tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63914280970951700632023-11-15T05:51:05.690-08:00Writin' Black from the AcademyMrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-9682230836776164552011-12-29T13:57:00.000-08:002011-12-29T14:22:53.217-08:00BON VOYAGE!My brother died today. Well, he's actually been dead a day or two. The brain scan was flat--a straight line. Kent's body "lives" only via machines. They will be turned off later today. I loved this brother of mine. We share an abusive father and a middle name. Kent was there for me during the most difficult time of my younger life. No woman could have had a better brother. We met late in life. I was a teenager; he was grown. Our connection was immediate, deep and strong. The years and family drama often separated us for long periods of time, but we remained deeply connected at the heart and in the mind. <br /><br />Last Saturday, he sent a one line email. "Having surgery on Tuesday. Wish me luck." It was such an unusual gesture that I called him a few days later. We laughed, talked about the surgery, and I reminded him that "only the good die young." He laughed again.<br /><br /> He was fine immediately after the surgery. Talked to his daughters. Tried to walk a bit. He was moving out of ICU into another room. Suddenly; without warning, he collapsed. And now we prepare for his services.<br /><br />I didn't know that I'd be so sad. I've been consumed with goodbyes, partings and "bon voyages," but this is not a journey I expected. I've decided to leave before I take my extended leave to attend my brother's funeral. I feel no obligation. What I feel is the desire to participate in the formal ritual that celebrates his life. I feel the strongest desire to be with his daughters--my nieces whom I barely know and express my love for their father and for them. My nieces just lost their mother two months ago. Death is cruel. I want to hug his 90+ year old mother, who has now lost two of her three children, and thank her for sharing those children with me. I want to stand with our sister, who now faces life without the siblings with whom she grew.<br /><br />Perhaps the good DO die young. Perhaps they do. Rest in peace, James Kent Jordan, III. Rest in peace my dearest brother. I am so very grateful to have known and loved you.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-27290870875124745632011-12-12T07:38:00.001-08:002011-12-12T08:21:26.404-08:00I recognize the movement of time in ways that I haven't before. Time used to creep along--tick. tick. tick. Now, one godchild is a man with children of his own; another, seemingly born yesterday, is already nine years old. I see myself aging, but I feel like me. I'm not afraid of age; I rather enjoy the privileges of aging. Mostly what I feel each day is an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my life and for the lives of those who have touched me. There are people I love who would likely say otherwise. For example, I've fought (likely an understatement) with someone very dear to me for nearly ten years. We've fought about stuff, mostly politics and issues. We've fought about work stuff; we're annoyed by the reflections of ourselves that we see in the other. Retirement allows me to put down the armor and embrace my friend--tell her that all our hard times were the consequence of roles we played rather than our hearts. I'm grateful for family, QUEER FAMILY in particular. We've found a home, of sorts. We're male and female, straight and gay, young and not-so young. Some of us are actively grieving; others are grieving in other kinds of ways. Nevertheless, we laugh and love and eat and drink together. I'm grateful. It comes at a perfect time. Family lost; family gained.<br /><br />I'm grateful for the clarity with regard to relationships. Grateful for the privilege of asking forgiveness and seeking forgiveness. Grateful for the clarity that allows me to understand when I have or might have been wrong; when I have wounded, intentionally or not. Apologizing isn't painful. Harboring ill will is. I'm grateful for the clarity that helps me understand that years and history are not necessarily a foundation upon which a steadfast and loving friendship is built; neither offers a solid basis for a relationship. Time is just that--time. It accounts for something, but it can't hold an improbable relationship together. I'm grateful that I can be comfortable with the reality that there are some people who just don't like me. Some are people with whom I've never had a conversation or disagreement. I'm grateful that I've determined which relationships are essential, and that I'm able to let others go. I'm grateful that I'm willing to fight for the relationships that really mean something to me.