On January 17,2015, I will move into a studio apartment with a patio to sit on during summer. My spoiled rotten babies will be able to go out easily. It is very quiet without the constant noise of cars and trucks rushing past. The apartment faces the little airport for private planes. I can watch them take off and land. Looking past them is Lake Washington. I feel so peaceful when I think about the location. Wow, from a split level house to a 10 x 22 foot motor home to a 10 x 33 foot 5th wheel to a studio apartment. Less house work and upkeep. As I pack I am pleasantly surprised I no longer have so much stuff. Most of it is craft supplies. I do plan to find a couple dolls though I won’t be able to go crazy because of the small space. That should be a good thing. Having the patio I will be able to keep my six rose bushes. Time for lunch.

I plan to not complain so much. True I have health challenges that prevent me from living life as I once did. I am in constant pain and dizziness has moved in to stay. I will soon look like a little old man with no hair on the top of my head. But I will stop complaining about it. (I may slip a few times.) Yesterday I learned one of my former students who may have reached 30, has stage 3 breast cancer. She is married with three very young children. Despite being bald, she and her husband took profession photos. Her smile was as bright as always. Surgery is next week. I pray for her and her family.

I had a wonderful surprise on Christmas. My former EWU student, mentee, and friend called. Listening to how well her post college life is going was inspiring. Actually, in one year she will have her doctorate. I couldn’t believe her son is 7 already and in the second grade. We talked about blogs. She made me understand my blog is for myself, to write about my experiences, dreams, hopes, and thoughts. When I was writing mine I worried about what readers would say about the content and how it was presented. Thank you for freeing me. Anyone is allowed to read the blog. Bare in mind this is mine for me. Enjoy

Have I talked about being lost? I'm driving or walking when suddenly I don't know where I am. The first time this happen was while walking in the mall were I have walked for years. This was the scariest of all the events because I stood there trying to figure out what I was doing. The rest were minor things The most recent one happened when I drove to Olympia to visit my cousin which I've done for about five years. I don't even need to read the road signs. During the last drive nothing looked familiar. I had to call for directions. I am not liking this at all.

Finally have my computer back and all fixed after almost a month without it. It was a difficult month. I went to school before there were accommodations. I never saw a student with a physical disability and those with mental ones I supposed went into special education. Non English speaking students disappeared to where I don’t know. There was no such thing as ADD or ADHD, just unruly children who refused to sit still in class. In high school there was a student with, I believe, Giantitis (sp). He was very very large and tall. Students teased him so much that he was transferred to where I don’t know. As an African American female with a military father right after the military was integrated I was always the only African American in the class. The worst time was during Negro history week when the only history covered was slavery. Every child in the class turned and stared at me until the lesson was over. The teacher never ever told the kids to turn around. Besides the term “normal,” the terms “other” and “non white” need to be abolished. I noticed the changes in accommodation as an adult and wondered how people lived before. Following a car crash I personally experienced physical disability and grew frustrated with the lack and limit of accommodations such as a stair railing that was too short and having to wait for someone to help me reach the top. I also had to deal with the lack of elevators and unaware people kicking my crutches and not even noticing, as well as automatic doors that closed too soon so I was stuck in them. Still there are issues that even handicapped don’t understand. One is the handicapped bathroom is not only for them although they should have priority. Also, not all physical disabilities are visible and some people need the higher toilets and bars to help them get up. Mental disabilities are very difficult if they are not obvious. I constantly struggle with this and have just given up on people understanding. I make jokes and try desperately to organize papers and rearrange email messages so I can follow them and understand what people want. I was once thrown out of a class because I missed two sessions because of headaches so bad I wanted to stick a nail in my forehead. The headaches were the result of a head injury. I can’t imagine what students go through.

June 2009

Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies of the veil is the loss of the great continent of Africa. The thought of going to Africa was frightening because I could not get my mind past the slave posts and the roads so many million marched down and so many are buried along the way. I could only see myself reaching my hand to feel the cold walls of the slave forts and being consumed by an unimaginable grief. I would hear children crying for their mothers, young girls and boys still with a fear none had ever seen before. I will stop, not tell you of all I see as my hands shake and my body trembles bringing me to my knees. Maybe now I can visit Africa with it diverse landscape and many cultures and ways of life. In time I will see the wonder and beauty of the land and of the people. I will breath in sweet cool air of the rivers. I will see Africa as it really is, not the Africa shown on television or in American news. I will feel a peace, a glow, the Mother Land holding one of her children, rocking, healing her, loving her. Mind you, I have no regrets. I have enjoyed understanding life, culture, and reasons. I marched through the heat, sand clinging to my body, feeling the weight of the chains linking me to others. I traveled in the hull of a slave ship; gagging from the stench of urine, feces, and vomit. Ii stood before men leering at my unclothed body, licking their lips. I ran into the streets with the cry of freedom on my lips then walked hundreds of miles to find my mother, old and bent over from years of hard labor in the fields. I sat with writers and musicians in clubs after renting a brand new apartment in Harlem. I rented out the bedrooms to cover the rent but the apartment was beautiful. I cried at the death of Dr. King and watched the riots of the Black Power Movement. I loved teaching others, cultivating an interest and excitement in them to learn more, to explore any and every thing of interest to them. I expect to continue to study but on a lesser scale and with other subjects in between. I am very interested in linguistics, music, arts, world cultures, and many other topics. Now I have time to expand more as I no longer need to be a respected scholar in my field. I will be just me!

A New Star June 2009

My Jewish Play-Mom died after choosing not to undergo the chemo she first endured more than 10 years ago. We knew each other for years and laughed at people trying to figure how I, a brown skinned woman, could have a Jewish mother. I would remind her Jewish mothers and African American mothers are pretty much the same, so I knew the rules. I learned from Cece to live the life I want and to do what is most important to me. She once said she did not want to grow old saying, “I wish I had….” She and her husband, Andy traveled to Japan, a country Cece loved, for a year that stretched into 11. Ill health forced them to return. The damp chill of Seattle sent them to New Mexico. Cece smiled and laughed a lot. She taught me marriage requires a lot of work as both partners grow. She and Andy where married for more than 60 years. Andy is carrying Cece’s ashes to Japan where her life will be celebrated with their friends. Cece is now memories, none of which are troubling. Cece is now a star dancing in the night sky; there for me to gaze upon, think my thoughts, and ask questions. Cece will answer with wise words of advice, support, and praise. And I will smile and say, “Yes, Mom.”

Lists, Bananas & Chicken Pox June 2009

I wish I kept the lists I made for this move; although I am not sure I have a box big enough to store them. I think counting them and reading them could be an interesting activity. (When one is retired, such activities are not a waste of time as time is endless.) Some lists were neatly typed on the computer while others were hand written on lined yellow legal paper. Lists were made on the backs of register receipts, on scraps of torn paper, and on napkins. Lists were long and short, documenting what needed to be done and what was done. Lists were stuffed into purses and pockets, scribbled with reminders and shopping lists and lists reminding me to make lists. Lists were made of what items were going into storage or the trash or to Goodwill or into the RV. Items were crossed off the lists and then the lists copied so the lists would be neater. Making lists takes a lot of time as does managing them. However, without the lists my head would spin with all that was needed to be bought, sorted, fixed, and remembered. Of course I would need to put head spinning on a list so I would not forget. Over the years of my life I was I was allergic to various foods and substances even though I have eaten and been exposed to these same foods and substances for many years. Still I dutifully removed them from my diet and my life. Bananas are my favorite fruit. I have not eaten one for years because I am supposedly allergic to them along with eggs, milk, and corn. Cats were on the list. I was always greatly relieved dogs were not. (Had they been I would have taken a shot or whatever to keep my three little ones.) Being allergic to so many foods requires a lot of thought and pre-planning; in other words, stress. Food has to be planned, prepared, and packed. Running into a store for a snack is very difficult. Ice cream is impossible to do without. My purse has bottles of Benadryl, as do my car and office. Being without the little pink pill sends terror through my body. After all these years of careful planning and boring eating, an allergy blood test that found I am only allergic to latex. Ok, this is not working for me. So I had the skin prick tests (the most accurate of the allergy tests) for 48 foods and substances. None showed any allergies. On the way home from the allergist I enjoyed the best tasting banana I have ever eaten. During the time of my childhood and for many years before and after, getting Chicken Pox was just an expected step in a child’s life much like losing baby teeth. It’s going to happen. The question is when and preferably earlier rather than later. What no one tells you; or perhaps they do not know( or is it simply no one will tell) or it is on a need-to-know basis, is the Chicken Pox virus DOES NOT GO AWAY. The nasty virus lies dormant in bodies, sleeping like a hibernating bear. And as a hibernating bear too soon awakened, the virus reappears in other mysterious forms with little warning and for no clear reason. Shingles, with blisters piling on each other, appear sending pain and itching streaming through the nervous system. Herpes does the same. While TV, magazines, newspapers, and ads warn of the sexually transmitted Herpes; how to protect against and the frightening reality of Herpes lasting a lifetime, the virus is already lasting a lifetime though with a different name beginning in childhood. The ads do not warn of the Herpes virus breaking out ANYWHERE on the body. Herpes, just as Shingles, may appear on a cheek, an arm, a leg, anywhere without sexual contact! The key word is stress. Too much stress is the signal for the various bumps and blisters to appear. Perhaps vaccinating children against Chicken Pox is a good idea. No more hibernating bears disturbed in the middle of dreams of cuddly cubs. I leave today. No, everything is not ready. No, the RV is not packed and set up. No, I did not fill the tank. No, I did not finish emptying the house. No, I did not empty the refrigerator or take out the trash. But one day has to be the day. The next day or the day after can no longer be the goal. If I need to throw everything into a box and toss them into a box to be unpacked later, so be it. My new life begins today.

