find our fully furnished shotgun had no walls. In the afternoon, his loaded truck arrived at the rear of the newly acquired tenement (2 huge rooms – no bath) among the Muses.

From the balcony that first summer, we watched Mother leave for work. Each day she went to a different house that she cleaned, earning $5 and 7¢ carfare. At the end of each month, she paid the $48 rent (half her earnings), and utilities. We had no refrigerator, stove, television, or washing machine.

Every other Saturday, she took us to the library. We were each allowed five books. After Mass on Sunday, we went with her to the laundromat. After dinner, she cut one #FifthAvenue candy bar in quarters for dessert.

We observed the neighborhood among the Muses. We alternated attending #SaintJohntheBaptist #CatholicChurch on #Dryades (female tree nymphs) between #Calliope and #Clio Streets and #SaintTheresaofAvila on #Erato Street. #CongregationBethIsrael #Synagogue set between #Terpsichore and #Euterpe Streets. There were two family grocery stores – Donze on Erato and Albano across the street from us. Chris Albano’s separated the block. His store set between two dilapidated and deplorable tenements (Black families) plus a trailer (white family) and two huge fourplex shotgun houses and three single story doubles.

Two Black families lived in one of the doubles. The others were occupied by whites – one ancient couple, mature single women, and one lech of a disgusting middle aged man with wandering eyes. One Black family owned the house and a car.

On the side of the block we lived in, a Black man owned a house. The bottom half was used as a busy garage. The owner worked on cars 7 days a week dressed in a white jumper, a #cigar dangling from his mouth. Next door, set way back from the street was a deserted #plantation house. A jagged muddy driveway separated it from the tenement next to ours. Between the two tenement houses, ten families lived in the front and ten in the rear. The tenement in which we lived with the other fifteen families was formerly four grand apartments tenanted by friends of the ancient couple across the street.

We frequented (window shopped) the Dryades Street stores -#Handelmans, #Kaufmans, #BenFranklin, #GordonsJewelers, and #Vogue. Mother got our school supplies from the #A&P on #BaronneStreet. All these places set among the other Muse named streets – #Polyhymnia and #Urania.

The story is - my dad’s family owned property on the west bank of the city. He refused to pay higher rents and my mother refused to live across the river away from her family, and where voodoo was prevalent. He still paid our Catholic school tuition, purchased our uniforms and school supplies. He visited occasionally and always showed up for his gifts on Father’s Day, his birthday, and Christmas.

Over the years, my uncles who drove trucks for #KraussCo dropped off a used refrigerator and TV with squiggly rotating picture. Mother purchased a range from #VolunteersofAmerica.

I dressed well. My affluent fairy godmother hovered in the background. My wealthy godmother was a seamstress and social climber. Over the years, I grew up with the granddaughters of some of the women for whom my mother worked and often inherited their clothes, some still with store price tags attached.

I studied the Muses and they studied me. When we moved, they moved with me and I started to write. I have been neglecting them over the past few months, but they have now reminded me of the many folders of penned words I have on my computer that I should share.

Thank you Muses.

DESSERT

When I was a kid, Sunday dessert was a staple. After my dad ran away from home, Mother bought a 29¢ six pack of #FifthAvenue #candybars every six weeks. Dinners varied from rice and butter, lunch meat sandwich, beans and rice. One year, Earl and Ruby Green gave us a bushel of white beans. We ate beans every day, sometimes with rice, mostly just beans.

After each Sunday meal, Mother cut one of the candy bars in four pieces. She, my brothers and I, took one quarter and were happy for the delicious treat.

‘50s/’60s Black Teachers

The first time my name appeared in the newspaper was in 1965. The #NewOrleansTimesPicayune posted the results of high school entrance exams by local elementary schools.

#1 Claudia McGhee – Holy Ghost          #2 Debra Davis – #HolyGhost

Then, girls’ names from prominent white schools were listed - like #LouiseMcGehee and #AcademyoftheSacredHeart.

Claudia and I were in the same class, in the same small school, with teachers who were parents of our peers. These strong Black mothers were barely being paid, yet their dedication propelled us into the changing future. Mrs. Roane, our second grade teacher, was terrifying to me as a seven year old. Yet, she was a wife and mother. Her daughter #AndreaRoane became a local TV celebrity shortly after graduating university.

When we were given writing assignments, she and the third grade teacher, #IrmaPenny, chatted at the door between classrooms. I was afraid of Mrs. Penny, also and was fortunate enough to move into the other third grade class with Mrs. White, the mother of another classmate. Mrs. Penny’s unfortunate claim to fame was her son #GeraldPenny, who drowned in #PrattPool as a student at #Amherst University.