<br /><br />There are few people more different in manner, temperament and way of being in the world than my partner and me. Bunny and I spend our days in endless spats over the most ridiculous things you can imagine: "Why did you leave your book on that table." "Why don't you stop ordering me around?" Blah, blah, blah. Oh yeah, it's real stuff. We were middle-aged when we met; we fell into a relationship kicking and screaming; I was severely bruised from an abusive relationship, and she endured a year or so of absolute craziness with me. She's controlling as hell; I refuse to be controlled. I don't share enough information with her before I make a decision; I've diagnosed her OCD. We're both "set in our ways." I've actually been leaving and getting my own place for the past 16 years. I've never made good on that promise. I travel; she doesn't. I'm loud; she's not. I live out loud; she's relatively private. I'm a people person; she rarely remembers a human's name. So why? Every, single morning when I awaken, and every, single evening when I go to sleep, I am absolutely certain that she loves me. She's loyal, steadfast, and she LIKES me. We're friends. Best friends. I need her. I adore her. I can't imagine my life without her, even though I'm still going to leave and go get my own place today and tomorrow and the day after that.<br /><br />It's daunting to imagine leaving her for 4 months while I travel abroad. It's the one sadness with regard to this trip I'm about to take. My time with her is so precious; I don't want to waste or squander a minute of it, but we need to do the things that broaden our worlds, that feed our spirits and our souls. Our love will carry us through this brief separation, and I'll return with stories to share and appreciation for her understanding of my desire to do this. She's the best. Lord, she works my nerves, but I've got a universe of love for her and a heart full of gratitude for all she is and does for me. I'll miss her so much; the longing has already begun. I lay awake and listen to her breathe and want to change my mind about the trip. Too late. I have to believe that everything is going to be all right.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-63364284407217333242011-12-10T11:59:00.000-08:002011-12-10T12:50:48.047-08:00"MY TIME IS IN THY HANDS"I feel strangely drawn to old traditions, even those I think I've rejected. I'm happy. I AM HAPPY. And that's all inclusive. Yes, there are always sadnesses and sufferings; that's the stuff of life, but, for me, happiness isn't a life without sadness or suffering. That's dead, actually. Happiness is learning to live in such a way that the realities of living don't slay us. We get up and begin again. We smile and we hope. I love being alive. I can't think of anything I want; there's nothing I need. My problems are those of my friends--persons dear to me who suffer from illness or tensions in relationships or loss of loved ones. In some cases, I can literally feel their pain; in others, I can't. But this isn't the point. When I face those situations and occasions over which I have no control, I've found myself turning to (and I can hardly write the word) prayer.<br /><br />Now here's a disclaimer. I know the word conjures up all kinds of religious images. I can hear folks say I'm getting old (true that) and scared of dying (not quite yet). I feel sheepish about it and still unsure about what it all means. I tried to pray when my mother was dying. Maybe I did pray, but I didn't ask whomever or whatever I prayed to extend her life much as I would love to have her here right now. I have two friends who are quite ill. One believes in something (Something?); the other claims no religious beliefs. Though I've been away from organized religon for many years, I wonder what folks do when they face that thing, that HUGE and unfathomable thing that no human can help or soothe or solve. I wonder.<br /><br />A dear friend gave me a book on prayer. "writing to GOD" is subtitled "40 Days of Praying with my Pen." She knows me well. Knows that I'm thinking about praying--what it is and what it means and why I'm thinking about it--and she knows I love to write what I want; when I want. I've only opened the book once, but I'm acutely conscious of its presence on my shelf. I confess that I ordered another book on prayer. It's a prayer journal. It's stuffed safely in my trip bag. I'd decided that I'd begin writing at the beginning of the new year. I've changed my mind. I go to sleep and awaken thinking about praying and hearing the prayers of the good "sisters" in my church tradition. I've also thought often about St. Paul, who, as many know, really gets on my nerves. Some of the words attributed to Paul poke and prod. At the moment, and for several days, I'm stuck on "pray without ceasing." What the hell does that mean?