Yellow Rose

My RV yard has six rose bushes set in large pots. The one in memory of my father was planted late so it needs to grow before producing bulbs. The rose I planted for my mother was the first to bloom, one huge rose a week before Mothers Day. On Mothers Day the bush was covered in purplish pink roses. Next bloomed the rose of fire (red and yellow) spread wide. Planted in memory of my brother, Rod, the rose makes a powerful stand, The buds on the two red rose bushes are slowly opening just enough for me to peek at the richness of their color. But the yellow rose will not give away any of its secrets. The bulbs are closed tighter than necessary as they prepare their beauty. Nothing will be shown until the roses are ready to display the deep yellow satin petals. Every day I look closely at the bulbs hoping to see just a hint of yellow. The bulbs seem to tighten their green curtains and turn away. I am anxious. Yellow is my favorite of the roses I’ve seen. I purchased the bush early this season because they disappear quickly. One day I’ll walk out of the house and will catch my breath. The branches will be covered with the deepest yellow imaginable. I will smile as I run to them. I’ll think of my mother, father, and brother waiting for me. I’ll think of my dogs waiting for me in heaven. I’ll think of my wonderful family. I’ll think of how happy and fortunate I am. Yellow roses. Sweet yellow roses.

Confusion

I may have posted a couple things twice. With my memory I'm not sure. I also can't figure it out by going over the posts. The joys of a brain injury.

Greek, Secret Codes and Disney June 2009

Greek, Secret Codes & Disney Each day I read manuals to learn how to make everything in the RV work. I have decided the manuals are either written in Greek or some secret code. Somehow I am supposed to actually know what is being talked about. Who knew there are different hoses each with its own name and use and that they are to be connected to something somewhere in some way? I would normally ask why I should care but I need to know how to work the shower after I figure out how and where to put the water. There is water and grey water and black water. Are they actually those colors? I cannot believe people know how to do such things or even how to read the manuals. Manuals are written by people in the industry who have a clear understanding of how things work. It is much like taking math from a mathematician. He/she knows and understands math so well that he/she is unable to teach those who struggle with the subject. The mathematician cannot break down concepts and then slowly rebuild then in a way all will understand. I think people like me should be test readers for manuals. If I can understand them then anyone can. At the start of each section would be a glossary of terms. After that would be a numbered or bulleted list of steps in the order they are to be taken. I would also include LOTS of pictures, drawings, and diagrams. I am beginning to really understand I am not going to fit everything I want to into the RV. I knew this already but still foolishly had hope. I am looking at what I need as opposed to what I want. At times I think I should stop looking in boxes and just seal and store them. There is also the issue of weight. This is a good incentive to diet. The less I weigh the more I can carry and the happier I would be. Fortunately the combined weight of the three dogs is under 60 pounds. It would be less if Princess was not a ball. I have again moved the departure date as I have faced the fact that I am not a miracle worker. There are still boxes and furniture to go into storage and all the things I am hoping to fit into the RV; then comes securing everything. And of course there is trying desperately to understand the manuals! Disney Television shows to help preschoolers learn in order to be ready for kindergarten. This is in place of running outdoors, chasing grasshoppers, or wondering at the feeling of cold mud as it squishes threw their little fingers. Phineas and Ferb is the only daytime cartoon. Candace spends her days trying to bust her brothers and nursing her crush on Jeremy. the little girl has a crush on Phineas while he has no clue. The remainder of the day is filled with preteen shows such as The Suit Life of Zack and Cody, Zack and Cody on Deck, Wizards of Waverly Place, and Hannah Montana. The girls have long luscious hair and wear makeup. So, there is preschool and preteen programming. So what happened to the amazing years in between? What happened to the years spent in playgrounds playing hopscotch and jacks? What happened to the years of snowballs fights, kickball, little league, and dress-up? What happened to the endless stream of asking “Why?” and “How come?” That happened to little girl and little boy laughter? It is no wonder children are growing up so fast, wearing make-up over their perfect skin, and exploring each others’ bodies while popping their parents’ pills. Their childhoods have been packed up without a ribbon and put away on a high shelf they cannot reach. Adulthood lasts so long while childhood is over in a blink of an eye. Childhood is so very precious. Please Disney, give it back. 10, 9, 8,…1 Ground control to Major Tom, “Commencing count down; engines on.” I will be on my way Sunday or Monday. All the furniture and boxes will disappear on Saturday. The car is sold. The RV is done “enough” to leave. I will be moving things around in the RV for some time as I live in it. Stay tuned! The excitement is about to begin!

Help Arrives

I have problems asking for and accepting help. Many women share this challenge with me. We insist on being amazingly competent. We work at demanding professions, raise perfect inspired children, and run immaculate homes while we pay all the bills on time. We rise in the morning looking like we just had nine hours of sleep instead of the two gotten because of a puking kid and a colicky baby. Walk at a quick pace as if our three inch heels – narrow at the toe – are not killing our feet. Our hair looks like we not only just walked out of a salon, but also as if we are followed around by a hairdresser to correct any out of place strands. We easily and graciously bake a few dozen cupcakes for our kids’ classes even though we were told the night before as the little one climbed sleepily into bed. We climb into bed looking sexy and inviting, ready to please our men. We have never ending energy and always wear a smile laced with perfectly applied lipstick. In our minds we want to be tired when we are tired, grumpy when we are grumpy, hungry when we are hungry, and allow our hair to hang in our faces. We want to stand at the top of the stairs screaming while throwing those damn high heels so hard they make a hole in the wall. We want desperately to ask for and accept help. Women know and understand women who can (or at least seem) to do everything by themselves while they are really exhausted. Women know women need help yet cannot ask. Women know women are just told help will come on this day at this time. Women know women will want to cry from relief. I am very blessed to have a friend who knows me well enough not to ask if I need or want help. Why ask questions with known answers? Why go through the argument I will put up while inside I am screaming, “Yes! Yes! Please help me!” This friend simply told me the day and time she and another woman would come to help me pack. The house is packed. I cannot believe the house is packed because women know women.

Music 2009

One of my first stops will be to visit my friends, Stan and Marion. Marion is an incredible visual artist whose work sells as soon as the paint dries. She also creates inked cartoons released as cards. Marion painted an amazing painting for me of children dancing and playing happily in the street. The painting is full of energy with blues and reds. Unfortunately it is too big to carry in the RV. The smaller painting of a child with wings taking to the clouds will fit. Marion painted the picture of freedom, happiness, and wonder to mark my then new job as a mid-level university administrator. I think of the paintings as gifts of life. They give me great peace when I gaze upon them. Stan is an incredible musician living in the world of jazz and classical music. He instantly understood music as a child who, instead of simply banging on the piano, at the age of three played the piano. This is in sharp contrast to me who, after years of study, has given up on ever being able to read music or to sight sing. I am or was a lyric soprano with no lower range. For eleven years Stan worked with me to add bottom to my voice. During this time I tried to sing blues and jazz. I had a lot of fun singing at open mics. and at friends’ gigs. My voice glided into the secret world of tenors and quickly, quietly touched the notes of baritones. I lamented the failure to do the impossible, to romanticize bass, letting the cool notes float over the bottom much like a light breeze over still waters. Johnny Johnson sang bass; refusing to sing secular music of love, desire, and heartbreak and live praising the Lord. His voice was like a black silk sheet casually tossed across a bed. How I wish to sail there. Still I missed dancing the high notes, twirling them in the air and watching them float – bubbles in the wind with soapy rainbows. I no longer try to sing the jazz I learned but never belonged to. I returned to the high notes. The tenor in the music group, The Dells, hits high notes letting them flutter as a down feather gently blown, floating quietly to the earth. I am working to express the same lightness on top notes to be used when my mind takes them there. My dogs watch me sing; I am not sure if from enjoyment or the fear that I am hurting. Singing is my peace, my heart; so much a part of me it is me. From Stan I learned to color words, to express the meanings of songs more than the notes. Thought will take the notes where they need to be. With him I wrote my first professional show about dolls through the stages of a woman’s life. After studying with Stan I can direct songs to help audiences feel what I hope they will feel; that they will leave feeling more than when they came in. Most of all I became friends with him and Marion. To pay for lessons I couldn’t afford I cleaned their house. I ate lunch with them. Marion’s meals look like a work of art and taste even better. They will be one of my first stops. I am very excited.

The Bees Have It - June 2009

Bees are building hives inside the door of the RV! How they are getting inside the tightly sealed space is not the question. The question is how to make sure they never return! Luckily the hives were at the beginning stages so I could quickly destroy them. I am not sure of all the spaces the little stingers can get into. Right now I am spraying everywhere! To prepare for my new life as a fulltimer, I am reading books with information on living on an RV when I should be reading the books on how to set up my RV. One book tried to discourage traveling with pets. I think the authors are nuts. I would not travel without my pets. There is a reason they are called pets as opposed to animals. Of course, as with many pet people, I call mine my kids. They are an important part of my life. I would never give them to another home or have them put down because they have become inconvenient. By adopting them I agreed to love and care for them. They are company and give me great pleasure. They also protect me, especially Princess who is the smallest yet the most aggressive. No one enters the house until she has inspected them and deemed them to be worthy. I am looking forward to reading books of interest and fiction. I cannot think of a more pleasant way to spend a day than curling up on the couch or sitting outside in the shade with a good book and a cup of tea. School books will soon be available by down loading from computers which will alleviate some of the crippling weight of kids’ backpacks. This is great as it will reduce the growing number of kids with back problems. However, for pleasure reading there is nothing more satisfying than to touch the fragrant pages of a book while holding it open on one’s chest, getting lost in another life in another time and/or location. I will also be able to write freely. In higher education (my most recent life) professors are required to publish so called scholarly papers. These papers, based on research and studies, have their place I guess, however they are dry and abstract. They lack any hint of feeling or emotion. They do not allow for the reader to reach within themselves, to cry, dance, to see colors. I believe emotions in scholarly papers may drive the readers to want to work for change in themselves, their community, the nation, and/or the world. The papers may allow the readers to feel. Perhaps because I am an artist the need to bring feelings, thought, relief, an exploration of self, or whatever the listener needs to feel at the time is the most important reason for writing. I am free to write from long buried feelings. I will allow the multi colored butterflies to take flight and watch them as they fly free on the wind. I will be me

Heat

This week the temperature has been in the 80s, too hot for Seattleites. We are fortunate that the humidify is low and the air cools down at night. This is not at all like the summers in New England. There the temperature sores into the high 80s and 90s with over 90% humidity. The nights may cool to the 80s but the humidity remains as high. When I was there I didn’t have air conditioning, only a fan blowing constantly. At night I’d get into the shower wearing a t-shirt. I could sleep in front of the fan until the t-shirt dried. In Worcester, Massachusetts I worked at the Edward Street Daycare Center. Every day was magical as I shared their world. In the heat the kids could be challenging. They were as sleep deprived the adults. Everyone was grumpy. The staff would pull out the kiddy pools for the kids. We kicked off our sandals and put our feet in the water. Living in a third floor apartment didn’t help with the heat at all. I plan to never leave the Northwest.