I remember the names of our New Orleans teachers from kindergarten up – Mrs. LeBeau married during the school year and became Mrs. LaSalle. Mrs. Morris was a fashionista, the first teacher to arrive at school sporting the new beehive hairdo. Mrs. Schexnayder, Mrs. Branche, Mrs. Fairman – all these women should have books written about them, but it will probably never happen, so I mention them here. Our sixth grade teacher was a foreigner. Her husband, #AdolphLReed of #AtlantaGeorgia, was attending #XavierUniversity in a post doctorate program. Mrs. Reed didn’t like us. One day, she closed and locked all the doors and told us what she thought of us ignorant southern young women and men in New Orleans. We were slow, dirty, and New Orleans women didn’t wear girdles or teach their daughters how to dress. We heard the keys rattle in one of the doors and our principal, a nun by the name of Mother Florence Marie escorted her out of the classroom. We never saw here again. I heard that her husband became a prominent figure in the southern city of Atlanta. I don’t know what became of our errant temporary teacher.

1950s music

While I listened to ‘50s music, I entertained these thoughts.

Radio – company for the only child or one who thinks she’s alone.

I could not have been luckier growing up in the 1950s. Mother had a radio in the kitchen. That is where women spent most of their time. Fortunately, my dad was a musician – what else would he be in New Orleans? There was another radio in their bedroom. Between the two of them, I was always within the sound of music.

I was a Boomer with dancers in the house. My dad taught me how to Two Step and Waltz. I never forgot how to waltz. Now it’s my favorite dance, but growing up, square dancing was my favorite. They used to bring me with them to barn dances at the lodge on Harmony Street. If I wasn’t with them, I was with my godmother and her husband. My godmother Louise and my mother Ethel were besties from the early 1920s. Louise and my dad were the same age and somehow rescued my mother at her first party when she was fifteen. My godmother was married to Freddie and soon Mother married his brother Willie. Dad was already married to Ida. They had a daughter and another on the way when he met Mother at that party. It was 1935 before they finally got to live together because Willie refused to give Mother a divorce. Women had few freedoms,

With radios in the house and their love of dancing, I grew up listening to music from the roaring 20s, the depressing 30s, and the big bands of the 40s – the music my dad played. He played several instruments, but he was a drummer in all the bands in which he played, including the Algiers Navy Band during WWII. In high school at Saint Augustine, my brother played clarinet in the band and often my dad broke out all the instruments and taught my brothers to play. He did try to teach me to play the drum, but I refused to hold the drumsticks they way he told me to, so he quit.

Listening to music without seeing it. The first time I saw people singing was at St. Aug’s talent show when I was five. Two girls sang All I Have to Do Is Dream. I thought they were the radio singers for years until perusing a copy of Hit Parade and saw the song was credited to the Everly Brothers.

The first song I ever remember hearing was Mr. Sandman, perhaps my parents sang it to me before bed. They explained that the sandman was the person that put us to sleep.

WHAT!? Didn’t know until now that the Coasters Poison Ivy was about stds.

music videos

I feel as if I climbed into a stranger’s attic and discovered a whole new world. I saw my first music video in 1983. I fell asleep breastfeeding my son. He continued feeding until the projectile vomit hit my mother-in-law’s new sofa, furniture, and walls. I turned on the TV while cleaning up and Video Jukebox was on. I was fascinated.

The 1980s were a complete musical learning experience—watching music. And so, the 80s became my favorite music decade.

While writing Black in the 80s, I listen to the familiar music and visualize what I was doing, where I was, with whom. Well, the music is getting ahead of my writing so I searched for 1979 music videos, expecting nothing. I’ve always been told music videos began in 1980 with Madonna. When VH1 did their 3 day special in 1996, they said it began in 1980 with Herbie Hancock’s Rockit.

After 1975, I spent my time in clubs being a disco diva, creating dances with Lionel, dancing in the French Quarter with Andrew, and going to Lautrec’s on Toulouse Street after work with Charles. Never thought about watching TV, was clueless as to what was on, and didn’t miss it until now.

Curious, I watched what YouTube called 1978 music videos. They were not like ’79. These were mostly clips from live and studio performances, but I enjoyed the music, pictured myself in various clubs in NOLA. Remembered what I wore. Many of my favorite outfits had been evening gowns worn to carnival balls. I could only wear those once, so I cut them and discoed in them.

The previous year, 1977, is more of the same. Right now Debby Boone is singing and that made me remember the Lost and Found Department, the youth group for which Gerard, Kathleen, and I were counselors. I had a chance to practice my Spanish. Carlos was from Mexico, Luz and Marta from Colombia, Reynaldo and Miguel from Cuba, Norma from Honduras. She was trilingual because she’d worked for a Greek family since childhood. I learned that those Latin languages were all different. One of the Cuban ice creams was a profanity in Mexico.

I got to wait outside of a séance, because I wasn’t stupid enough to join the circle. Reynaldo’s mother, a Santeria priestess told him not to do it, but he wanted to show off things he may or may not have witnessed at home. When something wacked him in the back of the head and sent him sprawling over the table during the séance, the house emptied quickly. We didn’t see him or his brother for a while after that. But I digress. I certainly enjoyed the 1970s.

