Looking for Dragonflies

A story for the family scrapbook…

I took my children to the Marina to see an antique boat show, and participate in a community festival. A few minutes after we stepped onto the boardwalk, it began to rain. So we took shelter under a small canvas overhang.

Always adventurous, my daughter, Norrie, spied a dragonfly, also taking shelter from the storm under the canvas. She held her small hands out to the dragonfly and waited…holding her breath in anticipation. Will it land? Will one wing, clear and thin as mica, brush against her chubby fingers? As the storm thundered above, the dragonfly drew closer…and landed on the warm plane of Norrie’s hand. She was absolutely delighted. Norrie called to her brother, who was just as excited to try to catch his own dragonfly! Antique boats with their rumbling motors, face painting, ice-cream and live music…none of it mattered. My children were enchanted by dragonflies.

When the storm cleared, a rainbow stretched over the Marina. I could see the rainbow’s tail, diving into into violet-gray waters. Rainbow ribbons of red, violet, yellow and blue braided into the colors earth and water, creating hues that color our world.

My children scampered off…in persuit of dragonflies…

Lynn Mari, ⓒ 2009

The Lively Circus: A Day in the Life of a Single Mom

By Lynn Mari, ⓒ 2008.

“God can jumpstart any battery!”—Pastor Moore

As a single mom, I have learned that an ordinary day can quickly become a lively circus.

I begin the morning tripping over Norrie’s toys; DP’s shirt is growing moldy on the bathroom floor… Cheetah Girls are bumpin’ in the CD player. As I reach for my cup of coffee on the counter I unexpectedly slip across the kitchen floor. A shimmering pink surface of Wonder Bubbles was invisible until I am ice-skating across ceramic tile! DP and Norrie are laughing at my wild antics, arms and legs flailing. Both children are pouring Wonder Bubbles into a toy with a built-in fan that was made to shoot plastic balls into the air. My kitchen is boogie wonderland, with bubbles flying in all directions.

I sigh, add maple syrup to my coffee. Raooow! DP and Norrie are squaring off at the table. Norrie is bouncing in her chair, squealing, “Jelly face! Jelly face!” DP crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at his little sister. DP ate a croissant with blackberry jam that is now smeared on both sides of his face like sideburns. I do my best to regain my composure, while holding my sides, “DP, honey, you have jam all over your face—go look in the mirror. You really are a jelly face. And I’m a jelly belly all full of these rolls!” Tension is released as quickly as it comes, in peals of laughter. DP runs to the mirror to inspect his new look. He “shaves” blackberry sideburns with one finger, running it across his face then licking it clean. Just as I am about to relax, I glance at the clock—we have to move if we want to be on time for church!

Coffee half gone, better top it off. I ask DP to hand me the syrup and next thing I know he is dumping the bottle in my cup! I breathe a sigh of relief when both kids are finally out the door. As I am locking the door, Norrie is running down the hall, waddling like a duck. She has decided to wear the too big sandals that no longer fit DP, proudly asking her beloved big brother, “Am I cool?” With each step Norrie is loudly flopping against the pavement. Not even halfway down the block, we see our bus pass by. I grit my teeth…then look across the street at my neighbor’s beautiful yard. Pastel flowers greet my eye from afar. Thick bushes in radiant shades of emerald shine in the sun. Marigolds gather beneath the bushes, lining a cobbled path. DP, Norrie and I stop over to say “hi”. The beautiful Himalyan cat with ice blue eyes purrs at our feet then rolls on the sidewalk, begging to have his back scratched. The children are fond of the cat and dash to the ground, ready to indulge. When we leave, both children resemble the Abomidible Snowman of the Himalayas, shaggy with cat hair and neat church clothes now worn. They couldn’t be happier, racing down the sidewalk towards the bus.

DP, Norrie and I arrive at church and are greeted with hugs. When Pastor Moore begins to sing, DP is excited to play the “shaker” he made in school—two Styrofoam plates decorated with banners made of crepe paper. Inside the plates is dry rice. Norrie accompanies DP, shaking a penguin shaped tambourine. Pastor’s bellowing voice fills the chapel, “…You’ve got to move, But when the good Lord gets ready, you’ve got to move…” It takes but a moment for Norrie to dash from the pew, to the front of the chapel. Once reaching the front, Norrie begins to dance. Pastor, an imposing man standing well over 6 feet tall, with hands the size of bear paws, gently takes Norrie’s small hands in his. Together they dance. Norrie stands barely the height of Pastor’s knees but excitement keeps her steps in time. DP raises his shaker, cheering loudly. This is a memory I will always cherish.

As a single mom, I have learned that an ordinary day can quickly become a lively circus. I have learned how to be the juggling bear—balancing work, children and long bus rides. The ringmaster keeping everything in order. The clown indulging my children in stories or play. And my favorite—the magician, awaiting a surprise.

——————————————————————————–

DP and Norrie, I thank God everyday that he blessed me to be your “Mommy”. I love you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes… (you finish the rest)…
xoxoxo Mommy xoxoxo

Celebrating Jack Johnson on July 4th

In my family’s lore, 1910 will be remembered as the year Grandpa Bud was born. My great-grandmother, Big Momma had only know the life of share cropping when her first child, Robert (also called “Bud” and “Spicey”) was born. The sun rose and lowered over fields of cotton, small shadowed figures stooped beneath the horizon, their lives followed the path of the sun–to the fields and back. Big Momma was the only child of Sarah Jane Martin and Simon Robbins, both who died or disappeared in her youth. Big Momma would be sheltered among various relatives who live among the wooded culverts and sparse fields of Summerfield, Valley Creek and Pleasant Hill. Big Momma was a proud woman who learned independance early in life. She had her first child, my grandfather, at a young age and raised him among a familiar circle of relatives after her husband disappeared. Disappearance was a way of life between the migratory patterns of farming. the threats of violence against Blacks, the burden of debt and poverty created by sharecropping and the hope for something better that fluctuated between leaving and coming back–or not being seen again. Generations of my family, from Big Momma to the first Africans that set foot in Alabama, had worked the fields of Dallas County, never to be acknowledged as a cornerstone of labor, faith and sacrifice upon which this nation was established. In truth, our history goes beyond the fields of cotton, in which families had their own love, loss and drama recalled through family stories and tall tales, song and through the lives of heroes. Jack Johnson, against all odds, became a legend–and his victory should be celebrated on July 4th, for it is a great moment in American history.