<br /><br />I'm determined to figure out what's nagging me, disturbing my peace and peace of mind. Adding to rather than subtracting from my joy. I've repaired some relationships, asked forgiveness in others, set things right even if the settin' was rejected. I've done what I need to do. EXCEPT there's this idea of praying without ceasing to a god/God/Gods/gods/divinity I don't know if I know or where to find it because I can assure you it ain't likely in no church no where that I know.<br /><br />What I do know is that praying doesn't have to be on knees, uttering stock words and phrases to something. It ain't begging for a miracle in my life or anyone else's. If I do have a prayer it is to let me be content in whatever state I find myself (yeah, I think that's Paul again). It ain't "Jesus don't let me suffer," but rather "whoever or whatever you are, please let me learn how to suffer with grace and dignity and gratitude for the wonder and joy I have known. " No, I don't believe that "what don't kill you will make you stronger." I didn't need all of the pain that I've suffered. I don't believe that I've learned anything from some of that pain. It was just pure unadulterated evil perpetrated, and we've all seen more than enough of that. What I do know is that we learn to survive by surviving; we understand our strength often during our moments of great weakness.<br /><br />Happiness is not a destination. We don't just arrive at happy and take up residence. Happy doesn't mean that all is perfect in my world. Happy doesn't mean that my life can't change quicker than I can type the next letter. Maybe prayer is an ultimate expression of gratitude for whatever your happy is. For each day I am drenched in gratitude--unspeakable gratitude for being loved by entities known and unknown.<br /><br />Bless be the tie that binds.........Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-76150244267269825022011-12-08T18:45:00.000-08:002011-12-08T19:14:27.325-08:00NEW LIFEAfter 25 years, I think I'm beginning to feel like a person again-- a real human being. Not a representative or a symbol; not a token or a "diverse" person or "multicultural." I'm not fighting any battles, championing any causes, mentoring "colored people" from various places and at various stages of their student, faculty or staff careers. I don't have to speak for the untenured or for students who have been leveled by the unexpected ravages of racism, sexism or homophobia. I just get to be me, Margaret, whoever that is. I've worn this mantle so long that I'm not quite sure who I am without it. What I do know is that it's been a long time since I've felt so free; even longer since I've had the opportunity to refrain from speaking or entering the fray. That's what my impending retirement has given me. I get to keep the best part of my job--teaching and students--and leave the rest behind.<br /><br />As I go through each day, I feel the load lighten. I lose the baggage of unkind people and unpleasant relationships. I lose the leeches, who suck the blood and life, and once they've used you up, they move on. I lose those who take and refuse to give in return. I've gained a beautiful "queer family" that envelops me with love and laughter and caring--men and women who simply enjoy being together, preparing and eating food, loving life. There are days that I feel like Saul, scales falling from my eyes; seeing--really seeing for the first time. I'm finally creating a life here--one that bears little resemblance to what I've experienced for the 11 years I've been here this time.<br /><br />I'm about to leave for a great adventure--a 4 month voyage on a floating campus. I'm so excited; I'm so scared. I'll miss my family desparately. My partner, Mrs. B., in particular. We've never been apart for longer than 3 weeks, but this is something I need to do. The sea restores and cleanses; it rejuvenates the soul and the spirit. This adventure requires a blog of its own.