TOKEN

Two weeks into my senior year of high school, Sister William, the new counselor, met with each senior. She was disappointed that I had no plans to attend college. She voiced a good pitch for Xavier University. Thinking she’d sold me on the idea, she asked, “Now don’t you want to go to Xavier.”

When I replied in the negative, she said, “You’re a headstrong and willful young woman.” She pointed to the door and continued, “Get out of my office and don’t come back until you change your mind.”

My picture appeared on the front page of the #Prepper, our school newspaper, with my tennis partner Cheryl Lynn. We got #Lettered along with the guys at an end of the year sports banquet. High school was almost over and I was flying high when Sr. William called me into her office again.

“I see,” she said, “that you haven’t applied to any colleges despite being qualified for a work study scholarship.”

I told her once again that I had no plans to attend.

As she began her spiel on why I should attend Xavier University, she must have realized that I was the headstrong and willful girl, because she stopped and invited me to leave her office. The following week she called me in again.

“You have an appointment downtown,” she began, “for a job interview with Equitable Life Assurance Company. You will meet with #FritzTempleman on Monday. Wear your uniform and remember that you are representing The Prep.”

She continued with their reason. It seems the #NAACP had been after them for not having any visible Black faces. I would work in #AssuredHomeMortgages and sit in the middle of the office. I had to pass a five-minute typing test with at least thirty words typed accurately. She agreed that while this was a full-time position, they hoped I would agree to a fifteen-month limited term. Sr. William assured them that being in the top ten percent of the class, I was anxious to attend college in the fall of 1970. In return, they would give me a sterling reference.

Mr. Templeman reiterated the things my counselor stated. I had to pass a physical and could begin work on the Monday following graduation. A ’69 graduate from our rival school #SaintMarysAcademy would also begin on that day as the receptionist. I would not be alone. Could anything be easier?

Of course not. I flunked the physical. My #HeartMurmur reared its ugly head. It took two weeks for Equitable to check with my doctor, pharmacist, and school (thank God for tennis) to know that I was quite fit. Though Brenda and I got along famously, we only socialized away from the office. I was her #PBX relief for breaks and lunch.

I broke in my new #SingerZigZag #sewingmachine Mother gave me as a #graduation gift and made a new #wardrobe. While doing a good job, filing, posting outgoing mail on the #addressograph, and managing to type insurance forms with seven #carboncopies, I learned the downtown business district. These were the ins and outs that my brothers and I never saw walking with Mother on weekends. I could walk through buildings for two blocks only having to leave their safety to cross the street. I made deposits at three banks on a daily basis.

At first Fritz walked with me, either as a bodyguard or because of a lack of trust. On my first day, I made a comment about his #signature and stated with an artist eye, how easy it was to copy. He and his assistant insisted that nobody could copy the #scribble. My copy was perfect. They gave each other a look that said hide the #blankchecks.

I enjoyed the freedom of the half hour walking breaks. I spent a few extra minutes at #WhitneyBank talking with #DorothyStory. She admired the clothes I wore, but knew they were homemade. We talked sewing and about her daughter Cynthia, a teacher. Our conversations were brief. She had customers and I had other banks to walk to. We remained friends long after Whitney and Equitable Life.

~~

Unfortunately all my coworkers were not as welcoming as Dorothy, but only one was outwardly nasty. Ira Schultz was an important part of each day. He was the accountant, the man from whom I was to get the daily deposits. After a few weeks, he refused to hand anything to me and he didn’t want me near his desk. Bill Roberts, Fritz’ assistant, met with him first. Then Mr. Templeman threatened to fire him. Ira picked up his jacket and left.

Ira returned in a week. Fritz didn’t back down. He had the support of corporate and Ira was at an age when retirement could well have been mandatory. Ira never looked at me, but left the deposit bags on his desk for me to pick up.

The other hard case was Frances Chirino. She’d enjoyed being the only minority in the office. Born in #Hawaii, she had a #Cuban husband that worked on the #StockExchange, she felt equal to and above everyone else. Until I came, she was Mrs. Chirino. All the women were Miss or Mrs., but no one was willing to call me Miss in 1969. All the men remained Mister and all the women were on a first name basis. They changed my name to Debbie because it sounded friendly.

Frances asked for two weeks off to visit her parents and friends in Hawaii during her husband’s two-week vacation. Fritz said that she could only take one. She was chastised when she returned two weeks later. She was only paid for one week. However, she returned wearing pants, a no-no in Corporate America.

Those of us sitting close to Mr. Templeman’s office could hear her side of the argument and others found things that needed to be delivered to his secretary Hazel Centanni. Frances insisted #culottes were not pants, but the height of fashion and her suit definitely cost more than his.

After her second unpaid week, during which she must have sought other employment, she returned and attacked me. She told me that I didn’t belong there. Blacks were uneducated and lazy. Then she stood and leaned over her desk and told me how her Chinese grandfather gained wealth by stealing it all from the #indigenous #Hawaiians.