History and fate join my family story into the legendary life of Jack Johnson, the first African-American Heavyweight Champion of the World. Johnson claimed his victory on July 4, 1910 after knocking out James J. Jeffries, the heavyweight champion of the time–and the White contender who represented the supremacy of his race. Born in 1910, Grandpa Bud was an intelligent man with the spirit of a fighter–he succumbed to the struggle, and both his intelligence and spirit would prove to be weapons of his own demise. There were many men like Jack Johnson and Grandpa Bud in American history–Black men who were spit upon from birth, refused opportunities to succeed, and experiencing a struggle that had enveloped the generations before them in poverty, violence and social inequality. The fight to overcome the immense challenges faced was a dangerous walk between being and outlaw and being a survivor. Or being killed for even trying, or daring to hope for something better.

Jack Johnson was born in Galveston Texas on March 31, 1878 to Henry and Tiny Johnson, former slaves. Johnson was the second of six children born into the Johnson family. Jack Johnson left school in the fifth grade to work odd jobs and found his way into the highly controversial, often illegal boxing circuit. Early boxing matches often pitted Blacks against each other in free-for-all fights known as “battle royals”, where only the strongest was left standing. Whites then tossed coins to the winner. Johnson got his start in these bloody battles and would later refuse to fight Blacks to fought for titles against White boxers, who held not only a title but gained social status aand larger financial rewards with their win. Johnson was a giant of a man known for his imposing size, his dark skin (he was often called derogatory names such as “pygymy”, “coon” and “Ethiopian”) and his predatory style of boxing. Johnson’s style of boxing was deceptive in that he often enertained his audience while simulataenously punishing and taunting his opponent. In many ways, it was as if Johnson was mimicking and then knocking out the ministrel shows popular at the time. Entertainment was familiar to Johnson, when not boxing, he performed in vaudeville shows. Johnson was known to smile, joke and fake injury before landing a hard jab or knocking the teeth out of an opponent. Johnson was also reknown for his aggressive, even arrogant, defiance of Jim Crow laws and the prevalent grip of racism. Johnson was a self-educated man who lived life on his own terms. Johnson did not play into the accepted role for Black men to be an entertaining fool or to be an emasculated, non-threatening figure. Johnson also went beyond the ideals of popular Civil Rights activists. Johnson provoked society as a whole by desegregating the boxing ring, marrying and carrying on affairs with White women and displaying himself publicly in ways that offended social norms (whose rules were often defined by racist ideology).

In the most celebrated and contested victory of his career, Jack Johnson faced “The Great White Hope”, James J. Jeffries, in a battle for the World Heavyweight Title. After Johnson had thoroughly pounded champion Tommy Burns in 1908 in Australia, then flaunted his win, a “Great White Hope” was sought to defeat Johnson. It was believed that the reputation and supremacy of the White race was at stake–and Johnson represented a very real threat with his popularity, wealth and attraction to White women. Many fighters came forward to battle Johnson, all were soundly defeated. James J. Jeffries, a former champion, came out of retirement to fight Johnson after it appeared that no one else could stand against Johnson. Jeffries originally refused to fight Johnson because he was Black but was persuaded to return to the ring, after six years of retirement, because it was believed Jeffries was the only one who could redeem the White race. The fight was so controversial that it was banned from its original location in California by an act of the governor and had to be moved to Reno, Nevada. Johnson faced Jeffries with his signature smile and throughout 15 rounds joked, danced and talked to the crowd. In the 15th round, Jeffries was pulled from the ring before Johnson could knock him out. Johson was declared the winner, against Jeffires who entered the fight solely to prove, “…that a white man is better than a Negro.” Johnson would return to his home in Chicago, by train, on July 7, 1910 a hero. By then, race riots broke out across America, hundreds of Blacks were killed and injured as racist Whites sought revenge. Film footage of the Johnson-Jeffries fight was banned from the public to avoid further rioting. During his boxing career, from 1897 to 1928, Johnson had 114 bouts, winning 80, 45 by knockouts.

Johnson lived by his own ideals, he was led by his passions and fought for what he believed in. Johnson was flambouyant and arrogant, speeding down the street in racing cars, capping his front teeth with gold and openly flaunting his White wives and mistresses. Johnson’s relationships with White women would draw scorn from Whites, who demanded revenge (death threats also were common). After a lengthy FBI investigation, in which Johnson was interrogated and put on surveillance, he was charged for violating the Mann Act (transporting women across state lines for prostitution)–a racially motivated charge. In 1913, Johnson would be sentanced to a year in federal prison for marrying a White woman–accused of being a “white slaver”. Johnson would live as a fugitive for seven years to avoid prison, and return to the US in 1920 to surrender while simultaenously receiving a hero’s welcome. While in Leavenworth prison, Johnson was appointed atheletic director and helped stage fights. Johnson was popular in prison and largely did as he pleased, and ignored the rules that typically applied to prisoners. Johnson was a jack of all trades, when not boxing he owned and operated several nightclubs, gave lectures, sold stocks, wrote two memoirs, patented a wrench and worked in the movie industry. Johnson was inducted into the Boxing Hall of Fame in 1954. Johnson’s life was the basis for the 1970 movie, “The Great White Hope”, starring James Earl Jones.