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-55238785924459948802011-11-04T20:12:00.001-07:002011-11-04T21:01:29.646-07:00THIS WEEK'S LESSONSIf I stay here long enough, I swear I'll be convinced that I'm stone nuts. I may be, but the critical piece is that I'm not yet convinced. I attended a lecture today entitled "Beyond Forgiveness." It's a topic in which I have great interest not only because I need and seek forgiveness, but also because I need to forgive. In other words, I remain in a perpetual state of humanness. The philosopher posited that we have moved beyond what he called a traditional notion of forgiveness that is/was based in religion (mainly Christianity). Old forgiveness required interaction between "sin" and the divine. Beyond forgiveness removes the "sin" and the divine. Forgiveness becomes a function self-help or self-healing. The talk was challenging, and I'm not doing it justice, but I'm tied to traditional forgiveness, contrition, repentance. If this is religious (and I don't believe it is), then that's okay.<br /><br />I've lost several "friends" during the past two years, or perhaps I'll say I've lost people with whom I used to interact from time to time. At least one of my closest friends suggests that my way of being in the world alienates people. I'm too harsh, honest to a fault, intense. I do, however, bring that same intensity to love and friendship, and I'm as hard on me as I am anyone else.<br /><br />I wish I could figure out who people want me to be. Rare is the occasion when I simply insert myself into the lives and affairs of others. Under most circumstances, I'm invited in via conversation and confidence. I listen and usually try to help. When I'm involved, I'm there--in deep, working hard to slog through the mire with my friends. I never seem to cross the line when I'm giving my time or my money or my service. I've never had anyone disassociate because I've given too much. Nope. It's when I speak to something that seems, in my world, to be immoral or unethical or just wrong. There's the rub. Rare is the occasion when you can look a person in her eye and offer a negative criticism--then you're harsh, hard, cranky, crabby.<br /><br />I so look forward to boarding that big ship in a few weeks (yes, weeks). I need a change. I need new critical eyes and ears. I need to feel as though I'm starting fresh and clean; trying myself out on another bunch of people; doing a reality check. I have equal doses of excitement and fear. I can't bear the thought of being away from my sweetie for such a long time, but I do so want to go on this voyage.<br /><br />This is what I've learned this week:<br /><br /> Ethnicity trumps longstanding friendships, showers, babies, loyalty, and years of listening to someone's sorrows and woes.<br /><br />My gut is never wrong. If it says something ain't right, it ain't. I should always listen to it.<br /><br />People don't always stop speaking because they're angry; sometimes it's because they know you've told the truth; sometimes it's shame.<br /><br />Some people are mean, nasty, spiteful, hateful, gossiping liars--even those who have accepted your love and generosity, and sometimes KARMA doesn't work.<br /><br />Some people are just stupid. If I notice that I'm not on your FACEBOOK page, I'll likely NOT just assume that you have a personal issue with me. What I'll do is ask this question: "Why am I no longer your friend on FB"? FACEBOOK isn't life. It's FB.<br /><br />Connected to the preceding discovery is the ever-growing desire to deactivate and unfriend yet again. Many of my friends are losing interest in FB. I may be hooked, however. I do know that FB is worse than email for serious communication.<br /><br />As the time for my official relationship to SLU as a tenured faculty member draws to a close, I've not had one hint of misgiving. Now is the time--the right time. I even attended a faculty meeting for the first time in nearly two years. Didn't do a thing for me. Nada.<br /><br />I wish I were going to be here for Andy's wedding. Don't know why I want to be there so much. Just do.<br /><br />Concentrating on failed relationships is like focusing on the 3 terrible teaching evaluations in a bunch of 70. It's not the eval itself that's troubling; it's the sense of failure. Relationships require tending, care, water and sun, lots and lots of questions and conversations, deep personal investment in another's being. But relationships take more than one person to keep them going strong.<br /><br />There are other things that I've learned this week, but I need to sleep. <br /><br />"Love without conditions; mercy unmeasured."Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-12020999957097439962011-09-09T08:00:00.000-07:002011-09-11T07:51:53.398-07:00FINDING FAMILY?My biological father was a man with no redeeming qualities. I mean it. I met him when I was 15 and fascinated with the idea of having a father again. My beloved stepfather, whom I grew up believing to be my father, died when I was 13. Although the lie about my paternal origins came out when I was 10, my love for Daniel Bass, my daddy, was so deep and so strong that I thought I'd never recover from the revelation. Even when death tragically took Daddy from me, I refused to entertain the possibility of a replacement--even a biological one. Neediness and deprivation got the best of me, and by 15, I wanted the love and promise that my father offered. In four short years of sporadic contact, a gift here and there, and no financial support, I wished I'd never met the man. He was a man without an ethical impulse, without a conscience, without any sense of what it means to love. He was cruel to his spouse, the children of his legal marriage, and even his very young grandchildren. For those of us who were his "bastards," the degrees of deception, unkindness and meanness are unspeakable. He is my shining example of depravity.<br /><br />I have, from time to time, wondered about my "siblings." I know the two remaining children of the marriage. I also know of 4 other bastard children. All are considerably younger than I. I met one of them when he was 2 and I was 19. Without a word of introduction, I looked at that child's face and knew he was my brother. I saw my face in his. I remember their mother as kind and caring, and, like my mother, absolutely clueless about the man whom she was "going to marry." Twelve years and 3 children later, he bought her house (with his children in it) in a foreclosure sale, and that sweet woman found herself and those 4 children (1 of whom was an infant) homeless and on a fast train down south to her parents. The children grew; the mother never recovered from the deception, the shock, the shame and the cruelty.<br /><br />Four of the six siblings have come into my life during the past 4 months. It's my fault. I opened one door, and three others opened within minutes. The ones who didn't know our father want to know what I know; the one who grew up with him wants to talk about our lives; there is one who dislikes gay people (she loves Jesus, of course): the youngest one is sad, lonely, the outcast. All are involved in various kinds of drama, and I've seen our father even in my brief conversations with them--the meanness, the lack of compassion and empathy, the inability to forgive. "We're family," they say, and that's a notion I'm unwilling to accept. We're biologically related, but it takes more than that to be family. The negotiations proceed: Who can see whom? Who speaks to whom? Who wants to meet? Who's not interested? Although I'll admit that the biological tug and my curiosity are strong, everything in my head tells me to run like hell. What I wish for is that romanticized notion of loving siblings, reunions and gatherings. I already know it's too late for that. They are fractured, dysfunctional, and there is so little evidence of love among them.<br /><br />I can only be me. I'm already begging forgiveness from people I don't know for wrongs I'm not sure I committed. "You don't need me," I say, and they don't. "You don't love me," I say, and they can't. I don't want to spend my time making a relationship with people with whom I have nothing in common but a sperm donor. I don't want to remember our father. I don't want to recount my experiences with him. I don't want to hear another giggle when I tell one of them what he did to me. I don't want to ignore or pretend or make it pretty or make him anything other than the despicable man he was. And so my decision is to simply let go. They have all found each other. I made that possible. That is my gift to them. My gift to me is the gift of peace--of gratitude for the family that I found at 15, for my partner, my real and true friends, for my pups and kitty.<br /><br />I wish those with whom I share that biological connection all good luck and good fortune. I hope they find all they seek. This is not a road I will walk again. Doris and Colleen walked me through that darkness. I won't go back again. Not now. Not ever.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-24803420924199184222011-08-22T19:27:00.000-07:002011-08-22T19:42:43.867-07:00AND SOUTHERN ACCENTS...And to this very present day, I have a visceral response to a white woman with a southern accent. It puts me on alert, makes me immediately suspicious and mistrustful. We rehearsed the lessons and rules of the system daily, and especially with my brother. The southern white woman--any white woman, actually, represented the threat of death to any black boy or man. One scream, one lie, one misinterpretation could be the cause of his death. Emmett Till didn't know the rules.
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<br />That sweet, sugar-coated smile and that slow drawl were dangerous weapons. We learned to beware, be cautious, do anything they asked and say absolutely nothing. Head down.