~~

As #HurricaneCamille swirled about in the Gulf, excitement filled the office. There were debates on whether to stay in the city or leave. At the last minute, sisters Cynthia and Diane Williams took their families and went to stay with relatives on the #MississippiGulfCoast, one of the hardest hit areas.

At home, we still didn’t have a television, so I’d neither seen nor heard of #StarTrek. Had I known about computers and the future, I would have been better able to understand why a huge portion of the office space was enclosed in glass to keep our mile long computer going just to print paychecks. Our Mr. Spock’s name was #CatherineFolse.

In October, cousin Marie Louise and her children went to #SoulBowl70 and invited me to join them. I’d been to #TulaneStadium as a child for a huge religious event. I’d never been to a concert and looked forward to seeing some of my favorite recording artists like #RareEarth and #JrWalker.

Glen, Marie’s youngest only wanted to see #IkeandTinaTurner. Everyone was there to see a great show and have a good time. #JamesBrown, #IsaacHayes, #PGandE #PacificGasandElectric were also in the lineup.

Outside of work, Brenda introduced me to her family. Her dad, Charles and two of her brothers worked at #GusBetat bicycle shop on #TulaneAvenue. One of her favorite pastime was shopping. I went along even though I made all my clothes and was saving my money for college. We sometimes stopped at #Jeans or #LadyOris for hosiery. We biked around her #RoyalStreet neighborhood. Sometimes, her dad took out the bicycle built for four and we’d ride on the levee near #HolyCross High School and into neighboring #SaintBernardParish. They always put me on the tail end and laughed as I tried to stay balanced.

Sometimes, we went to nightclubs. Brenda was asked to dance, while I sat and sipped #TomCollins cocktails. When my cousin Althea visited, she joined us as we bowled and skated.

On #TwelfthNight, the entire office, salesman, sales support, and our office, including Brenda who was allowed to put the PBX on hold, gathered in the breakroom for a short #KingCakeparty. I’d never heard of King Cake. Lead sales secretary #MargieMcAdams was happy to explain it to me and #RuthieSchindler whispered in advance that if the baby wasn’t found, it meant that #JimKinney swallowed it. No baby was found in one of the king cakes.

Back in our office, Fritz and Bill gossiped with the trainees Chuck Datres and Phil Maisano about Jim, a known cheapskate, top salesman, and his wife who might have been in the early stages of dementia.

Bryan was hired in the summer as the #NewBusinessSupervisor. Much of his time was spent phoning his fiancée and planning their wedding. He invited the entire office. Brenda and I attended. Neither of us had ever heard of a #receivingline.

Brenda took a vacation midsummer and went to #Disneyland. My mentor #PatAlleman asked if I’d ever been to California. I told her I was going for my birthday, my last day of work. Brenda studied all year to be a stewardess. She and I were leaving Equitable about the same time. Another #token minority was hired to replace us. she appeared to be #EastIndian. We worked with her for two weeks. During that time, she began choking while sipping a soda.

Pat asked, “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

The girl replied, “No, my #epiglottis didn’t close.”

Pat looked askance at the new hire and then looked at Brenda and me, “I’m going to miss you two,” she said, raising her eyebrows toward the girl.

Equitable threw a going away party for me. When asked what I was going to do, Fritz said, “She’s going to college,” while I replied, “I’m leaving for California tonight.”

“Why didn’t you tell us,” Pat asked.

I reminded her that I had and she said, “Oh, I thought you were joking.” That was pretty much the response every time I made a statement that didn’t suit their ethnic stereotype during my fifteen-month stay.

1920s - My Folks

From what my folks didn’t tell me, I imagine the 1920s was a preview of the sex, drug, and rock and roll ‘60s and ‘70s. I knew about my mother’s first party during the year-end holidays when 1923 turned into 1924. She and my dad met at that party. She also met her husband Willie, his brother Freddie, and Freddie’s wife Louise. Mother and Louise soon became sisters-in-law and BFFs. My sister was one year old at the time. Our dad was married to Ida who was expecting my second sister. Thirty years later, Louise became my godmother. And collectively, they were overprotective and strict. I was on a short leash and chaperoned until I was eighteen, at which time the leash loosened, but never released.

Mother often talked about the good ol’ days. No longer cohabitating with Ida and Willie, she and Dad used to meet at a sailor bar at the foot of Canal Street. New Orleans had the country’s second busiest port and despite prohibition, many nationalities opened bars along the wide thoroughfare. Dad’s family rarely crossed the river, but he rode the ferry to meet her at the Greek bar and she rode streetcars from uptown New Orleans.

He was born and raised in Algiers, rumored to be a hot spot for voodoo. Her family was leery of him. Her brothers thought his only redeeming quality was that he was a musician. His family saw no redeeming qualities in Mother. Her skin was too light and she lived on the east bank.