Johnson died in 1946 in a car crash, thousands attended his funeral and celebrated his life. He is buried at Graceland Cemetary in Chicago. Grandpa Bud died in 1959. His grave lies hidden among the weeds and underbrush in a segregated cemetary in Valley Creek, all that is recalled of where he is buried is that a red flower was once placed on his headstone.

Johnson is a champion but also a man with flaws, both aspects which so strongly resonate with the stories I have heard in my own family. That Jack Johnson, as controversial and contrary as he once was, survived several attempts on his life, incarceration, public outcry and personal struggle is a miracle. Johnson’s win on July 4, 1910 should be commerated as a victory for all those who dared to rise above the limitations society had unjustly set. What Johnson won is more than a Heavyweight Title but represents the core spirit, the fundamental values that America was built on–to fight the good fight, to challenge oppression and to inspire vision and courage in the next generation so that they will become our leaders, our heroes.

Lynn Mari: July 4, 2008.

A Pardon for Jack Johnson?
http://www.infiniteboxing.com/articles/jsands/071404.htm

IBHOF/Jack Johson
http://www.ibhof.com/jjohnson.htm

Jack Johnson, The Galveston Giant…“Master of Ring Science”. by Monte D. Cox
http://coxscorner.tripod.com/johnson.html

“Johnson boxed, lived on his own terms.” by Ron Flatter, Special to ESPN.com
http://espn.go.com/sportscentury/features/00014275.html

Sermon in Church by Jack Johnson (NY Times):
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9B05E4DB173EEE3ABC4953DFBE66838A639EDE

Unforgiveable Blackness a film directed by Ken Burns (PBS)
I have seen this documentary and highly recommend it.
http://www.pbs.org/unforgivableblackness/about/

The Wacky Villian: A story by DP and Mommy

Mr. Wackypants the Burglar has just gotten out of jail after robbing a bank, he made off with $20,000–all in rolls of pennies. Mr. Wackypants was caught after using the bus as a getaway. It took 10 minutes to dump all those pennies in the meter. A really smart boy named DP figured out something was wrong and alerted the driver to the strange passenger who wore a polka dot clown suit with a black mask across his eyes. The driver pushed the emergency button near his seat, calling for help. Mr. Wackypants tried to run away. DP jumped over the seat, then grabbed Mr. Wackypant’s leg and bit him as hard as he could. Mr, Wackypants screamed so loud that he alerted Underdog, who has a nose for helping people. When Underdog saw the bank robber, and the little boy who was trying to stop him, he sprang into action. Underdog punched Mr. Wackypants, knocking out several teeth as well as all the polka dots on his clown suit. Mr. Wackypants fell to the the ground in a daze. Not soon after the police came, and threw him in jail.

After spending 12 years in jail, Mr. Wackypants vowed he would never get caught again. He would rob another bank–this time by climbing on the outside of the building, and sneaking through a window rather than taking a chance of being caught during a hold-up (where a very smart 7 year old may try to stop him). Mr, Wackypants waited, very excited, until the darkest of night to pull of the heist. He crept towards the bank building, with super glue on a special gloves so he would be able to crawl up very high. Mr. Wackypants pries open a window and creeps into the bank. He find a broomstick to defend himself with. He heads towards the vault, hoping he is well disguised in his polka dot clown suit. Wackypants nears the vault and then realizes he doesn’t have the code, and can’t get it! So he hits the vault with broomstick…over and over and over again. Nothing happens. Mr. Wackypants hits harder, this time sounding an alarm. Before he can get away, a super hero dog named Underdog flies through the open window and pounces on Mr. Wackypants. Underdog lifts his leg and pees on Mr. Wackypants, trapping him inside a stinky web. Mr. Wackypants slips on the puddle of pee, unable to get away. Using his super radio, Underdog signals the police who nab Mr. Wackypants–again! Mr.Wackypants is now in jail, dreaming of escape but so long as Underdog is here justice will be done.

THE END

by D.Poet and Mommy , 6/9/2008
©2008

More about Underdog on Disney:
http://disney.go.com/disneyvideos/liveaction/underdog/

Underdog Movie Photos
http://movies.about.com/library/weekly/blunderdogpicsa.htm/

The Honey Web

By Nora (age 4) and Mommy, 12/27/2007

Once upon a time a bear was being mean to a unicorn. The bear was trying to eat her (unicorn). The unicorn is a pet to a beautiful true princess. The true princess wanted to save her unicorn so she poured honey on a spider web. The bear was hungry for some honey, and ran to the spider web. He fell on the spider web and then he got stuck.
He says, “Please let me out! Cuz I’m gonna be nice!”
True princess said, “I can’t let you out because you being mean.”
So the true princess threw the bear into the sky, where he is to this day, still caught in the honey web. Only at night can you see the bear, when the golden web glimmers in the dark. True princess and the unicorn are so happy to be free that they go eat ice cream. The end.

Lynn Mari, ©2007

.

Happy Halloween 2007!

Hello Friends and Family,

I hope everyone had a safe and fun Halloween.

To me, it is strange to go trick-or-treating and see these houses, all lit up, and peek in the windows to see the comfortable family scenes and know, when you go back, you will be homeless. The feeling of having nowhere to go, and not belonging is so strong on Halloween. I see the warm glow, and smile when the children scamper to the door and seconds later head into darkness, into an unknown. That is homeless. The state of once having a home, once belonging in the warm and then being forced into the darkness, the cold.

I want to thank Dad for stopping over–I love seeing you! Nora and I went to 5 Halloween events, a community dinner and trick-or-treating. Nora has a costume but she decided to dress up as a “true princess” and wore one of my dresses. The dress is antique white and lacy, on Nora it looks like a wedding gown. I have fond memories of that dress because I wore it the time I visited family in Birmingham. I love old dresses and costume jewelry. My maternal great-grandmother passed down several pieces of costume jewelry after she passed and since, I have been an avid collector. I wore a vintage 70’s dress–lol* And “got down on it”!

