Women's wear and children's hair

I fail to understand the attacks on the burqini. It is acceptable for men and women to go to the beaches almost naked but there is a problem for women who want to cover up. Explain this to me. While you are at it, explain why men are concerned with women’s clothing. What do they have to do with what women wear? I would prefer to wear the burqini, though not for religious reasons. I don’t want to walk around with everything showing. Men need to mind their own business. This brings up another issue. Why are Black school children being attacked about their hair? Schools are coming up with the most ridiculous rules about how they may and may not wear their hair. It is an attack on blackness. I read a post on facebook about a boy being told he has to get his hair cut before going to school despite the fact that he wore it the same way last year. His hair is very nicely and modestly styled, I don’t see a problem. What are people so worked up about? What happened to acceptance of all cultures? I tried to figure it but got a headache. It’s all too stupid.

Buddhism

I chant Nam myoho renge kayo to bring out my highest potential and to become happy regardless of the circumstances I am in. Mary Nelson

Me

I was born like this I had no choice I was born with the gift Of a golden voice. Leonard Cohen

Night Passions

We spent the day together drinking sodas, going for walks, and listening to favorite songs on records. We had not touched even though I wanted to run my fingers across her bare shoulders. But I did not know how to touch a woman. As a refreshing breeze rustled the trees around the porch, she took me in her arms, pressing her body against mine. The rules I learned about love crumbled around me. While resting in her arms I declared if a woman loving a woman was wrong, I would be wrong all my life. With my hand resting lightly in her’s, I followed her into the bedroom. Even though I had been loved by men, I was like a virgin, frightened, excited, and trusting. I was a flower blooming, unfolding each petal with care as her hands explored my body. The softness of her touch frees my mind from fear, allowing me to enjoy being with her. I marveled at the smallness of her body and the smoothness of her dark brown skin. Her body was smaller than mine and our height almost equal. Her lips on mine was a shared soft touch. Her small firm breasts were exciting to caress. We slept in each other’s arms, waking before dawn to explore, caress, and love again. I didn’t want to think of the morning hour that would separate us. The love society taught was wrong became right on that hot August night. I had loved and been loved by a woman. The memory of her touch would come to many years causing my heart to soften as my body trembles.

The River

There is a new person by the river. Near the start of my walk with my dogs, Gina and Charlie, is a black woman sitting on the same bench each morning. She looks out at the water. She doesn’t notice us until I step on a dry brown leaf. Her face spreads with a beautiful smile as we say hello. At first I think she is one of the homeless people who sleep on the concrete benches along the river’s edge. Then I look more closely. She is nicely put together. She carries an open large fabric bag that appears to hold clothes. She has no bedding as the other homeless people do. Her black hair is neatly swept up in the back and her clothes are clean and neat. On our way back the woman is gone.

Children Sing

Children sing. They sing songs they learn and ones they make up. They sing while holding a parent’s hand. They sing in public restrooms and at bus stops. They sing anytime, anywhere. Children sing until their embarrassed parent says to stop. Or until they no longer have a pretty voice or told they sing off key. Only a few of them sing as they grow older and then only in private or camouflaged in a choir. Children dance. They dance and twirl and wave bright colored scarves. Boys dance and girls dance in backyards and shopping malls, smiling and laughing. They dance beautifully. They dance with grace. Until they are made to feel self-conscious or foolish or both. Until boys are told that only girls and sissies dance. Girls become awkward and clumsy. Both become too shy. Then there are only the dances that are practiced with a friend in front of a mirror. Dancing is done at dances; boys with girls and girls with boys. There are no bright colored scarves. Children are artists. They create endless masterpieces with acrylic paint and crayons. They sculpt with serious faces using playdough. Their art graces doors of refrigerators, walls, and at mom’s and dad’s offices. Children are artists until, in school, none of their pictures are ever chosen to be posted on the board, framed with bright colored paper. Children are artists until the chimney of their cutout houses are glued on by the teacher to make sure it is straight. And everyone knows kittens are not pink. Only a few remain artists, splashing the world with grace and colors. Children are poets. They make up silly rhymes that make no sense, but they giggle anyway. Children are poets until poems have x number of lines and they only rhyme on the third and fifth lines. They must make sense. All the spelling must be correct. So a crimson sun becomes a red sun. The feeling is gone but red is easier to spell. Still it is not chosen by the teacher to be read out loud to the class. Very few children become poets, even in private. Everyday people try not to stare at the woman singing in the street. People laugh to themselves or to the person walking beside them. Smiling she sings joyfully off key. The next week she is not there. She is dressed in white in a white room with white walls and white sheets on the bed and a handful of white pills. She does not sing anymore and wears no smile. He thinks he will sell these canvases splashed with colors that form no picture. Week after week people laugh to themselves as they pass by. Happily he paints his house with purples and day glow orange. People laugh to themselves as they walk by. He paints his driveway bright blue and rose red trimmed with yellow. People walk quickly past him. They took him away. Now the man of colors wears white in a white building with white walls and white sheets on the bed and a handful of white pills. They give him no paints, just paper and crayons. He does not draw or color anymore. On it goes until there is no music, dance, colors, or rhymes. And smiles are few.

Ageing

As a young woman I diligently did exercises promising to prevent a sagging when I was old. Since the exercises did not work, I am now wondering who came up with this idea that made me and other women hopeful. Was it someone old who had successfully done the exercises? Or was it someone who was young and just assumed this would work? In the mirror I examine myself for signs of aging. Why should I worry about graying hair, a drooping neck, or wrinkles? Women are taught to fear our bodies aging; something that will happen if we are fortunate enough to live long. Cosmetic companies offer tiny bottles of cream for a ridiculous price to fight aging after creating the war. And women rush to buy them. Talk about fighting a losing battle. My face has changed. My body has changed. I will continue to age. I intend to live and enjoy the rest of my life.