As they got to know each other better, he accompanied her to movies at an arcade near the river. When he wasn’t playing music, they enjoyed vaudeville shows at the Palace Theater on Iberville Street (the one for Blacks; the Palace for whites was on Canal Street). Soon, she braved crossing the mighty Mississippi and walking through the streets of Algiers to watch him play. She was proud that everyone always knew when she arrived because he missed a beat and everyone teased him. He and his cousin played together, so their secret dating got out among his clan. Two of his seven sisters, Neola and Thelma, became good friends with Mother.

Dad saw his daughters often because they lived close by. Mother lived at home. Her mother raised my brother, so she saw him daily.

One of Mother’s older sisters married into a musical upriver family from Lutcher. She introduced them to Dad, and the cousins began following them into seedier uptown areas around First Street and along the disreputable South Rampart Street. Mother gave no details about those years, but into the ‘50s and ‘60s, neither wanted my brothers to hang out along the strip because of its lingering seamy reputation. As much as she loved moving pictures, she avoided taking us to the Ritz on Rampart when we moved into a nearby neighborhood.

Childhood Memory

My dad was 50 years older than I. His dad was a free Black man born in the antebellum south with roots from Hispaniola. His mother was Marabou. My uncles were born in the 1880s through the 1940s – sixty years of procreation, 21 children, 19 lived.

My mother was friends with several of the sisters who were close in age to her. They used to visit our house when I was little. Because my fairy godmother gave me a complete bedroom suite, the only place to put it was in the parlor. So when my dad brought my aunts to visit, they sat in chairs and on the sofa on one side of my 15’ cubed bedroom in the New Orleans style shotgun house. They put me to bed at 7:30. I was supposed to be asleep as the night wore on and they began drinking and talking about voodoo. What spells my grandmother put on people and how it was done. Secrets of catching witches who shed their skin to get inside a house. Curses with lasting effects.

My mother was no stranger in these conversations. Her own mother had lost her long beautiful Chinese/Native American hair to a curse. And her father had been hexed, which brought on a quick death, as determined by a medical doctor.

I stayed awake through all the tellings. After all, this was not my only nightly terror. The Catholic school my brothers attended offered Friday night movies of saints. Saint Aloysius and the devil behind the altar stuck in my memory. I pictured that evil creature every night as I focused on the skeleton key hole in the front door. Was there a witch out there removing her skin so she could come through? The flame from my nightlight, a kerosene lamp next to my bed, flickered as drafts passed through the room along with shadowy figures, imagined or real. My nightly dream was dismissed when I told it. How could they feel dread in swirling colors or taste my nocturnal vision? It would be over sixty years before I shared the recurrent dream with my son who said, “That sounds like a DMT nightmare my friend was telling me about. He said it totally tripped him out.”

No wonder I lived in fear of the night time and sleeping as a child.

Weirdness of Children

My earliest recollection is crossing the South Claiborne pedestrian bridge. It was deconstructed in October 1952. I was born in august 1951. My sisters brought their sons to visit. Mercedes brought 5. Lu brought 3. They played with my two brothers. Ricky often slipped away and drew pictures for me on our little upright chalkboard.

Until my first godchild was born, that was my total experience with children. Though I was 16, I didn’t babysit. I held her at the christening ceremony and a few other times. When she got old enough to ask for things, she did. I don’t know if it was what she wanted or if her mother told her to ask. I know Sarah told me to get a Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy birthday cake for their third birthday. When I went to pick it up from Gambino’s, a white woman saw it and wanted it, and the clerk told me they didn’t have an order for me. That was 1971.

My second godchild was born in the early ‘70s. His mother wanted her best friend to be the godmother, but I’d asked first. I was unaware until the day of the christening. I saw him a few times before I left New Orleans. I’m sure the best friend took care of him. I hope so. If I ever get rich, I always figured I would leave a bundle for him or his progeny in my will. Names on paper. What exactly does it mean? Like marriage licenses, baptismal certificates.

My third godchild was actually born in one of the plain states. I saw him when he was in elementary school in Atlanta. We kept in touch on and off while he attended Jesuit High School in NOLA and perhaps annually after he grew up and got married a few times.

Cristina was my fourth godchild. She asked me to be her sponsor at confirmation. In her country, the sponsor is the godparent. I was honored. I took her to New Orleans Centre for lunch and window-shopping. She asked for a $250 stuffed bear from FAO Schwartz. I didn’t make that purchase.

Three and a half babies before I had my own. I did have one other encounter at a shower. One of the ladies had a toddler. Everybody held her and she cooed. She wouldn’t even come to me. After the gifts were opened, she toddled over to me and held her hands up in the traditional fashion of pick me up. I did. I set her on my lap, she peed on my new outfit, then slid down.

I had my first at thirty. Neither her father nor I knew what to do with her. We were both the youngest in our families, but fortunately, he liked babies. She was perfect for a few days, then we had to have her eyes checked. She was allergic to all soaps except glycerin that costs more than we could afford. My friend said, “Be glad she’s not allergic to your milk or cow’s milk. My Vanessa can only drink goats milk. With all the animals I have, I don’t have a goat and don’t know where to find one in Clearwater.”