The best part of the night was when Nora won the dance contest, not that she “won” but that her spirit was so into the music, just wanting to have fun. There were 6 kids in the contest, all dancing. Nora kicked off her purple, high heels to join in. DP got her the shoes for her birthday bc they look like Cinderella’s glass slippers. The vote was decided by applause and no one really knew Nora, so she didn’t get any cheer besides my wild antics. At first, Nora is running all over the room and doing ballet leaps. She even got down on the floor, and spun in a circle (remember when you did that Grandpa? I do!). When the judging got came down to two kids, Nora was not even considered. Somehow she knew there was something going on between these two kids, I’m not sure what was going on in her head. Nora put all her focus on the dance, it was a sight to be seen. She danced in circles around both kids–walk it out! She did figure eights around them. She twirled to the floor and back up again. Her feet were kicking in the air like throwing stars. Her hands were so graceful, dipping and swaying. She had this smile on her face of pure happiness. The DJ could not help but to notice Nora–the other kids stopped dancing to watch (and they were older!). What struck me was not how Nora was dancing but she was so happy, she danced because of her love for dance not for competition–it was like something out of a movie, and just watching you were caught up in this dramatic moment. So she won a squeaky flower toy–and my heart.

With Loving Prayers ()-:)

Lynn Mari, © 2007.

Swervin Round the Moon: An Essay Dedicated to my Brother

A Dedication

This entry is dedicated to my brother, someone I have admired, loved and felt proud to call “my own” since I was little. My Mom once said to me that after I was born, she wanted to have a second child so I would have a friend, and someone who would be there me…and I for them. My brother has honored Mom’s dream and more… he is more than a brother but a blessing from God.

Swervin ‘Round the Moon

I found myself in all the ways I was different from my brother. I found challenges in all the ways I wanted to be like him. And somewhere between, we always came together while remaining two, unique individuals.

The earliest memory I have of my brother is seeing him dressed in his long, white baptismal gown with the lace collar and matching white lace bonnet. My brother was the most adorable baby with locks of curly black hair framing his bright, brown eyes and cheeks as round and brown as caramel rolls. I remember that my brother was lying on the floor and he was so cute, I could not resist but to lean over and kiss his chubby face. That didn’t last long because when he was older, we would fight a lot–between the times we were racing down the street on our bikes and much later, driving mom crazy with loud rap music blasting from both our rooms.

Some of the happiest memories of the past year happened when my brother let me borrow his car–a purple Scion. For a time, I felt free of the problems that led me into a shelter. Even more, I was able to get to crucial appointments, building a strong foundation for my new life. The car was not what stuck out so strongly in memory but the feeling that I had earned my brother’s trust. My brother had worked so hard for his car, and was getting married in a week–so much was going on in his life and yet when it came to family, life stopped to be supportive of each other. I hope to give back some of what was given to me.

Domestic violence is like the web of a spider. Even as you attempt to escape, the intricate web is the only life you have known, its presence is real, hanging from your limbs and memories. Sticky threads must be cut; the grasp of the web must be destroyed before you can rebuild. Some threads are so fine they can hardly be seen, yet reminders of the web linger—seeking to snare you again. The most dangerous time for a victim is escaping the abuser. Taking the first steps into your new life is far from a “Lifetime” happy ending–the challenges that arise are unimaginable to those who have never been there. Five months after fleeing the place that truly never was “home”, I was homeless (happened in thirty seconds–believe it, can happen to you), disabled and unable to work due to health concerns. I just needed a ride to one appointment, which was past the bus line and was so thankful when my brother offered me the use of his car–a purple Scion shaped like a crescent moon, the silver rims resembled glimmering stars.

One day of borrowing the car turned into two weeks–for a time, I was given respite and saw that happiness was possible. It was not so much that my brother borrowed me his car–but the intention behind it. I felt so grateful, and also excited of what life my brother would have once married. I was so proud that he had found true love, that a generation of my family would break the cycle of violence. It’s hard to put into words but knowing love is one thing–seeing it adds another dimension. I always knew what kind of person my brother is but when I saw his actions, and was gifted with a sign of his love–there was a certain excitement, and hope that carried not only into my life but what I saw for his own life, and that of his family.

These are the memories that bring a smile to my face when I think of those times:

“With the top down feeling the sounds, Quaking and vibrating your thighs, riding harder than guys…”

I truly do not understand road rage, what’s the big deal about being in your car when it can be a place of sanctuary, as cool as the room I retreated to as a teenager. I was in the midst of traffic, enjoying the moment. Soldier was blastin’ on the CD player, which I was dancing along to. For a minute, I was so into the song that I saw myself as a new member of Destiny’s Child. My reverie was broken by the unsettling feeling of being watched. My heart thudded so loudly in my chest that I could not distinguish it from the bass. The hair rose on the back of my neck as invisible eyes stared from afar. I sat up straight, playing it cool as I scanned the street, carefully noting the pitch-black shadows of the alley for any movement. To keep my courage, I continued to sing:
Better be street if he looking at me
I need a soldier
That ain’t scared to stand up for me
Known to carry big things if you know what I mean…
Sure enough I felt invisible eyes watching me. My gaze fell on a hand casually draped outside the car in the next lane, one long finger pointed in my direction. My eyes followed the long line of the finger, to an unrelenting stare of penetrating black eyes, a faded teardrop tattoo fell at one corner. A black du rag was tied low over the forehead, obscuring the face. A frantic snap-snap-snap sound followed next. From the car one shoulder leaned toward me then pulled back. The teardrop lifted in his brown face, like rain going back into a cloud–a smile. Not only was I being watched while I was making a fool of myself, turning the car into a stage fit for “American Idol” but the driver next to me was now dancing along! Something was building in me, perhaps road rage…
He don’t know it might be on tonight
Oh he looking good and he talking right (talking right)
He the type that might change my life (change my life)…I was lovin’ “road rage”, if you could call the tipped, crazy exuberance of having a dance partner to join me rockin’ to the music amidst traffic. For the past months, fear and regret had gripped my mind. I was going nowhere with these thoughts, locked in a mental traffic jam. I now saw the way through was so simple. While everyone else was grumbling and rushing through the streets, I could just ride With the top down feeling the sounds, Quaking and vibrating your thighs, riding harder than guys, losing the moment in myself.