They call us fast, hot, and whores, when we are just lonely women looking for a bit of warmth.

Singing

I sang as a kid. After 25 years of study I still do. I loved to sing and the peace it brought me. I’d often sing for no reason at all. Other times I sang with songs on the radio and TV. There were even a few times when singing would get me into trouble. Music is very powerful. During U.S. slavery the enslaved people sang to endure their lives. Without music the Civil Rights Movement would not have been as successful. Marchers sang before, during and after marches. This gave them strength to face hostile police and crowds. Singing gave them strength to face fire hoses and vicious attack dogs. Singing gave them strength as they were loaded into paddy wagons to be thrown into jail. One afternoon police entered the black section of a movie theater (the balcony) to harass the people sitting there. The people started to sing We Shall Overcome, softly at first then louder until the song filled the theater. A police officer said to them, “If you must sing must you sing so loudly.” The officers left. The music was too powerful. So how would singing get me into trouble? When Mom disciplined me I would softly sing. Mom would say, “Don’t sing while I’m talking to you.” I didn’t even know I was. I did know that while I was singing the sting of being corrected didn’t exist. I don’t know if I even heard what she was saying. Singing gets me through happy times, sad times and rough times. I love the power of music. I love to sing.

What me 60?

I think 60 year old women are not supposed to spread their arms and pretend they are airplanes (complete with zaroom noise) while walking in the park. I don’t think they can pretend they are fairies fluttering with delicate wings from a yellow flower to an orange flower. Or skip with a big grin on their face while singing some song from their youth. Well, I guess it is okay if they are with a grandchild. But alone? December I will be 60. When 60 years passed I have no idea. I always thought I’d reach my idea of an adult by now. However, I still sleep cuddled up with my stuffed bear (and of course my two dogs.) I love hot chocolate in the winter and ice cream causes my eyes to glitter in the summer. Flowers are imagined as fairy dresses and having fun, as always, is my primary goal. So I check to see if anyone is nearby before I twirl in the middle of the sidewalk pretending I am wearing a light pink tutu. I hide this part of me from a judging public’s eyes. Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve done a lot of adult things like get an education, work, live alone and support myself. I’ve attended boring professional dinners and conventions. Speaking with political correctness while boiling inside and leaving any sign of passion outside when dealing with issues was a great skill. But I’ve never given up my childish ways. Now I will be 60. The age, as each age, is welcome. I mean, think of the senior discounts. I am still me, still happy. A world of fantasy, art, music, and dreams of love still remain. Yet I feel publicly I must display the dignity I did as a higher education administrator and professor while inside I am dancing as I did at 20. Perhaps the difference with 60 is some things I do such as those in the opening paragraph must be hidden. But wait until 80! At 80 I won’t care who sees or thinks I’m crazy. I’ll just smile sweetly and keep dancing in the middle of the street wearing a rainbow tutu and wig.

Hello, Little Blog.

Hello, little blog. I’ve missed you. One of the Moms at my niece’s school asked me if I am my OLDER brother’s mother. How does one respond? I was in shock. I know I don’t look my 61 years. The woman was so upset she made such a mistake I spent my energy trying to console her instead of taking care of myself. I told my brother. So did she. He asked her why she thought I was his mother. She answered that it was not based to looks but energy level. That hurts too. Before my TBI I was very active. I am hopeful I’ll be that way again. I understand she is still upset. So am I. Due to my lack of energy my psychiatrist prescribed a stimulant I should have tomorrow. Please let that help. I told my cousin the story about being mistaken for my brother’s mother. I also told him I never feel fully awake. He replied that was because of the depression. I was surprised. I thought the depression was better and I was just dealing with the TBI and the sudden major changes in my life. As I thought about what my cousin said I realized I am still very depressed. I honestly didn’t know. Now I am more depressed. Many people believe depression is just a feeling of sadness and for some this is true. It can also be disabilitating as it is with me. I’ve been this way for so many years I only recognize when I get worst. I somehow need to get out of this. I’ll have to talk to my therapist next week. You’d think all the medication I am on would take care of it. I will not have my old life back but I need to have a life with hopes and dreams. Soon I’ll write about my desire to take trips on trains.

Support

Becoming a member of a Traumatic Brain Injury Facebook support page has been very helpful. Now I know I am not alone; that the feelings and challenges I have are real. They are also common for those with a TBI. Just knowing I’m not insane is important. A real struggle for me is depression. Despite the antidepressant cocktail I take every day this is a big problem. Another is that I am always tired to the point of being nonfunctional. I spend a great deal of the day watching and rewatching DVDs. I can watch them several times before I remember them so they are always new. If the show becomes familiar I just put it aside for a couple months then it is new again. I am good for about four hours in the morning. Having been a high achieving active person this change fuels my depression. It has been 11 ½ years since the injury occurred and five since I stopped working and started taking care of myself. I worry if I will remain this nonfunctional or if I will improve.