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<br />You may argue that I've been wandering in worlds of whiteness for my entire adult life. I should "get over myself." That was a very long time ago. I feel certain, however, that I am who I am and have achieved what I've achieved because I've kept every slave, every victim of Jim Crow at the forefront of my life and vision. I owe. I owe. And while the past doesn't oppress me or restrict me, it does make me acutely conscious of my gratitude to women just like those in that film--the mothers who pawned a found ring to send her twins to college. I owe.
<br />Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-7291021796547413242011-08-22T09:44:00.000-07:002011-08-22T19:26:31.828-07:00"THE HELP"Jim Crow was not cute or funny or pleasant. There's nothing about Jim Crow that will make you laugh if you lived through it. There was no comic relief or poetic license. Jim Crow was all too real, and despite the "fiction" and whatever "good intentions" the filmmaker had, seeing those "colored only" signs, hearing the disrespectful and degrading words "The Help" endured was painful. Living Jim Crow made the world an inexplicable place. How could I be human and not? "Why did that boy spit on me? Mama, why can't I play at the playground with the other children?" I watched both my parents weep as they tried to make sense of nonsense and hatred and vulgarity to my brother and me. It was and is not funny.
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<br />I stood in the theater on yesterday. I was moved to stand. I somehow wanted the audience to know I was there. I was the sole person of color--no African American in a very full theater. I felt shame. I, and I speak here only for myself, should not have supported what that film intended to do: Racism, sexism, Jim Crow and all its horrors were balanced with doses of rescue, salvation and laughter. Anyone who lived Jim Crow would know that Minnie would not have DARED knock on Miss Hilly's FRONT door, much less admit that she'd made a pie from her own shit. That one act could have caused Minnie's death and/or the deaths of those closest to her. What nonsense. What utter nonsense.
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<br />I didn't cry. I groaned. I shook my head, closed my eyes and remembered every, single indignity I, my parents, friends and family suffered under Jim Crow. No one white woman, no matter how well-intended or literary, could save us from that horror. There were consequences for being a "nigger-lover" like Skeeter. Mississippi, people. Mississippi.
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<br />I want to know why, in this tiny predominantly white, working class town, the theater was full of silver-haired and middle-aged white folks. And oh, they cried. I stood and listened as they filed out of the theater moved by what they had seen: "Oh, that was such a great film." Though I suspect I understand the motivation, I'll refrain from giving you my take on that.
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<br />I'll stop short of criticizing the beautiful, black actors who played the primary roles. Then, as now, work for black women of a certain age, skin color and body type is limited, especially in the glamor of show business. Those women had tough jobs, and they gave whatever dignity and respect to the film that it had. As to the book, I'm a teacher. I'm going to read it because my students are reading it. I need to be able to speak to them honestly about it. The shelves are clean in northern New York. I couldn't find a copy of THE HELP to purchase. Didn't want to anyway. I rarely find Toni Morrison or Hurston or Naylor on the shelves of these bookstores. These are black women who tell black women's stories. Their stories don't feel so good. Their stories are "hostile," defensive" and "angry." Why can't we just all love each other and forget the painful past?
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<br />I have written elsewhere about the probability of love between blacks and whites during slavery and Jim Crow. Humans are capable of love under the most extreme conditions. I imagine many black women genuinely loved the children for whom they cared, and I'm sure the children loved them. It was, however, a peculiar kind of love. It allowed white children to do what no black child could do, and that was to call an adult (someone old enough to me your mama) by her first name. That was, in southern black culture, a sign of respect for one's elders. Black women didn't receive that respect from their white charges. Was that love? Was that a love that accepted and understood inequality and oppression? I just don't know.
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<br />I'm a Mississippian; my mother was born and bred in Mississippi. Much of my family resides there still. THE HELP hurts. There isn't enough laughter in the universe to ease the horror of that time. More on this. Still thinking. And still sorting it out.