Speak Now

My brother had been nice enough to borrow his car to me; the least I could do is get an oil change for it. While the car was being worked on, I sat in the lobby sipping a soda and reading the outrageous horoscopes in the City Pages. The City Pages is known for being controversial, and raw so I didn’t really pay heed to warning in my horoscope: Now its your turn to be in trouble and you will be too stunned to face it. I am an Aries–no one tells me what do when my horns come down, I charge–damn the consequences! The mechanic motioned me to the counter, I was ready to pay the bill and get on with the day. Why did an oil change take so long, anyways? What was going on back there, an environmental clean up? City pigeons are known for being greasy, there was no changing that! The mechanic was rushing through the paperwork. He shoved a yellow form in front of me and tapped his pen down hard on the laminate counter, indicating where I should initial. My eyes scanned the byline–talking something about not responsible for any damage. More markings, more big words, I felt an intense sting behind my eye; a thousand bees had begun to attack with a piercing headache. My brother’s beloved Scion was damaged!?! I knew my only redemption was if a tornado up and swept that car to Oz. My brother might look cool driving in the emerald green carriage pulled by the Muchkins. Or he might look like one of the Village People– white leotard, glittering shoes with a pointed toe, funky hair and the funny singing accent definately were a sign that the Munchkins had taught the Village People everything they knew. I clicked my heels three times then beat my purse on the pavement–nothing was changing this situation.

When I got to the Scion, I noticed wide, white scratches on the bottom and towards the rear of the car. My brother was getting married in less than a week, how would I tell him? I could put off the news until the wedding. Speak now or forever hold your peace would take on new meaning when a brawl ensued. My news surely would open a floodgate of other confessions. Both mothers would be on speed dial with Dr. Phil, crying their eyes into the something blue lace garter handed down or the borrowed heirloom. My brother’s massive friends, big as the stone giants of Easter Island, would erupt in a fist-fight, the pipe organ would be thrown from the balcony. My sister-in-law, more beautiful than an Estee Lauder bride in a white satin dress with diamonds glittering on her chenille veil would never forgive me–I’d receive fruitcake every Christmas and dead flowers on my birthday. No, I resolved, I could not do that to my brother–my cute brother in the billowing baptismal gown, my brother who wrote his own songs on the Rapmaster key board, my brother who been there for me through everything; more thick than thin…

I carefully drove the Scion to an auto body shop–avoiding potholes, major streets, and dive bombing pigeons. The City Pages lay sprawled on the narrow, wooden table in the lobby; I sought to distract myself in its sordid tales. The technician came back, a lopsided smile on his face–was this good or bad news? I only had a few coins in my pocket. As I dug for a few loose bills, the City Pages spilled open to the back pages. A brunette with her mouth hanging open drew my attention to the bold headlines decorated with buxom women with big curls and sultry lips. Ads called for “attractive girls with appropriate temperament” and promised “day shift with free parking downtown, a discreet rear entrance”.

I reluctantly stood and followed the technician to the Scion. He knelt near the rear bumper, bringing a fingernail to a white mark, long as a fifty-yard line. When he muttered something about “just wax” I leap up then hugged him, tackling the poor guy to the ground…guess I had a talent for “appropriate temperament”.

Vamos: Another Thirty Second Relocation

After nearly a month of delay, the shelter I applied for, and received emergency assistance for the deposit, had come through. When I went down to the office of the shelter to tell the staff, my notice was immediately put in–pack my bags, vamos, lets go. In thirty seconds, or less, I would be moved out. Understand, every night the shelters are full; families with children find themselves juggling for space when a bed becomes available. County homeless shelters are also full–people are housed in empty schools or churches, anywhere someone is willing to donate room. Every night, the need increases. Amidst the luxury library in downtown Minneapolis, the proposals for billion dollar sports stadiums, and increased funding for corporate welfare and state funded art projects the needs of poor and victimized are overlooked. Welfare has a five-year lifetime limit—while corporations are given huge grants from tax payer’s hard earned money with no assurance of repayment, let alone any limits. Shelter life is just “shelter”, there are no extras. Most of the food is served past its expiration date (saves money), some is donated from public school lunches–other schools sell leftover lunches to farmers to be used as pig slop. I have slept on mattresses on dirty linoleum floors. I have seen the blankets given to families being used on other mattresses when new people come in–never washed or sanitized. Bunk beds in rooms crowded with up to eight people are also common–the extra space is used to squeeze in a toddler bed or a crib. Some people would cringe, but knowing you are safe is a blessing. You don’t cringe–you fight for survival.

I didn’t have much to pack: just the food in the fridge, a notebook filled with poetry, and the one bag I was allowed to have under my bunk. I said my “good-byes” to the women that had become like family to me and made my way towards the Scion. The sky had begun to darken as I put my key in the ignition, rolled down all the windows and turned up Angie Martinez in the CD player…
If I can go, contigo, I’ll pack my things, soon as you say
Baby vamos, we’ll fly away, like there is no, no tomorrow
If I can go, contigo, I’ll tell my friends, nothing at all…The neighborhood would not be familiar to me, I could not tell anyone of the shelter. Leaving the shelter in so much silence made me feel like the time I spent there never happened. I made my way to the highway, speeding past roads that once led to the place that truly never was “home”. I looked forward, towards the twinkling lights on the horizon of skyscrapers, leading home. My hair flew like a wayward cloud, whipping over my shoulders. Somehow I had lost my dreams, lost my voice. I didn’t want to follow those old roads, leading into the shadows. There was something ahead for me–possibility, hope, and a future.