To Whom It May Concern

African Americans majoring in African American studies are subjected to countless factual accounts of suffering, murder, rape, torture, molestation, mutilation, lynching, and other unspeakable acts of violence that were committed against African Americans. The study of the history of people of African descent in America consists of constant repetitions of these violent acts. The feelings brought on by the field of study may cause feelings of hopelessness, depression, and thoughts of suicide. The question is raised, can majoring in African American Studies and/or being a racial activist drive a person to suicide? In 1938 Charles Prudhomme hypothesized that the suicide rate for African Americans would increase as they assimilated into the dominant culture (Joe and Kaplan 2001). Although lower than the suicide rates for European Americans, suicide for African Americans is rapidly increasing, particularly for males. In 1970 the rate was 7.9 per 100,000. It increased to 10.9 per 100,000 in 1997 (Poussaint and Alexander, 2000) during period directly following the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements that paved the way for integration and increased assimilation into the dominant culture. In addition, Black studies programs began at several universities, giving the false impression that there was an acceptance of African Americans in the United States and the legitimizing of our history. According to Poussaint and Alexander (2000) stress related illnesses and self-destructive behaviors of African Americans are due to racism from the legacy of slavery. There is an increased chance of attempted suicide after “a confrontation or perceived victimization” (p. 22). They further state that social problems, particularly ones that seem to be unsolvable such as poverty, and unemployment can lead to a sense of hopelessness that can increase the possibility of suicide. Urban youth who know someone who was murdered are two times more likely to commit suicide while those who witness a stabbing are three times more likely (Joe and Kaplan, 2001). Those who have attempted once are at a greater risk for subsequent suicide attempts (Lyon, Benoit, O’Donnell and Getson, et al, 2000). It is, however, possible to make the study of African American history and the work of an activist empowering instead of destructive. Learning the history of the culture can lead one to feel a sense of pride that comes from being a member of a people who survived what few cultures could. Learning about people who progressed from years of being slaves to being doctors, lawyers, professors, teachers, and business people, to name a few, can be empowering. They moved from no education to masters and doctorate degrees. Once slated to be extinct by the 1920’s they continue to survive and advance. What decides which direction a person majoring in African American studies will chose? Is there a way we can help to assure a positive direction? There is a need to recognize, study and understand the effects of being a part of this field can have so that solutions can be developed. There is a lack of studies of the effects and the results of the effects of majoring in African American studies and being an activist. I hypothesize that the results of the studies would demonstrate that there can be intensive, possibly disastrous effects on African Americans who major in the field. There is also a need for awareness of the effects not only on the student, but also on the teacher, so that studying African American history and culture can be empowering instead of destructive. The following is a fictitious suicidal letter based on the feelings that may be experienced by those who major in the study of African American history and issues. To you who have discovered the shell I leave behind, plain brown and now still, and to the few with tears to shed and to the ones who ask why, I leave this explanation. I wish it were simpler for you and apologize for its length. If I was simply having problems or if my heart were broken from a fallen love, you could say, “Ah, poor thing. Why didn’t she get some help?” and then return to your life. But my story is long and deep. Many times I have asked, cried, begged for your help. Perhaps you did not know how to help or you did not hear. I think more that you did not understand the depth of my pain or the exhaustion of my struggle. After reading these pages you still may not understand. Even now that causes me to cry out in agony. It wasn’t you alone who shut your eyes. Nor do I blame you for failing to save me from taking my life. I have journeyed through this pain long enough to know that you do not recognize it and may not still. But you at least deserve an explanation for the coldness of this form that has hopefully been found with eyes closed so that no one must look into their faded darkness. I have chosen not to be politically correct as I have had to live. As I will not be here to hear the judgment that is placed upon me, I do not care. It is this caring that has helped to bring me to this place, or to this time would perhaps be more accurate. By now you may not even be caring of the language that I use as long as I get to the reason so that you will be able to complete the paperwork, close the chapter and go on. Even with my skin now an ashen tone, it is obvious that I am or was a woman of color, an African American, a Black woman, a sista!, a girlfriend!, a Negro, a Negress, a descendant of slaves, former slaves, and from rich African kingdoms. Less obvious is my being a descendant from people without color, Caucasians, European Americans, whites, slave owners, enslavers, brutal people from Europe who I have never known and who have displayed no interest in knowing me. I dutifully learned their collective histories during the many years that I was forced to receive what was said to be a well-rounded, accurate education of history. So I feel that I have given them enough of my time, mind, and energy, enough of my life. As I think about it, it is due to this side of my ancestry that I have taken my life. How can I blame you in your ignorance, you who I have never met, when it was my hand that accomplished this deed? There is really no one else to blame. I am now, I pray, at peace; a peace I have never known in life. Now you may be demanding of me an explanation, direct and honest, since you now feel accused and responsible. You are weary of the tales of how black skinned people suffer, do without, are treated as unequales and on and on. Yet have you ever thought of what I have lived because of your racism, your ideas, the treatment I have had to endure from you? I cannot wholly blame you, not personally, because I do not even know you. And you are, of course, not responsible for the choices I have made nor the direction my life has taken. You did not force me to dig so deeply into history that I covered my ears, screaming the suffering of millions of ancestors who wanted to be heard, who wanted everyone to know that even in death they could not find rest. Rest can only come when their stories have been heard. They rushed at me to tell them but it was too much for me, so much all at once that I cried out with them. I ran leaving them still in their disturbed darkness. Though it was not my will, I had to go back. It was my destiny to hear them, to help them, to attempt to free them. But they had to slow down. They had to talk to me one at a time of lost sons and daughters, of longing to find fathers and mothers, of rapes and sales and laboring hard in the fields. They could not just tell of their lashings but held me down so I would feel each blow while staring into the twisted face of the one doing the deed. My back bled. My voice was gone from ignored screams. My eyes were drained of tears. I, as they had, eventually stopped begging for mercy, for there was none in the eyes of the one who unleashed his fury on my back after having risen from laying between my legs. So they sat with me on a small patch of grass in the shadow of a tree. The sparkling cool river ran at our feet. I could see others waiting their turns in the distance, fearful that they may again frighten me off before their stories were told. They spoke, looking down or off into the distance, as if I would not believe the horror that had been their lives and that the peace they were promised in death did not come. They felt, truly believing that I could carry their stories, that I would tell them to those still alive. Then maybe they would find rest. Some reached out their cold hands from tattered dress and shirt sleeves to touch me for emphasis or to be sure that I was of the living. When they were done, they would gracefully rise as if a burden had indeed been lifted. They would leave, only to have another quickly take their place. One stayed longer than the others. Her dark face had a familiarness. “Great-grandmother?” I whispered in my heart. From her the story was the hardest, my flesh and my blood, the one responsible for my existence. For her I had my own questions, knowledge I needed. I explained to her that I did not want this calling – that it was too hard – too painful to carry so many voices and so many hundreds of years. Finally she stilled me with a gentle touch of her hand. I laid my head in her lap as she stroked my hair, promising to give me what strength she could. Her shining black face had known no smiles. She could not save me as she could not save herself or the children she bore her master. So now you see me as insane, claiming to have talked with the spirits of those long dead. Perhaps it was a dream or only a description of how one may feel majoring in this study of Black lives in this rich country. Let me put it in more acceptable terms for you so you will understand how one is “called”. Fight if they will, they must eventually follow the path that has been laid for them, fighting and kicking as I have done. In the end there is no resistance. We continue the struggle for rights to a full life in the United States. There is no top to this mountain that we must climb, only continuous rough terrain with always the possibility of falling. There are those who believe that we should forget our past, our history, our ancestors, who we are, where we are from, our experiences, and our accomplishments. I was told by supporters that if I helped one, changed one mind, or got one person to a least think, then I was successful. Yet it was those who I could not reach, whose eyes burned into mine with disdain, who remained deep in my memory. You have not had to live as I have lived. You have not had to think as I have had to think. You can shop without being followed. In airports your bags are not dusted for signs of gunpowder, even though you have never in your life touched a gun. You do not know the complete list of what are considered to be weapons when questioned at the Canadian border. Your food has never been spat in before being served to you in restaurants. You are waited on in stores, never skipped over or ignored as if you are invisible. You don’t have to think that at times being invisible would make your life simpler. I studied. I read. I listened and I watched. I took in the history, trying to numb the feelings but being thrown into the dark pit of tar. It is the fate of an artist to go too far to understand. I have tried to accomplish my calling to the best of my ability, but it has proven to be too much for me. As my words rolled off deaf ears, I have tried not to let the stern faces and folded arms affect my mission; though at times I was haunted by those piercing blue eyes. The hardest to bare was the fear in the eyes of the blond haired children as my brown body merely walked past. The continuous frustration of not being heard, believed, understood, or taken seriously has taken its toll. The miles I have traveled to go so short a distance only to lose much more has taken its toll. I should stop now, but you – you must always know why, have it totally explained so you don’t have to think. So I am forced to continue with this intense pain. Give me a moment to close my eyes and calm some of my spirit so I can go on. After a news event of the murder of a Black man while in jail or in prison or at a traffic stop or the mistreatment of a black child or yet another unsolved rape of a black woman or child, or if I am denied yet another service, talked down to, or have my success labeled as “ Well, I guess they have to fill their quotas,” I began to look for a place in the world that I can live safe and free. My mind scans the world’s countries to find one that is not tainted with prejudice and fear of my dark skin, golden brown, shiny and soft. There was a call, or another call, of another hate incident at another university and I reach for a bottle of pills that I don’t have or didn’t have until now. I have been saving them to have just enough or maybe one or two extra. There is no room for failure in this ending for I am too tired to try again. It seems that with this constant work of equality and equal rights that we are still taking unsteady baby steps, one forward and two back. We are always looking up the steep jagged mountain, never seeing the last peak. There is no end to this work. There is no time to lay down the weapons of war. There is only falling back into the trenches while bullets fly over head, taking a breath, two breaths with eyes closed and chest beating. Then we reload and jump back into the line of fire. Have I explained a reason to help you to understand? I have noticed during my short life that people insist on having everything explained to them quickly and shortly. They do not want to have to look anything up or feel any quilt, sorrow, or pain. I do not offer any apologies as I have had to for my entire life, as I am tired, just tired. It is because of you that I have over compensated, over tipped because you believed that I wouldn’t tip you. Tired from over smiling muscles so you wouldn’t fear me; from being overly honest making sure that you saw I could be trusted as you glanced out of the corner of your eye, as you never tired of following me through stores; as you crossed streets and danced away from me in your speech because you feared the darkness of my skin interpreted as darkness in me. When our enslaved ancestors were so down trodden that no word or touch could help them, they would let it be known through the singing in a slow moan, “Sometimes I feel like a mother less child, a long way from home, a long way from home.” I cannot count the many times I moaned so low. My death will be quick and sweet, as the suffering I have lived with has been too much to add to. All I long for is relief. Do not cry for my death, but shed tears for my life. I will wander through a dense darkness to the river that so many have crossed over. I will take hold of the thin rough black hand reaching out for mine, younger and light brown. She will say to me “It’s alright, Baby, Great-grandmother understands,” and I will be at peace. References Joe, S. & Kaplan, M.S. (2001). Suicide among African American men. Suicide and Life-Threatening Behavior, 31, 106-121. Lyon, M.E., Benoit, M., O’Donnell, R.M., Getson, P.R. (2000). Assessing African American adolescents’ risk for suicide attempts: Attachment theory. Adolescence, 35, 137, 121-134. Poussaint, A.F. & Alexander, A. (2000). Lay my burden down: Unraveling suicide and the mental health crisis among African-Americans. Boston, MA: Beacon Press.

Up Date

I admit my plan for writing 15 minutes a day has been a failure so far. I’m still confident that I’ll get there. My little dogs, Gina and Charlie, are a pain when it’s time to change the bed. They’re not as bad as cats but run a close second. First they will not get off the bed. Then when I finally get them off they sit on the pile of blankets on the floor while watching my every move. Of course they try to jump back on the bed and I stop them. As soon as I throw on the bedspread I tell them okay. They jump onto the bed and inspect my work. Sigh. We are defiantly having spring showers in Seattle. There have been a few sun breaks. I once lived in Los Angeles. The constant sun shine aggravated me. There was never a cloud. Just day after day of unbearable heat and smog. The water was so hard soap would barely lather. It tasted terrible so I drank sodas. I thought of how good the water tasted in Seattle and how the lakes turned different colors, I thought of the clouds. I returned to Seattle. On Easter I could have my own Easter hunt by myself. I wouldn’t remember where I put the eggs.

Gina and Guilt

My two dogs, Gina and Charlie sleep under the covers tucked against my back. To keep from rolling on them I can only sleep on my right side, never moving towards the left. This past Sunday I rolled to the left and injured Gina’s left front leg. She sounded like a baby crying for three, yes three, hours. I ran with her to the vet without even calling first. Thankfully her leg was not broken. Now sometimes she hobbles holding the leg up and wearing the saddest face you’ve ever seen. Other times she runs around on all four. I don’t know if she is still in pain or just working me. I still feel so guilty for having rolled on her leg. Sigh, motherhood.