My daughter was different from whatever I expected. By age three, we knew she had some sort of power. We met a Kabbalistic Jew just before we left Northern California who said, “She’s got a gift. I would love to teach her.” He didn’t say what or how, and we were too dumb to ask the questions we needed to find another interested person when we moved again.

When we got back to Georgia, she walked around my mother-in-law’s property, always looking down. She stared at a spot for so long, we [i]moseyed over to see what she saw. After about five or ten minutes, she reached down and picked up a piece of quartz. My husband and his six brothers said they’d played and dug around every inch of land growing up and never found quartz. They watched her do her thing, then had a brilliant idea. They investigated a part of the yard while she was inside. They found no quartz. Then I brought her out and they walked with her to the perused site. She stared at the ground and soon stooped and picked up a piece of quartz.

Another of her abilities is a connection to me that was so strong, I could feel her when she was away from me. She knew when I was close by. If she was with her father or someone else,  when she reached a certain range, I knew she was close.

After the third day in the nursery, the daycare workers watched her closely. They said they’d never seen anyone like her. Her pediatricians told us to always let her know what we were about, so we did. When I dropped her off at daycare the first day, her dad and I explained that we would be at work and I would return to get her at five thirty. Her caregivers were concerned because she refused to eat all day, then at five thirty, my six month old daughter, stood up in her crib and stared at the door. I opened it and entered. She did this every day. Eventually her dad and I must have said something about food, because she began to eat in the day time, but always stood and watched the door just as I entered.

At four years old, I bought her a Burger King milkshake while we waited for the KART (Kings Area Rapid Transit) shuttle. As was her nature, she slurped it down quickly. Then she regurgitated. I found she was allergic to milk. She still insisted on eating ice cream. When I was 3, I belched then threw up every time I drank milk. I prayed to God that I would not belch.

When I was 4, my nine year old brother and I walked to the library. We saw downtown buildings being drawn swiftly, as if a giant artist’s invisible hand reached down from the sky and created tall buildings among the flat ones with which we were familiar. The buildings are still there. We both stared. My brother said, “I didn’t see anything and you didn’t either.” Had he seen something like this before and denied it? Had he and our older brother seen something and my older brother told him he didn’t see it?

My son was gray when he was born. The doctors whisked him away, and after what seemed forever to me, he let out a high pitched wail. The medical people brought him to me, stating, “You must have had the worst heartburn in history. We’ve never seen hair this long.” It looked short to me, but one of the doctors grabbed one of the curls and unfurled it. It was coarse and almost eight inches long, but coiled so tightly, it looked like a cap.

My son’s ability was empathy and during his childhood, this empathic gift was quite painful for him. He taught himself how to not feel other people’s emotions so well that by the time he got to high school, this talent was relegated to close friends and family only.

Number three – I think being born in the Devil’s Triangle in the year of the dragon on the winter solstice was important to this one, because 12 years before, her dad (whom I had not yet met) and I were both en route to Miami when our paths shifted direction.

She looked like my baby picture sans freckles, but I had a disturbing feeling that she was my mother. She looked the same everyday for six months, but when we woke on the summer solstice, I didn’t recognize her. Changeling? I searched the house. All the doors and windows were closed and locked. Our apartment had no chimney. I talked to her. She cooed, giggled, and crossed her eyes as usual. Her thighs were huge as they had been, but she wasn’t even the same color. My six year old son joined me at the crib—looked at her, looked at me, stared at her again and asked, “Is that Ronda?”

As an adult, she looked exactly like me, so what happened to the first baby or do miracles happen like that and we decide what to look like? At what time does an infant, toddler, child, become the person they are meant to be?

During her early childhood, I saw people staring at her. I stared at them. When I turned away and turned back, they stood next to her and said quietly to me, “Take good care of her. She’s blessed by The Lord.” But aren’t we all?

My grandson wasn’t quite three when he frustratedly said, “I wish I was big again.” This was his fourth odd statement since we could understand his speech. But while his parents watched a movie a few months later, he said, “I like this part.” My son asked him when he’d seen the movie. His answer, “I was watching this just before I died.”

Recycled people?

Who are we? From where do we come? Are we all the same person? Is Adam still in the garden playing what if with God?

          “Well, Adam, what do you want this one to look like?”

          “What if the eyes were like water, the hair like silk, and was yeigh tall?”

          “I think we already have four of those. What if the eyes were like flower petals, hair like lamb’s hair, and we make it wider and taller?”

          “I know we have a lot of those already.”

          “Well Adam, we have several billion all different in some way. What if we erase this lot and start over?”