I smiled to myself at the irony–the number on the new shelter is the same number on the old shelter. The silver key felt so light in my hand. I squeezed it hard to assure I was not dreaming. Click, click the door opens. My new shelter had empty rooms, perfect for dancing across: “And a seat, know why? The window cause I like to see. And seein as to how I’m so fly me and the clouds can speak.” That night I camped out on the floor, like a kid at a slumber party. My bag made a nice pillow. The next night I warmed the shelter by cooking in my new oven–sweet and sour ribs with onion and green pepper, a concoction based on a family recipe with my own twist. Macaroni and cheese bubbled in a pan next to the ribs; my first home cooked meal felt like a miracle. For almost a month I would have no furniture, save a cast off office chair. That was fine with me. I zoomed across my house on the black, plastic wheels. I would take many trips in the Scion, filling it from top to bottom like an overstuffed piñata, bringing my stuff home:
Ok, that little place it’s a great move
But ain’t no problems, unless the water don’t stay blue…It was funny how much I collected–shopping at the free store for the homeless, anticipating this moment. I liked to think that the best memories followed those donated items to their new homes–times of closeness, of love; that a sense of family would be imparted to me.

The Purpose

When I was a child, I felt such a purpose in caring for those who didn’t have anybody else, those who felt misunderstood or unpopular or different. I adopted my brother’s GI Joes into my “Barbie orphanage”. It was a cool orphanage because we shared a Michael Jackson record player, and I spun disco 45s for the orphanage. Billy Ocean, a Taste of Honey, Stevie Wonder–the place was rockin’. My brother was so patient with me, even when he wanted to rough house like a boy, he made time for me. When I was a teenager I stood up for causes, speaking out when no one else would. I read books preparing for the day I would be able to make a difference for others in the world–everything from history to psychology to spirituality. I volunteered. I danced, and dreamed. Even later, when we were grown, when his life veered off into other directions, my brother would never be too far away. Though I knew this, I hid my life from him…projecting a smile so big, I believed it myself: I was happy while my life was falling apart. To be a warrior, first you must bleed.

More than anything, I have learned the most from the love given unconditionally given to me. My brother could have borrowed me a bus token, and not a car, and it would have meant just as much because his intention was out of love. My Mom wanted a second child to be a support to me but just the same she wanted me to be a support, a strength as “big sister”. Though life has brought me to some difficult places, I did not “loose” my dreams nor did I “loose” myself. Rather I chose to let go of that which does not serve me so I may be able to become empowered, and truly give to others from a level of love, true love that endures after testing and challenges–not fear. In that way, my role of “big sister” has grown, to be a source of family for others in need. Grin* Though I must say what comes may include embarrassing stories, and from time to time may require tolerance for the spirited antics that I have not quite outgrown!

“If I Could Go”, Angie Martinez: Animal House. Released, 2002. Elektra/Wea.
“Soldier”, Destiny’s Child: #1’s. Released 2005, Sony/Sony Urban.

Lessons from the Generations of My Family

“Authentic power is being fully engaged in the present moment. It is being creative without limitation. It is enjoying the company of all life. It is caring and being cared for. It is being aware of everything you are feeling, all of the time. It is living in joy… Authentic power is the human experience without the limitations of fear, self-doubt, and self-hatred.” – Gary Zukav and Linda Francis, “The Heart of the Soul: Emotional Awareness”, p. 31-32.

What I learned from generations of strong women…

A Family Legacy of Love, Loss and Determination

Just as the memories fill my mind they evaporate into a numb sense of nothing. Then the CD begins to play and Blu Cantrell’s soulful voice fills my living room. “So Blu” starts out fast, the lyrics are sung in a combination of rap and jazz, it’s really unique how Blu Cantrell pulls this off so well. Again, I am called to remember. Only this time, several generations of women, from my family, offer their stories, their experiences. I am pulled into a circle of women–a shared experience of love, loss and the determination to move on.

“You see me at the bottom trying to get on top, You see me at the club, you know I used to rock, You see me crying tears, Lord, make ‘em stop, You see the sun shine but never on my block, You see I’m trying to grow, Let me get ahead….” My thoughts turn back to Grandma Dee. She was known to be a very beautiful woman who loved music, and loved to go dancing. I heard she had a dimple in one cheek (like DP, who is named for her). In many ways, the memory of Grandma Dee is protected by the family–as if her siblings are looking out for their little sister even though she has died long ago. An older uncle–the brother of Grandma Dee–told me that she always wanted to be a mother, to have a house of her own and a family to cook for. She had struggled early in life, the daughter of a cropper who was required to work from a young age and later left the farm to work in a coal mine near Birmingham. Shortly after Grandma Dee returned home, she met Grandpa Bud. Grandpa Bud was working in a sawmill. He was known to be very handsome, and quiet. I have heard that my grandparents were very passionately in love, that even when they fought there was always a special connection between them. Grandma Dee had to use her wits and sense of survival to make a life for her family in the midst of hardships that did not seem to ease. I reflected on Grandma Dee, at my age she would have three children and beginning her life as a married woman. She would have taken the last name of Ford, and all the ghosts that came with it. She would be dreaming of a future with Grandpa Bud, only to end in tragedy. I don’t know if Grandma Dee saw signs that something was not right, she died before I was born.