The Protector

My brother, Rodney, was born premature. He weighed only 3.5 pounds. In those days, not having the medical knowledge or equipment, Premies were sent home with their mothers to live or die. Mom fed Rodney with an eye dropper. He grew to be six feet tall and very handsome. His personality could dazzle anyone. Unfortunately he also grew to be a heroin addict. The following is what I wrote about him following is death at the age of 46. While I never witnessed him shooting up, the rest of the story is true. I have never seen him do it, this practice of more than 30 years. I have seen it done on TV and in movies by strangers who meant nothing to me and who weren’t real anyway. I watch him ready the needle and tighten a tourniquet around his arm. He looks at me from the shadow that is now his face, all but his flesh and bones eaten away by AIDS. “Are you sure you want to see this, Sis?” he asks. I want to say no, to yank the needle from his hand and throw it 30 years away. But after so many years that have left him dying, stopping no longer matters. He looks at the veins in his arm realizing that none are useable. “I knew they wouldn’t be any good, Sis, but I thought it would be easier for you to watch.” He moved the tourniquet to his thigh and again searches for a vein. Then he wraps the other leg, his hands shaking now. If I had not been watching he would have quickly used any part of his body, his stomach, his groin, anywhere to hurry to take him to where he needs to be. I am touched he still wants to care for and protect his older sister. The drugs and illness have not taken that away. I watch his eyes close as blood trickles down his calf. His face seems to show a great relief as he empties the liquid into his weak vein. Then he sat with his head hung over and his eyes closed. “Brother,” I say. He looks up and says, “Huh?” then nods again. My brother is no longer present. I leave the room feeling my heart drain. This is the life he has chosen or that has chosen him from the first time he put the needle into his arm. Is this where he goes to escape, this place between joy and sorrow? I could no longer hold back the tears. The mixture of drugs and the diseases have so ravaged his body; his six foot frame is a thin rail. When I hug him I feel only bones and the smooth softness of his skin. He looks so old - as if he has lived a long hard life. Mentally he has become foreign to me, but I still love him and him me - brother and sister from the same mother and father. Lying in the casket a few months later, the coroner had restored his face so it was no longer sunken. His wasted his body which aged him beyond his 46 years, appeared to be healthy. His death is the first of the 10 siblings. Our mother looks at his body lying so cold and still and quickly holds a tissue to her eyes. She is escorted by another son to the car as she tries to hide her tears. That brief moment will stay with me forever, the look of the unbelievable pain of a mother burying her son. What made him begin such a practice of leaving the world for a while only to leave it again? Watching him drain the needle does not help me understand this stranger who is my brother. It must have been easier when he was sixteen and his veins where young, fresh and healthy, eagerly swelling to accept the poisonous sting. Which needle was the one that infected him, causing his body to waste away and his life to draw short? My brother who I never really knew is dead. With him goes part of me. My brother was the family protector. Fear from his reputation kept others from attempting to harm us. Once our youngest brother was threatened by a man in a building our bother managed. Word went to the protector who rose from his illness. Forgetting the sister who drove him was standing near; the protector raised the man by his collar and held him against a wall. The protector told him what would happen if any threats were carried out against our youngest brother. My sister, seeing the fire in the protector’s eyes, worriedly spoke his name. The protector looked around as if shaken from a dream. “Sorry, Sis, I forgot you were there.” While this same sister was visiting in New York her van was graffitied. The protector paced, “No body’d better mess with Dee Dee. I don’t want to go to New York. At least they let you smoke in Rikers.” The protector spent several years in prison for two armed robberies and finally gutting a man in a fight. It was a violence I could not understand. I also knew his drive for cash to fill the needle he needed to feed into his arm drove him. In prison he thrived, taking control, exacting payment from his fellow inmates on commissary day. Men followed his orders, no matter how brutal they may or may not have been. Now they will spend the rest of their lives in prison. They will die on cold metal lonely beds while the protector died in his mother’s arms. At the funeral, family and friends gather in the stillness. There were three flower arrangements – two from my job. After kissing his lifeless cheek, I sit beside my mother and stare at my little brother, wondering what he had thought of his life. He was a Christian, a Lutheran by faith. He was dyslexic. Despite being a high school graduate he learned to read in prison. He struggled to read his Bible daily. He was the father of a son he missed seeing grow up and the son of a father who missed seeing him grow up. He was a poet who poured his soul in colors on paper and in the end apologized for all he hurt during his life. He was an artist whose paintings should have hung on gallery walls. He gave me a little stuffed penguin the day I was injured. He ran down the stairs to hold me and to tell me he was about to go to correct the men who injured me. He checked on me as I rested, always the protector watching out, caring, loving. I knew the last time I visited home would be the last time I would see him alive. I held him longer than usual and refused to let him see me cry. Then I walked away from him, from his pain, from the needle marks on his body, from the life draining out of him. The night I return from the funeral I look out my kitchen window. There was a big glowing full moon. Airplanes leave a trail of smoke making a cross in the sky and I know my brother is home in heaven with our father. I keep a wooden sign that reads “JOY” next to the penguin. The sign has never fallen, but on the night the cross showed in the sky it did so. The protector is there, still watching over me, still my brother.

The Five Stages of Grief

This weekend I took an amazing step in my healing. Recovery from a TBI requires me to go through the same five steps as grief. These steps are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance. There is no rule as to how long each step takes. For me the process to acceptance took several years. Denial and isolation is the first stage. My doctors claimed for years that there is nothing wrong with me. One neurologist suggested I was stressed, perhaps from money problems or I wanted attention. Another one told me to just forget about the head injury. With no medical excuse I continued to work and produce work for my doctorate. I reached a point where I could barely function. Most of my time was spent in bed re-watching repeats on television. I didn’t want to be around people or talk to anyone. I believed when I stopped working I could travel and attend music festivals. When I learned I wasn’t able to travel, only rest and rest some more, I moved into stage two, anger. My anger was crippling. I was angry at the job I left and many of the people there. I was very angry at doctors. They failed me. If one of them said to take three months off work I would have done so. I believe I wouldn’t be as bad as I am now. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just stayed in bed watching DVDS over and over. Since I didn’t remember the shows, each time I watched they were new shows. During anger I easily snapped at people. My mood was dark. I think the third stage, bargaining, runs through all the stages. God If you just make me well I promise I’ll…. During this stage I asked why me, why did this have to happen to me? The fourth stage, depression was very difficult. I suffered from severe depression – major most of my life. An overwhelming symptom of a TBI is depression. I sunk to levels so low I didn’t believe I’d ever come out of them. Depression is like being underwater with no source of air. Depression from a TBI is like lying on the ocean floor with the weight of the water pressing down on your chest. For me my hope was the right mixture of medications and therapy. Some people with a TBI don’t want to take medications. I say give me any drug that will help me function. Now I am peacefully in the fifth and final stage, acceptance. This is me. These are my strengths. These are my challenges. My life is quiet and still and I am okay with it. As I will write about in following entries, I lived an interesting and full life. My final 20 or so years will be different but just as awesome.

Fear - May 2009

So many people spread their fear to me as they warn me of traveling alone. I find this fear to be interesting as I continue to prepare for my new home in a 22 foot RV. I have chosen a Holiday Rambler – Augusta Sport. The RV is big enough to be a home while small enough to use as a car. Downsizing my home to this bit of space is overwhelming. Am I out of my mind? If I do nothing to change the flow of leaving the security of my job, of knowing there is a check magically placed in my checking account twice a month, of the bills being paid, and having food to eat, of knowing the flow of my day; if I do nothing I will go, a woman alone, counting to ten so the fear will go away. They, whoever these authorities of my life are, warn me of traveling alone without a man to protect me from those who would harm me. Yet in my house are three dogs racing to the door at the sound of a knock and running along the fence to frighten away anyone who ventures too near. There is also an alarm set more to protect me inside than belongings when I am gone. I peer around me as I walk to the garage whether it is day or night. At the gas station I pull up to the pump closest to the store so someone can see if I am being abducted by some stranger who means me no good and will harm me because I am living the everyday life of a woman. Look for light, never walk in shadows. Be aware, always aware around you and of sounds near you and your house. Sleep lightly; walk confidently; don’t let them know you are afraid in your daily life. If I am to be afraid, let me also live. As of today, May 1st 2009, I am no longer employed; retired at 56, free, and if I think I become afraid but not of what others warn me. I fear I will become homeless, picking through scraps in a dumpster to ease the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, and clinging my threadbare clothing tightly around me, ripping one hole larger. I force my mind to pictures of moose walking through a distant rich green field in Alaska and of the excitement of touching the sleek coldness of a glistening blue glacier. I think of cheering at the folk music festival in Vancouver BC and of my head back laughing with newly met friends. Perhaps I should have a small celebration for the milestone in my life but all I can think of is being on the road, music blaring and my face nothing but a smile.

Fort Hood

Another shooting at Fort Hood. Men and women who vowed to fight for and serve our country are wounded or dead. Parents worried what if their child is sent to war? Will their child return alive and whole? Did any of them worry that their child may be gunned down on U.S. soil at the hands of a fellow soldier? Not by a fellow enlisted man. Not because of the madness in his mind that led him to pull the trigger again and again. I say a prayer for the soldiers killed and wounded. I pray for their families. I also pray for the U.S.A.

Ph.D.

A former student posted her successful defense of her doctoral dissertation on Face book. She is now a Ph.D. I am very proud of her. Now the provost needs to sign off but that is just a formality. Anyway, that’s how it is supposed to be. I wrote my dissertation a couple years post TBI. It wasn’t written quickly or without problems and challenges. Then came the hassles from the university. I was the first to submit a dissertation online as the new rule stated. The work was too large to email. After a week of so the tech guys finally figured out a way to send the document. Defending my dissertation was a breeze. I was a Ph.D. or should have been. The new provost wanted the abstract, one page out of over 300, rewritten. For nearly three months she kept sending it back saying to rewrite it. She never gave any comments. The people at the university where I worked helped me including some who had worked on several Doctoral committees. My dean said there was something political going on at the university and I was caught in the middle. Finally a woman from the university called to see how I was doing. I told her of how many times I had rewritten the abstract and of all the scholastic people who had helped me. I also informed her that I was having seizures again. She said she would take care of the page and she did. To graduate in September the provost had to sign off by a certain date. The provost was on vacation in Egypt and was scheduled to return the day after the final day. No one else could sign off. I graduated in November.