PJ PARTY

I just enjoyed the most remarkable experience with my Red Hat sisters, the Rockin’ Red Suga Mamas. We had a pajama party at an Embassy Suites close to a major shopping area. You know – Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, Von Maur, Taco Bell, Goodwill, Barnes  & Noble. I always feel blessed just being around them. We spent so much of our lives in the 20th century and first couple of decades of the 21st sharing the same world history, but we each participated in diverse places with unique individuals. Unknowingly, many of us were in the same place at the same time and are familiar with similar issues that offered different outlooks. Others of us come together knowing nothing of what the others’ life involvements have been. Through conversations at lunch, dinner, and breakfast, we continue to learn. Food really helps to bring the world closer.

Then, of course, there was the PJ party for fun and pleasure. There are about five dozen Rockin’ Reds. We meet monthly and are not always able to have in depth talks with each  person, so it’s wonderful to meet occasionally in smaller groups where we can each be a part of a segment of another’s rich life. It is truly and honor and a blessing to be a part of this group of amazing women who have endured so much, risen so high, and become benevolent queens of their own lives.

1922

The Roaring Twenties - 1922

All my mother’s young life, her Papa worked on Girod Street at a bag factory. It, along with the Girod Street cemetery, are all a part of the Superdome complex now. And in the 50s and 60s, brown paper bags took over the market. My grandfather sewed bags/sacks twelve hours a day, five and a half days a week. He was promoted to supervisor in 1922, and killed for being Black—a white immigrant thought he should have the job.

Thank you Muse

Life - a quick look

No matter how organized and structured our lives, no matter how strict and nurturing our parents, we’ve all got to go through our teen years. During this time, we know ourselves better than anyone else. After all, we’ve lived with ourselves among others for more than a decade. We know where we’re going and with whom. We have some idea of what we might want to do with our lives and definitely know what we don’t want.

However, one day, we will say the wrong thing to someone, behave in an off putting manner, or just rebel and do something stupid. Our life flips, turns, and we find ourselves off and running in some vague direction with unanticipated twists and turns.

At thirty, we think if only. And in less than a decade, we begin to see that the twists, turns, anger, hostility, animosity, stupidity, and all the things that we did wrong made us the success that we became. At which point, we should laugh and thank God for being in control.

MUSES

I grew up among the muses. After Dad ran away from home, we lived in a tenement on Carondelet Street in NOLA’s lower garden district between Thalia and Melpomene Streets. Silently, I suppose, I’ve always relied on the muses for everything. However, since my Pullman book signing, my personal writing muse has been on hiatus. I’m acknowledging the street names of my childhood, hoping the sisters and I can once again be friends. NOLA is famous for misspelling and mispronouncing street names - sorry Polyhymnia. #Calliope #Clio #Erato #Thalia #Melpomene #Terpsichore #Euterpe #Polymnia #Urania

Hello classmate and neighbor #EmilyNelson, wherever you are.

Sunday Morning Rosary

Sunday morning very bright…

As I prayed the rosary this morning, I decided not to mediate on the mysteries (a complicated task), but to think about the Catholic churches I’ve attended.

As a child, Mother, my brothers, and I attended St. Monica on South Galvez Street in NOLA. That had been her church since she was converted to Catholicism in 1935. Dad’s family always attended All Saints in Algiers, a generational tradition. When they lived in the 9th ward before I came along, my brothers attended Holy Redeemer School just outside the French Quarter, so Mother went to that church on Sundays.

I was registered at Holy Ghost school for 8 years, so Holy Ghost became the family church. During that time one move put us in St. John the Baptist Parish (SJBP) and in the summer months when students didn’t have to attend Mass as a class, we alternated between SJBP and St. Theresa of Avila. In 7th grade, we moved a block away from st. Monica in the Calliope Project, so during high school, that was the family church again.

Mother told the housing authority when I got my first job after high school. Rent increased $300 per month, so we moved to Mid-City and churches were up for grabs. I went to Mass every morning on my bicycle at Sacred Heart, but on Sundays, Mother and I mostly attended the Jesuit Church of the Immaculate Conception downtown or Our Lady of Guadalupe aka St. Jude.

I became active in Sacred Heart as a youth advisor, lector, community activist, and rock choir member. It became my regular parish until I moved to Atlanta. I lived on Lenox Road in the Cathedral of Christ the King parish. I was a lector there for three years when Archbishop Donnellan was pastor.

When my firstborn joined us, I moved around, looking for churches that offered comfort to mothers with babies. I settled at a church in Stone Mountain with a windowed balcony for nursing mothers. One of the priest gave communion there at the door. I think it was Corpus Christi.

Across the country in Vallejo, I joined St. Basil the Great church when Fr. Guapo was pastor (the Filipino ladies called him that because he was handsome). I became a lector. In the valley, we attended St Peter Prince of Peace in Lemoore, but switched to St. Brigid’s in Hanford. We liked the priest there. When a baby cried during service, the mother rose to take him outside, Father interrupted to say, “No, no, bring him back, he may grow up to be pope.” There was always a sense of camaraderie and happiness in that church.