“I’m trying to find a man, Trying to find a ring, Trying to find someone that loves me more than their bling bling, Trying to be a wife, Trying to make a life, Trying to get in touch with my spirtual side, Trying to have your back….” I thought of Big Momma, the mother of Grandpa Bud. I did not know my family in Alabama until years after Big Momma had died. I have heard that Big Momma looked like she was an Indian, with two long braids curling down her shoulders and that she used to sing spirituals. When I searched census records for my family, another side of Big Momma’s life emerged. Big Momma was the only child of Sarah Jane Martin and Simon Robbins, born in the 1890’s. I was told that Big Momma’s parents died when she was young and that relatives raised her. There are few family stories to tell how Big Momma was raised, or what her life was like growing up. Big Momma fell in love with Pettus Ford when she was still a young girl. Pettus Ford is a mystery in my family–no one remembers him, and there are no records to prove he ever lived. Pettus Ford was mixed, his family came from Perry County, and he is said to have been a wanderer–going from place to place. Pettus Ford left Big Momma when she was pregnant, and would not raise the son that was born. Shortly after she gave birth, Big Momma was working the fields in order to provide for her new baby. Working the fields because you never got ahead as a cropper–you always owed somebody. Big Momma raised six children on her own, bought a house in the city on her own. Faith and determination saw her through. I always respected Big Momma for that–her spirit, her determination, her faith provided a well of strength to draw from.

“You see me hustlin’ for every cent I got, You see I never sleep until I reach the top, You see I can’t slow down because you know it’s real, You see I can’t stop here, I gotta make a mil, I’m fitna be a woman that stands the test of time, Ain’t afraid to say I’m fitna blow ya mind …” Then my thoughts turn to my Aunt Lettie, the daughter of Big Momma. When I was young, I was always told the story of how my father grew up in a very poor family, raised by an uncle who had children of his own to care for then adopted eight more children after his sister, Grandma Dee, died at a young age. I was told that every Christmas, the children were given the gift of an orange. The orange was a special treat that came only at Christmas–it was looked forward to every year. This was the earliest memory I had of the Fords. I later learned that Aunt Lettie sent a crate of oranges to the children every year at Christmas. Even though Aunt Lettie lived far away, and after the death of her brother would not see the children very often, she never forgot them. In fact, Aunt Lettie offered to raise the Ford children after the death of their parents. Though a generous offer, things just didn’t work that way. Aunt Lettie was a woman who cared for others, even if she didn’t receive the same kind of love back. Through Aunt Lettie, Nile was introduced to older relatives, and various branches of our family. Through Aunt Lettie, stories about our family were passed down to Nile. From Auntie Lettie, a seed was planted in Nile to question her history and seek the stories of our family. I felt a similar calling. So much of Aunt Lettie is within my family research, and the memories I now gather. I am so grateful for her.

Letting Go of a Life That Never Was

Less than twenty-four hours after hearing “So Blu” and thinking of my family history, my life would forever change. Indeed, I had been given a sign. The women of my family had warned me–women who recognized the signs early on, and imparted their own memories to strengthen me for the challenges I was to face.

I am moving on with my life, choosing to stay positive. In staying positive, I acknowledge the blessings and lessons that have given me strength and tools to use during this time of challenge. I am blessed to be a daughter of a lineage of such strong, determined, beautiful and spiritual women. Women whose ability to love was not diminished by loss. Women who raised their children by the Bible. Women who took on the work of a man to provide for the family, to build a better future for the next generations. Women of deep faith in God, who, despite all challenges, impressed a sense of hope and possibility in their children that was passed down to the next generations. I am blessed to be a daughter of such a lineage of women whose love, tragedy, sacrifice and effort have shaped my own life in a positive direction. So blessed that my family research has come alive in my life–as being more than a piece of paper or a photo, but become a part of who I am as a woman, as a mother, as a spark of creativity and change in this world. In the midst of my struggles and loss, I am supported by these women.

Lynn Mari, © May 2006

For More Information:

Black Families of Alabama’s Black Belt: http://www.prairiebluff.com/blackbelt/

Blu Cantrell, So Blu: 2001. Blu Cantrell is a R&B/Soul musician. In 2001, So Blu was certified gold. The songs on So Blu deal with love, heartache, revenge and hope. The video for “Hit ‘Em Up Style (Ooops!) is hilarious. In the video, when Blu catches her boyfriend cheating she decided to break his heart, and the bank with his credit card. Songs on this CD also include: Hit ‘Em Up Style (Ooops!), So Blu and The One.

Blu Cantrell Lyrics
http://www.lyricsdomain.com/2/blu_cantrell/

Growing Beyond Emotional Abuse-Resources for Healing the Scars of Emotional Abuse
http://www.webheights.net/GrowingbeyondEmotionalAbuse/

Symptoms of Emotional Abuse
http://www.lilaclane.com/relationships/emotional-abuse/

The Underclass Debate: Views from History. Edited by Michael B. Katz. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1992

Zukav, Gary and Francis, Linda. The Heart of the Soul: Emotional Awareness. New York, New York: FIRESIDE, 2002.
Website: Seat of the Soul http://zukav.com/

Our Children are a Blessing: Faith, Motherhood & the Childhood of Jesus

(This Christmas letter was sent out awhile back…)

I am happy to have found The Creek Church and made new friends there. During one sermon, the Pastor was talking about how Jesus often performed miracles among ordinary events—that people didn’t need to look far, or search for thunderbolts crashing in the clouds, because God is with us always.

Thinking of that sermon, I reflect on Jesus during different points in life. Sometimes Jesus is handy with a plunger. Yelling “Stop! Stop!” didn’t do any good because DP shoved something in the toilet anyways. Sometimes Jesus is the friend, at the other end of the prayer, whose shoulder I can cry on. Sometimes Jesus is the cheerleader (really cool how he can set those pom-poms on fire with just a wiggle of the eyebrow) giving me encouragement or hope. But right now, Jesus is a toddler.

The Childhood of Jesus

Watching DP and Nora grow so much during the year, literally taking leaps and bounds with each step, has made me wonder what Jesus was like as a child.