May 2009

Yes, the RV is home! My new home for the next few years is finally sitting in the driveway; glistening with newness and smelling of newness! I named her “Dare,” not for daring to leave so much behind but because the name brings me the softness and peace of a new beginning. “I’ll put a pebble in my shoe and watch me walk; I can walk, I can walk. I shall call the pebble “Dare.” We talk about walking. And when we both have had enough, I will take Dare from my shoe saying, ‘meet your new road.’” - the words of a song from the musical “Godspell;” from a younger time in my life when I knew every word to every song in every Broadway (and some off Broadway) show before traveling to New Haven or New York to see the live performance. This was before musicals’ settings became so overblown and before shows looked too much alike; a time when songs hung in your head long after the show ended and you joined with strangers singing on the streets on their way to their cars. Dare is also my mother’s middle name; a name I clung to when I first saw it written, placed proudly between her first and our last name. I worried one of my siblings would be given the name, moving it further from me. But, no, Dare was left standing alone as if waiting for me. Dare, the name I sometimes call myself and feel it fits following Ayo. Ayo Dare is me when alone in my room planning my life’s next adventure. Now, Dare sits in the driveway patiently waiting. With a smiling satisfaction, I line the shelves. The stress of packing the house when wanting only to set up the RV and hit the road has driven me to bed for most of the day. Right outside is my new home.

Writing and Creating

Today I joined two meetups, one for writers and one for creative folk. I want to begin writing and creating again. My first published piece was a paper I wrote for an assignment in eighth grade. My teacher entered it somewhere. I was horrified. When I received my copy of the book I either threw it out or buried it. Now I wish I had the book now. The paper was about the educational system. Since then I’ve written a few pieces and articles for magazines. While I worked at the university I was required to write and publish scholarly papers. I pushed the rules for the scholarly papers to include some creative form and somehow got away with it. Now I just want to feel the quiet excitement of creating from writing. All the world is blocked out. Sipping a cup of tea or a chilled glass of wine. My fingers would fly. I would be in the zone. I’ve done craft work since I was a kid. I watch my work coming to life. My fingers work magic. My favorite things I’ve created are dolls from the Virginia Collection. The doll was very simply made which allowed me to focus on the clothing and head wraps that made them each individual. I have four left. The others were sold to doll collectors. For a time I displayed in city and university libraries. I’m excitedly waiting to see what my mind will imagine next as I crawl out of the brain injury cocoon.

Gina and Princess

It turns out that my little dog, Gina, does not have a respiratory infection as the vet thought. She is still sick and I am still worried. We returned to the vet who said Gina may have a cold (This has been going on too long to be a cold.) or it could be allergies as it is allergy season. I can guess! I go to the vet for answers. We were sent home wills cough syrup to be taken at night along with ¼ tablet of Benadryl. Fortunately Gina will have her six month comprehensive exam in two weeks. The exam includes blood work. What scares me is the same guess was made about little Princess. Princess was a Miniature Pincher I rescues from the pound. Princess, at age nine, was put in the pound along with two other dogs whose owner could no longer care for them. Her nails were so long we stopped at the groomer before going home. When she was let into the house, Princess inspected everything. Outside she ran along the fence looking for a way out. I plugged every opening she could slip through. Princess was an alpha dog. She took charge of her brother, Eddie, (a Cocker Spaniel) and me. My bedroom was downstairs in a split level house. Princess would come to the top of the stairs and bark to let me know it was bedtime. Then she would return to bed. If I didn’t follow her down she would again stand at the top of the stairs and bark until I relented. When Eddie became blind, Princess stayed close to him, looking after him. I was very touched. Princess took care of her brother. I took Princess to the vet when she started sneezing. The vet said she probably had allergy problems. In the end she became so sick and was suffering so much that I held her as the vet administered the drug that would quietly kill her. As tears poured down my cheeks I watched her soul rise from her body and take to the sky. Now I am told Gina probably has a cold or allergy problems. I am worried.

While Waiting for My Husband

While Waiting For My Husband I was to have a husband; that was known from the minute of my birth, a 6 lb. 3 oz. brown baby girl with glistening black curls. As I came screaming, with tightly clinched fists, my parents envisioned a wedding and the laughter of grandchildren. Fantasy, play, and dreams prepared me for my established future. I was my mother’s eager little apprentice, learning to cook, clean, and sew. Sears catalog cutouts provided the furnishings for my future home. My house, as I dreamed it, would be pale yellow with a white picket fence. Roses of every color would line the front of the house. The backyard would be for my children to play their grass-destroying games. The dog, a wondering mutt brought home by my son (“Can we keep him, Mom, please?”), would run off with the children’s balls, disrupting their play while I laughed from the kitchen window. We would invite our neighbors to barbeques to show off my husband’s grilling skills. My husband, tall with smooth Hershey candy bar dark skin, would be the school principal where I taught first grade. I would stop teaching when we married to be a housewife. My house would be spotless. The laundry would be clean, perfectly ironed, and neatly put in place. Every meal would be prepared from scratch and served piping hot when my husband walked in from work. Our marriage would be perfect and our love deeper than any ocean. As I waited for my husband, I worked low paying jobs that would end once he came along. I would give birth to three children. The first, a son, would be named after his father. The next two would be girls whose lives would be enveloped in pink. My son would learn to build birdhouses using saws, hammers and nails. With his father he would camp, fish, and watch sports. My daughters would help me in the kitchen. I would teach them to bake sugar cookies and to embroider table dollies as my mother had taught me. My family would be perfect in our yellow house with the white picket fence. As I waited for my husband, I traveled, staying in cheap college dorm rooms with shared baths. Once married, I would stay in five-star hotels and eat in fine restaurants. With my husband I would travel the world over, taking our children to museums, art galleries, and theme parks. I would teach them about great artists and art. They would smile, squealing, “Look, Mom, look at that!” Waiting for my husband, I moved from place to place, dated man after man, hoping he would be the one to sweep me away. But after lying naked and wet in their arms they would leave, forgetting my name in their rush to dress. I would go through my closet and remove the clothes I bought to please him because the next man wanted a different type of dress with slits and shimmers. My husband would run for city office. I would take care of designing the pamphlets, schedule engagements, and host political events. These events would be graced with the sparking crystal and the beautiful teacups I would have decoratively stored in the china cabinet. When he gives his acceptance speech I would proudly stand behind him and a little to his right. While I wait for my husband, I do things for the men I meet because they may be the one and, because of them, I now must not dream of a man who wants to run for city office because of the past I am forming. When I am old I would have grandchildren to brighten my eyes. They and my children would stand by me as my husband is laid to rest. My son and son-in-law would help me rise to walk back to the long black limousine. My hands would shake with age but my memories would be so loving and wonderfully beautiful with the husband I waited for to give my life to. At 40 I go to school, but when he comes my life will begin. I enroll in college. There I looked for him but instead of finding him - I graduated. I go to graduate school, a better place to find my husband. Again I graduate instead. And then a Ph.D., still looking; still sure he will come and I will have a yellow house with a white picket fence, roses and teacups like the cups I remember that were in my grandmother’s house. While I waited for my husband my time was running out to have children. I would have two children, a boy and a girl who would grow up to go to college, marry, and have children. At 50 I looked around and realized that, as with my life, my house held no sign of a man, a husband - just me. I worked as a professional woman in a meaningful job. I bought a yellow house with a white picket fence. I planted a rose garden and filled my china cabinet with sparkling crystal and beautiful fine china tea cups. I travel and sleep in five star hotels and dine in fine restaurants. I no longer wait for my husband. I adopt a daughter with big round brown eyes and shiny dark pigtails tied with pink ribbons. Her skinny arms encircle my neck as she kisses my cheek with a touch so soft and light. I name her “Dare” and teach her to live life and to not wait for a husband.

The Loss of Mom

My role in the family was decided early in my life. Should anything happen to my mother my eldest sister was to run the family. Should my sister be unable or unwilling to do so the responsibility fell to me. Knowing my position was comforting. Now I don’t know where my place is and my mind is floating. Two major events caused this change. The first was moving across the country at the young age of 26 and staying way for 35 years now. The second was the brain injury. Taking care of myself is problem enough. My family had a huge birthday party for our mother every five years. Everyone, all the children, in-laws, grandchildren and great grandchildren came home. The gathering was always beyond fun. For my mother’s 90th birthday I hesitated going home because my health was so fragile due to the brain injury. I wasn’t sure that I could stand the chaos with so many people. My therapist told me to go off by myself when I needed. I am so glad I went home. This was my mother’s last birthday. Two weeks later the terrifying call came. My mother was rushed to the emergency room and moved into intensive care. I made the trip home to see my mother for the last time. My sister, Mary, was helping our mother into bed. Mary asked me to help. My mother said I couldn’t do anything. That’s when I realized I no longer have the same role in the family. I have no idea what it is now. My Mother died a little over three months later; just four days after my 60th birthday. The lost of a mother cannot be explained. There are no words to explain the loss one feels. There is a year of firsts. The first Valentines Day, Mother’s Day, her birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. I saw the perfect gift for her for Mother’s Day. I actually went in the store to buy the gift. Then I remembered she wasn’t here anymore. I keep wanting to call her to talk or to seek advice. I talk to her every day. I think of her every day. I mourn her loss every day. I miss her every day. There are no words to explain the loss of a mother.