Back in Atlanta, Vanessa attended Sts. Peter and Paul Catholic school, so we went to that church. We sometimes joined my godson and his family at St Thomas More in Decatur. In Florida, we lived closest to St. Clement of Rome, but when Ronda was born, the priest there said that we would have to have a Catholic godfather and hubby insisted that his non Catholic best friend be the godfather. So, I shopped around and found St. Helen’s. Ronda was baptized there. Within the year we were back in New Orleans, minus hubby.

Our fist stop was at Our Lady of the Rosary. As I had been doing for almost 20 years, I sat as close to the front as possible. While attending a youth rally in the superdome, the moderator asked how we chose to buy concert tickets. Everybody wanted to sit up front, so he raised the question, “Why not sit up front for the best performance of our lives, Holy Mass.”

The priest refused to begin mass until we moved to the back of the church. The ushers en masse came to move the four of us. Their reasoning—the baby might cry. She might cry in the back of the church as well, but for the fifteen minutes they surrounded us and all but physically removed us from the pew, she didn’t even whimper. So mass began and we never went back to that church.

Because I’d been active my entire adult life I thought it was time for the kids to become active participants. We went to a different church every Sunday searching for one they liked. When we moved from Mother’s house six months later, we were in Mater Dolorosa parish, one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen. No burning candles were allowed because all icons except windows were made of wood. The whole structure was wood. When that priest had an issue with skin color and tried to involve the white principal of the public school my kids attended, we switched to Our Lady of Lourdes. Eric made his first communion there. None of us liked the service, so we began shopping around again. A couple of dozen churches later, my children fell in love with St. Joan of Arc where we stayed from 1995 to 2005 (Hurricane Katrina).

The kids pretty much grew up there. They joined the CYO, actively participated in everything, especially The Black Arts Festival. Ronda went to school there for a short period. The two oldest became altar servers and 12 year old Van served with the Archbishop at a special Mass. Steve, a friend from work came to Van’s confirmation. Dexter and Henry, friends from work joined us for my son’s confirmation and Leydin, another friend from work came to Ronda’s.

Back in Atlanta, I tried the local church, Saint James the Apostle. Definitely didn’t fit in there. So went to Our Lady of Lourdes in Atlanta. People stared suspiciously at me. I preferred being invisible as my brown skin had been at st. James. The priest hesitated before he offered communion and I never went back to that church. I went downtown to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and even to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. That church had changed tremendously. I settled at St. Philip Benizi for a while, then lost interest. The congregations all gave me a feeling of uneasiness as if God was not present and they were gathered for some unknown reason. I worshipped in my backyard and felt much more fulfilled.

And now, fifteen minutes later, I made the Sign of the Cross and set my rosary across the chair arm. Amazing how pleasant a feeling it is to be able to contemplate for brief periods. Amazing how far one’s thoughts can travel.

Vidalia to Visalia

I accidentally picked up a bag of Vidalia onions. Every time I look at the bag, I think of Visalia and Rosa. We worked together at Candlewick in Lemoore, CA. When people talked down to her, she said, “I’m not a country hick, I’m from the big city.” New people always asked, San Francisco, Los Angeles? And Rosa said, “No Visalia.” Most new people had never heard of it. At the time it’s population was 12,500. I lived in Armona, an area too small to be a town. It didn’t even have RFD. We had to actually go to the post office to get our mail.

My little family left a small town in Georgia to live in an even smaller place, but eventually came back to another small town in Georgia. Vidalia onions were well known here, but no one had ever heard of Visalia and few knew where the San Joaquin Valley was until Sons of Anarchy became a TV show.

Life offers connections in everything and so many wonderful memories.

Joie de Vivre

I knew I didn’t like roller coasters the moment the cars began their downward spiral. The speed took my breath away and for the next three minutes I lived in breathless terror. Life is like that. Every time something out of the ordinary happened, I dreaded it as soon as it began. I feared it.

I remember my first fight. I was in third grade. Having watched too many movies, I tried to defend the girl being picked on from the bully. For my valiant effort, I was accused of fighting and kept the fingernail trail of defeat from my forehead to my chin for two weeks. For years I lived in fear of the next fight, but it never happened. There were other things to fear.

My children, on the other hand, Fear Nothing, Fear Little, and Fearless to a fault, did not understand why I didn’t grab life by the horns and go with it. Grabbing the nubs was good enough for me. I think I would have liked to grab for the gusto, but I always held back.

My Aunt Vickie called it timid. She insisted that I was like my mother, a fraidy cat. My mother’s sister took joie de vivre to a whole new level and according to those who witnessed her life, lived it to the fullest. In truth, she, too, held back. After all, she was a woman, born in the 19th century. Being less than five feet tall and petite, she got her jollies by instigating trouble, then disappearing into a crowd or hiding behind her 6’2” husband.

There are many who exist in fear of living, of moving forward, of increasing the dimensions of their life. Many others are exhilarated by just the thought of danger and can hardly wait to put themselves into its path.

When I finally learned that I am the most important person in my life, I learned to delight in living my life, enjoying every aspect of my being. You might not see it, but my soul sings with every action I take. Joie de vivre.