Small hands grasp the edges of the soft, wool blanket wrapped around him. Somehow the covers have loosened in the night, and he is cold. The cradle rocks with his first, sleepy movements. The world around him is still blurry to his newborn eyes. He reaches for the edge of the blanket; small fingers push its softness into his mouth. Slurp! Slurp! Not what he is looking for…his toes, still tucked beneath the blanket are warm and red. He is drawn to the warmth, and lifts his leg to bring one dimpled foot towards his mouth. Slurp! Slurp! Not what he is looking for…what else is there to do but to cry? With a mighty exhale of the lungs a swell of tears course over his cheeks. Mother has awakened to tend to her sweet baby. He sighs contentedly when he is lifted into her arms.

He looks forward to going to the marketplace, a place of excitement. Women stand shoulder to shoulder, bargaining with vendors. Men gather at the tavern for a cool drink and news brought back from afar. For a small boy—there are whole worlds contained within the activity, the colors, and the smells (the baked fig pastries are among his favorite of the marketplace). Mother kept a close eye on him; one hand was clasped on the sleeve of his robe. He saw a ray of hope when a woman in a blue robes with flowery trim turned to wave—Auntie. Mother stopped to chat. Their conversation would turn to a gentle lull then he would slip away… He had to be quick, for his chubby legs couldn’t run fast, but if he crept low enough he could sneak out of her grasp. Mother turns away, loosening her grip. In a second, he is dashing between the heavy stalls, rolling in the sand, and enjoying the freedom of the open air. He can hear Mother calling her voice tight with frustration. She will send one of the older brothers to catch him. When older, he will not have the urge to run away; instead he will chat with the men, who are amused by a young boy so interested in the world around him.

My thoughts about Jesus as a child are endless… What were the first words Jesus spoke? Did Jesus ever get into trouble, and how do you give the Son of God a spanking? What kind of toys or games kept Jesus entertained? Did Jesus even feel like a child? These questions led me on a journey, both in motherhood and in faith.

Motherhood

Quite unexpectedly, I received an insight. One night I put Nora to bed, and cuddled next to her. The winter sky was clear with moonlight shimmering through purple clouds. As I said a “good-night” prayer to Nora, she lifted a small hand and tugged at my hair. The answer seemed so simple—unconditional love. Throughout his adventures, mischief and growth—Jesus was learning. All of these experiences, beginning in childhood, became the foundation for which Jesus would reach out to humanity through his ministry. Unconditional love guided Jesus to walk on this Earth, embody the human experience, and through his death, receive salvation for all. Our children are a blessing, to open our hearts to give and receive unconditional love, and through love gain a deeper connection to God.

Update: The children and I can no longer attend The Creek due to unforeseen circumstances. I want to thank The Creek family for their support (Nora’s dedication certificate is beautiful, thank you!), and for the happy memories I will always have. The Lord has blessed the children and I to find a new a new church, where we are welcomed as family. –I look forward to continuing my journey in faith; wherever God leads me.

The Creek Community Church: Maple Grove, MN
http://www.thecreekchurch.com/

Lynn Mari, ©2007

Inspirations:

“Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb is a reward.” — Psalm 127:3.

“Our family moves in different directions throughout the day, like a river that branches into many tribuataries. And I must struggle to accept that God’s grace flows with small stream…and in the end, we will all be united into the great ocean of His love. “– “By the Water: A Collection of Prayers for Everyday”, Ellyn Sanna, p. 36.

5/7/2006: Meet the Pussycat Dolls 3

About the Pussycat Dolls:

Kimberly Wyatt was born in in Warrensburg, Missouri, a small town near the Ozarks. She began dancing at age seven, and has become well-known for her jazzy moves.

Links: http://www.starpulse.com/Music/Pussycat_Dolls/Biography/

http://www.pcdworld.co.uk/biographies/kimberly.html

Jessica Sutta was born and raised in Miami, Florida. Her background is a colorful mixture of Polisn, Irish, Russian and Catholic Jewish. She studied dance and theatre. In 2001, Jessica was the captain of the Miami Heat dance troupe. In 2002, Jessica moved to LA where she met Robin Antin and eventually became a member of the PCD.

Links: http://www.artistdirect.com/nad/music/artist/bio/0,,3218517,00.html

Ashley Roberts is from Phoenix, Arizona. She began dancing at the age of 3 and also has performed in two movies: “Be Cool” in 2005 and “A Good Baby” in 2000.

Links: http://www.aceshowbiz.com/celebrity/the_pussycat_dolls/biography.html

Nicole Elikolani Prescovia Scherzinger a.k.a. Nicole Kea, lead singer, She is from Honolulu, Hawaii. Her father is Filipino and her mother is Hawaiian and Russian. She also is known for being the lead singer of Eden’s Crush.

Links: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicole_Scherzinger

http://www.askmen.com/women/singer_300/313_nicole_scherzinger.html

Carmit Bachar was born in Los Angeles, California. Her ethnicity is Israeli, Dutch and Indonesian. She is a well known dance and gymnast.Carmit was born with a cleft lip and palate and aspires to form a non-profit youth organization called “Smile With Me” for children born with cleft palate.

(Side Note: Taking high doses of prednisone early in pregnancy will interfere with the bone growth of an unborn child & may cause cleft palate. I was on prednisone in my first trimester when pregnant with Jaelynn and the doctor never told me the risks! When I found out, I immediately stopped the medicine & found a new doctor.)

Links: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0045377/bio

http://summercancer13.tripod.com/id1.html

Melody Thornton was born in Phoenix, Arizona. Her father is African-American and her mother is Mexican. She is a well-known singer who grew up listening to mariachi music. Melody is proud to represent both her African American and Mexican heritage in the PCD.

Links: http://www.starpulse.com/Music/Pussycat_Dolls/Biography/

http://www.pcdworld.co.uk/biographies/melody.html