About Four Years Ago

Drums continue to beat as they have for the last fifteen minutes; for the last 10,000 years; hypnotic, sensual, carrying across oceans. My eyes shut to let their wave pass over me; breathing deeply; swaying slowly. After an introduction I move onto the stage, stand in front of the microphone, close my eyes in a brief prayer, take a breath and let my voice sore dipping to scoop low notes and twirling on the high; telling the story of a people lost to slavery. My two loves, music and African American culture, are combined into shows I write using music and original verse. So much was happening; changing; my life continually blossoming. Four months before for my 40th birthday I returned to college to complete my undergraduate degree, then masters. At 51 I earned my Ph.D. After 22 years of working as a housecleaner, a nanny, a daycare and preschool teacher, a waitress, and a medical receptionist, I was reborn as a university professor and administrator. Still music, singing, would not remain quiet in my soul. I sang for the joy it brought me; hoping the same was true for audiences. I began to write shows to perform with my brother accompanying me on African Drums. We traveled to colleges, high schools, conferences, festivals, and more teaching the history and culture of African Americans. For a few hours I was transformed; living and telling of a different life. Now at 57 I am retired. I packed up my five bedroom house and moved into a 21 foot RV. Again reborn, I am a lone woman traveling with three small dogs to see the country and to attend as many music festivals as I can. I am doing what my mother has advised over my lifetime, “Just enjoy life.”

Sunny in Seattle

Sunny and warm in Seattle, who could ask for more? With sun comes energy, so I completed chores I’ve been avoiding such as washing the car and continuing to prepare the yard for planting. To be honest most of my yard is concrete. There is a little strip in the back where I plant grass for the dogs. I even blew some Dandelion puffs there because Gina likes to eat the flowers. How she chooses the ones she’ll eat is a mystery. Some she’ll put in her mouth and then remove without breaking them from their stems. She’s such a silly little girl. Charlie doesn’t bother much with grass or flowers except to mark on some of them. In the front of the yard are roses in large pots. This year I’ll have pink, deep yellow, white, red, pink trimmed with red, and a fiery red and yellow. Other flowers will join them as the weather improves. This spring and summer are predicted to be warm and sunny. No complaints here. I keep saying I would like one day where my head feels right. Just one day and I’d sore to the moon and back. I’d read two books in a day and take three long walks. I’ll clean my entire little house at one time and sit outside searching for eagles and their nests close by. Just one day when my head doesn’t feel stuffed with cotton and in need of more sleep. Sigh. I just started the course “Building Great Sentences” through great Courses. The first lesson was rather dull as the professor filled the time explaining what would be covered and why. No need to take notes yet. Will write more this weekend.

Come sit under my mushroom. The rain will not hit you there. Icy stares will not reach you. And we’ll talk of sunny days in the springtime and of walking barefoot along a river bank and of dancing fairies and green light footed elves.

Women's Minds. Bodies and Spirits

Women’s Minds, Bodies and Spirits I am going to address all three of these topics with one important point, one seemingly impossible task, as women we do everything for everyone, that is, except for ourselves. We work, go to school, raise our children, help others to raise their children, care for our husbands, and seniors and care for our homes. We are leaders, helpers and mothers in our churches, serve on committees and do community work. At night we do not “fall” asleep, instead we pass out later than the other members of our households. And in the morning we rise before anyone else in our house. We are sleep deprived. We make sure everyone else has enough to eat before we eat and if there is not enough we go without. We find money to send our children on school trips and to go to movies yet we wouldn’t dare spend what little money we have to do these things for ourselves. We beam at the accomplishments of our husbands and children while we think our own are insignificant. We keep going even when we are sick. We put off seeing a doctor until we can schedule a time that does not inconvenience anyone else in our lives. We are care givers – not care receivers. We do not take care of ourselves. We do not let others take care of us and for this we pay a heavy price. My mother, who is soon to be 90 years old and the mother of 10 children, fits the above description. She raised her children and put our needs and wants before her own. She cared for her husband for almost 35 years until his death. She was “Mom” to all of our friends. As a registered nurse, she worked full time at a convalescent home. She never took a vacation, hung out with friends and never went to a movie. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that sometimes when she sat at the dinner table with only a cup of tea, saying she wasn’t hungry, that there was only enough food for her children to eat. After everyone was in bed my mother would start the ironing. I have no memory of ever waking up in the morning while she was still in bed. She was usually in the kitchen or bringing up a basket of wet clothes from the basement. However, there was one big difference, one thing of importance that I later studied in my mind. My mother managed to take time for herself. How? How could she possibly have found time for herself? My mother had small methods of self-care. When we were little she had quiet time. She would show us on the clock, before we could even tell time, where the big and little hands would be when quiet time was over. Then she would lay down with the baby and we would be quiet until the hands on the clock were where they were supposed to be. When we got older she found other ways. One of my favorite was her announcement from the top of the stairs, wrapped in her bathrobe, that she was taking a “bauth.” Now a “bauth” is very different from a bath. During a bath we could knock on the door to ask a question or complain about what a brother or sister had done to us. We might even have an argument in front of the bathroom door waiting for our mother to holler to stop. But during a “bauth”, which was always a half hour long, we would have to be dead or dying to knock on the door or in any way disturb her or we would end up with a soar behind. This was Mom’s time. Another thing my mother did for self care was to dust the top of her dresser. This may not sound like self care but it was. The top of my mother’s dresser was a space filled with so much stuff including her comb and brush, gifts we had given her, bobby pins, photos and all kinds of things. I would sometimes sit on her bed and talk to her while she was doing this. I watched her as she picked up and dusted every item. It was different from the way she dusted the rest of the house. I would feel calm just by watching her. I remember sometimes we kids would be sitting downstairs and someone would ask, “Where’s Mom?” and another would say that she is dusting her dresser. We all knew that meant she’d be a while. The other thing my mother did was to go shopping. I don’t mean spend money because we didn’t have much. She liked to roam through the stores downtown. “Just looking,” she would say. She knew the stores better than the people who worked in them. So this mother of 10 found ways to take time for herself though it seemed impossible to do. For our mind, body and spirit we have to take care of ourselves first or we cannot take care of anybody or anything else. Set aside a few minutes a day or a week – just for you. It is not a selfish act. We need and deserve it. I remember a comic strip where a man gave his wife a lock for Mothers Day. The wife looked confused until she learned that it was for the bathroom door. The last frame showed the woman sitting on the floor with a big smile while her husband installed the lock. Install a lock on a space of time and take care of you.

Some Problems of a TBI

Today I got lost in the mall that I’ve walked nearly every morning for over four years. It wasn’t as frightening as the first time I got lost there. That time I didn’t even know I was in the mall. After a few minutes I realized where I was and what I was doing there. This time I at least knew I was in the mall and why. I just didn’t know where I was in the mall. I figured it out pretty quickly. Not knowing where I am happens once in a while thanks to my TBI. Fortunately I am able to figure it out quickly. But during those few seconds or minutes I am frightened. I just keep moving until I remember (except the first time at the mall.) Another challenge of my TBI is my memory. When I am introduced to someone I forget their name as soon as it is said. If I see a person out of context the person is a complete stranger. My memory, or lack of it, does save money. I can watch the same DVDS over and over before they become familiar. They are whole new shows for me so I don’t need to purchase new ones. An interesting problem is I hear music when none is playing. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve gone to turn off the radio when it wasn’t turned on. I used to hear phones ring but that has thankfully stopped.

June 2009 Living the Dream

A wish, a dream, a desire, a longing; “Just enjoy life,” my mother told us, her children. She sometimes reminded us that life is too short; words no younger person, to whom life seems endless, understands. To them there is no thought of the end of hanging out with friends, of parties and dancing into the sunrise, of stuffing themselves with hamburgers and French fries washed down with chocolate milk shakes and of always being together. But as 60 draws near there is suddenly a realization, a need to rush, to dust of old dreams before the last chance for them to come true passes. With the approaching of 60 comes anger at having spent years punching clocks and trying to please people who cannot be pleased, keeping your mouth shut so the rent can be paid and food put on the table, and of judging your success by what you own. Sixty brings memories of fun and opportunities missed because of some warped idea of adult life. There comes the realization of watching life slip away while a feeling grows in the pit of a now bigger stomach. You, as I, fear growing old dreaming and saying, “I wish I had.” I am taking the plunge to reach the dream I longed to be my life, the one I did not want to face at the close of my life saying, “I wish I had.” This is a risk. This may make my life crumble and leave me with nowhere to live and nothing to live on. Even worse this may keep others from riding into the sunset towards their dreams. Instead, I hope to inspire others to let go, take the risk, the leap and let themselves fly. My first life of travel was not a choice but a way of life for my family with my father dressed in a crisp uniform standing tall, straight, and still. My mother made wherever we were home so only the location changed and every place with welcoming adventure was the best in the world. Sundays were days of driving, looking at our new city and state, making up games using license plates, and looking out with childish excitement for ant wildlife that ventured into sight. Perhaps this early life engrained the need to travel, to see skylines of different blue and pink hues, to sit in grass to hear fiddles and violins send notes twirling into the air, and to talk, oh, yes, to talk with strangers to become friends never to be seen again but always remembered and introduced in new conversations. My dream is to travel this magnificent country in an RV. My dream is coming true. These are the tales of my travel as they happen. Some will be exciting and interesting. Some will be dull and uneventful. Bits of my life will be woven in between. Of course there will be many stories about my traveling companions; three spoiled little dogs that some may say are my children. Eddie is a Cocker Spaniel adopted 10 years ago from the pound. Being blind and deaf now has not slowed him down much. Princess, who lives up to her name, came into the family from the pound two years ago. She is about 10 now and runs the house. One year old Charlie joined us last November after being in a foster home with small dog rescue. Here we go into the sunset, living my dream.

In an Instant

A tear slides down my cheek as I make the long ambulance ride to the emergency room. If I could talk I would say not to take me, but the only part of my body I can control are my eye lids; one blink for yes and two for no. I have made the ride so many times the EMTs know me by name. I know I will be asked the same questions by the doctors about stress and anxiety and will be given the same diagnosis (pseudo seizures) and will perhaps be asked if I want to see the hospital counselor. Six and a half years ago I suffered my fourth and perhaps most significant head injury while in Connecticut to celebrate my mother’s 80th birthday. All ten of her children, along with in-laws, ex-in-laws, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and play relatives were there for the fun. The night before the party I went with a brother and sister to hear another sister perform with her band. In an instant my life changed. I was later told that two men had gotten into an argument. One shoved the other who knocked into me while I was on the dance floor. I remember moving in slow motion, falling to the floor and rolling onto my back. To me the whole event lasted less than a minute. To those around me, protecting me, I was out 10 minutes. Plagued with seizures, intense headaches, and neck pain, I began spiraling down into a deep depression. Projects were left unfinished. I would come home from an unproductive day at work, lie on the couch watching reruns of reruns on TV, and sip wine, hoping to feel – to feel anything. I went to doctors, psychiatrists, counselors, and alcohol treatment; yet I kept getting worst. While in alcohol counseling I watched a film about Dr. Amen’s work on diagnosing brain problems. There was one picture of a brain scan of a woman who had suffered brain injury from a concussion. “That’s me!” I thought. I nervously drove to one of Dr. Amen’s clinics in Tacoma, Washington, a five hour drive. This was my last hope. I thought if they could not help me no one could. I planned to end my life as it was no longer my life. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. Previous doctors had dismissed me as depressed, stressed, and had seizures to get attention. Dr. Clements at the Amen Clinic read my brain scan results along with the paperwork I submitted. I wanted to cry when he told me I suffered a brain injury. Finally someone was listening to me. It still took a couple more years to get help. By then I was barely functional and felt hopeless. Now my health is improving although I don’t expect the real Nancy Nelson to ever stand up.

Sometimes ya just gotta say something.

A friend posted this on my FB page today about his experience in an Office Depot. He spoke up as we all should do. Sometimes ya just gotta say something... So today I went a bout some silver sharpies. I went to the Office Depot on Sleater Kinney Rd. in Lacey wa. Before, during, and after I was looking for the right ones I was being followed and spy'd on by store employees. Got to the front and it was slow so a new employee came out to open a new line (a mixed kid named Jose, who also happened to be the only minority) I got to jose's register and I asked for the manager. I was gonna let him have it. Then changed my mind. Like, "naw, it's not that serious". Then I saw him login to the register. His login was NIGGER1234. I saw this and politely asked him, "is that your login?" He said, "yeah, one of my old managers assigned it to me. I wish I could change it". I said can I speak to the manager please... I didn't have to wait. I turned around and saw a fat white guy watching me and turning red in the face in the printer section. I walked over and let him have it. What I noticed on a glance ended up being this kids daily hell. Tomorrow I'll be back to inspect what I expect. Jose better have a new login and I'm taking this to the national office. Sometimes ya just gotta say something.

Challenges

One of the challenges of a TBI is being able to complete a project. Though this is not true all the time, it is enough to be frustrating. Look at the blog as an example. I tucked it away for a few days despite my vow to write for at least 15 minutes a day. Crochet projects are in various forms of completion. The business papers I so diligently began gather dust with no hope of when/if they will be completed. And there are the days when I can do little more than lie in bed because I have over done some house or yard work or concentrated too long on a paper. At these times my frustration peaks at the little I can now accomplish during a day. Cleaning my RV space has been very challenging. I completed one small section at a time over a period of weeks. In my defense the sun hasn’t been out too much lately. When I write I want the story to flow as if it was music, the ups and downs and the circling in the air of the strings. I want that back. I want to rescue my way of writing from my TBI. I won’t give up. Writing was a major part of me. I would cry but the medications I take prevent me from crying. Without the medications all I do is cry. This is now my life – taking joy in each accomplishment no matter how small because a few months ago I couldn’t do even that. I was invited to attend a concert today followed by dinner, one of my favorite nights out. The thought of being out and having to converse with someone set me into a panic. I would rather stay at home with only my dogs. This makes me very sad.

Loneliness

Loneliness I am having a difficult time meeting people. Since I no longer work or hang out in the evenings I have no one here to call a friend. Added to the challenge is meeting someone with similar interests. I am lonely. Days come and go, each one the same as the other. I reach out my hand to touch another but no one is there. My phone stays quiet as the TV drones on. Somehow I have to change this. So far I’ve tried volunteering and a couple classes. Next month I will start a class on writing your life’s story. That should be fun and interesting. Concentrating for two hours may be difficult but I’ll stick with it. I’m still looking for a volunteer opportunity that fits. If I could stay awake past nine and could stand to be in a crowd I would have more opportunities to meet people. Unfortunately, since my TBI, being around large groups of people sets me to panic. Not a night has gone by that I don't get at least nine or ten hours of sleep. This is so different from before when I loved to be in the mix. It takes time to understand, get to know, and like the new me. I just know I'll be awesome!

More of May 2009

The Preparation Continues Alternating between packing the house and setting up the RV continues. A male friend asked where I would put all my things in the small RV. I answered I would increase the storage space, to which he asked, “How?” I laughed. As an avid shopper I am “out there.” I know everything in most stores. I also know all the storage solutions not requiring tools. (Tools and I do not get along.) Into the RV came plastic boxes with drawers, metal baskets hanging over doors, and holders with suction cups that cling to glass and tiles. Small white wire shelves doubled the shelf space in cabinets. Then the RV was dressed up with doilies and colorful dresser covers made from shelving paper. At night I envision where items will be placed the next day. The target date is now the first week of June. Emptying the house seems endless. The ARC of Spokane (a charitable organization) did a second pickup of boxes today. I am thankful they pick up. Boxes are supposed to be left on the curb. Mine made it as far as just outside the door. I pushed and pulled them up and down the stairs and out the door, running out of breath and sweating long before the last few boxes are outside. The men never complained as they carried the boxes two or three at a time. A student walked through the house last weekend, selecting items for her new apartment. There is so much stuff! I think many Americans have too much stuff. Downsizing feels good. To be hypocritical, I bought a couple new CDs. I won’t live long enough to play the music I have. Still, there are songs I remember that will not leave my mind; so I buy them to learn the message they hold. “He’ll Be Back” is a song released by the Players in the 1960s. My older sister’s group would cry while mine, four years younger, would hold each other closer. The song tells of a letter a girl’s boyfriend receives and “now he must join the boys in Vietnam.” The song assures her he will return “with victory in his hand and you’ll be proud that he is your man.” Listening to the song several times for several days, I remember the fateful day my older brother, my closest friend, a person I had known for my whole life, received his draft notice. My world was suddenly still. There was no air left in the world to breath. Our friends joined our all night vigil on his last night trying to laugh, though the laughter sounded hollow. We knew a disproportionate percentage of Black men were sent to the front lines. We knew a disproportionate percentage of Black men did not return home. We knew many who did return from the police action were without limbs and/or were haunted by the events they participated in and witnessed in that far away land. We knew far too many men never came home or did so broken and lost. Too many mothers were left with too much grief. Too many fathers were left in a silence no one could penetrate. Too many little sisters never again saw their big brothers. My prayers go out to them. My father fought in WWII; joining the segregated army at the tender age of 17. We children were not to ask him about his experiences or play “Taps” on our plastic bugles. I remember only being told two stories of his time at war. He told me a little about the unfair treatment fighting in a segregated army. The other was that as he would crawl on his belly his buddy next to him would blowup. When morning came our vigil ended. I went to school in a daze. I envisioned my brother’s soft curly dark hair being cut off and his faded jeans being changed to army green. Then he would be taken far from me. I dreaded going home, a home without him; to sit and wait to hear word, yet afraid to hear word for however long he was gone. But he was home! 4F!; my favorite number and letter! 4F!; and they sent him home. No new letter would arrive calling him away. The air returned and the Earth stated to turn again. As my brother and I now both face our 60th birthdays (his a year and a half before mine) I think of all the fun we have had and will still have. We both moved to Washington. We have supported each other through marriages, divorces, and the birth of his two daughters. He cheered me own while I continued in school and I listened as he mastered African drumming. There have been so many adventures, so much life we came so close to missing because of a letter. My first RV stop is Seattle to show my big brother the RV and to play with my two nieces. Then I am off on another adventure and he will be there cheering me on!

May 2009

Yes, the RV is home! My new home for the next few years is finally sitting in the driveway; glistening with newness and smelling of newness! I named her “Dare,” not for daring to leave so much behind but because the name brings me the softness and peace of a new beginning. “I’ll put a pebble in my shoe and watch me walk; I can walk, I can walk. I shall call the pebble “Dare.” We talk about walking. And when we both have had enough, I will take Dare from my shoe saying, ‘meet your new road.’” - the words of a song from the musical “Godspell;” from a younger time in my life when I knew every word to every song in every Broadway (and some off Broadway) show before traveling to New Haven or New York to see the live performance. This was before musicals’ settings became so overblown and before shows looked too much alike; a time when songs hung in your head long after the show ended and you joined with strangers singing on the streets on their way to their cars. Dare is also my mother’s middle name; a name I clung to when I first saw it written, placed proudly between her first and our last name. I worried one of my siblings would be given the name, moving it further from me. But, no, Dare was left standing alone as if waiting for me. Dare, the name I sometimes call myself and feel it fits following Ayo. Ayo Dare is me when alone in my room planning my life’s next adventure. Now, Dare sits in the driveway patiently waiting. With a smiling satisfaction, I line the shelves. The stress of packing the house when wanting only to set up the RV and hit the road has driven me to bed for most of the day. Right outside is my new home.