<br />Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-53793209035485384052011-02-20T13:36:00.000-08:002011-02-20T15:03:22.311-08:00ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT'S ME, MARGARETI miss God, and I'm not even sure I understand what that means. What it doesn't mean is evangelizing, proselytizing or joining some mainstream (or not) organized religious denomination or group. It doesn't mean that I miss something male or female or anything that is remotely like me. What I miss is being in the company of people of faith, and I don't know who they are. I think I mean people who believe in something that isn't human. People who believe in something other than or in addition to science. I'm not suggesting that people of faith don't do the things that other humans do, but perhaps there is a collective consciousness of our collective shortcomings. Maybe there is a willingness to be always working toward being better people. Or perhaps it's just a longing for people who speak a familiar language even in the midst of our various and sundry theological arguments and positions. I want to understand why my friend, who calls herself a lapsed Catholic atheist, wants the Roman Catholic "Rite of Christian Burial" when she dies. When I ask her why, she can't tell me. Whatever that is-that desire that seems to make no rational sense--is the same desire I have. While I don't know what I want, I know what I don't want: religious fundamentalism, rigid rules and dos and don'ts; people who tell others what to believe. Ironically, I don't want a community that has no collective belief or consciousness. I only know that I miss God or Allah or Buddha or Jehovah or whatever that thing is that fulfills me, reaches in those deep places of mine and speaks a language that no human speaks.<br /><br />I want to speak of those things that I don't understand. I want to meditate or even pray, in the broadest sense of the term. I want to be with humans who have limits--those whose consciousness of something larger guides their interactions with other humans. Perhaps it tempers their anger or envy, jealousy or words. I seek a community where there's no room for ego or arrogance or showing off. My focus is the now--not the hereafter. Whatever a spiritual community is, that's the community I seek. It must offer peace, an absence of judgment or criticism, if only for the moments that we are in community. Two friends and I gathered to read and speak of meaningful things. It felt almost like community. The time was brief, but maybe...<br /><br />My longing continues; it's become a necessity. I search and search to no avail. It's not a church or a service or a meeting. I want a community committed to social justice; one that doesn't give a damn about amassing money and other material things; a community committed to active eradication of pain and suffering while being acutely aware that eradication is highly unlikely; a community that actively engages in criticism of itself, its values and mores; a community that never forgets its own flawed humanity--one that gathers to read poetry or prose and speak of meaningful things. A community that makes time, however briefly, to reflect on something other than the mundane. We must be certain of mutual love, respect and trust--that is community.<br /><br />I miss God or gods or deities or meditation or community. "Deep calls unto deep... <span style="font-style: italic;">Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret</span>."Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-68306284562522553662011-02-20T06:56:00.000-08:002011-02-20T07:20:17.741-08:00BIRDS, ETC.The early bird doesn't always get the worm, even if it really tries. There are occasions when some late sleeper happens to awaken at just the right time. It sees the worm upon which that early bird has its eye, and simply swoops on that worm and enjoys the work of the still-hungry early bird. It's not fair. The early bird deserved that worm. It worked for it. It earned it. The only bird that cares about this injustice is the early bird who lost the worm.<br /><br />"Don't you care about your legacy? Doesn't it matter that folks think you're loud, abrasive and far too outspoken?" There was a room full of people of color in a place that had fewer than 5 many years ago. No one has worked harder to make that room possible. Does it matter that no one cares? A little. Does it matter that the sleeping birds, the good birds, the quiet and acquiescent birds; the birds that just sleep; the birds that never chirp or get up early, are the birds who get the worms? A little. Few birds get what they deserve.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-91596924326654203852011-02-04T13:48:00.000-08:002011-02-04T14:24:23.255-08:00A TRIBUTE TO MY FRIENDEdouard Glissant died yesterday, and I, somehow, think everybody ought to know what that means; what the world has lost. No learned person in the francophone world would claim such ignorance. Edouard's brilliance, activism, poetry and prose; Edouard's scholarship and teaching have left profound and enduring contributions, impressions and influences. Edouard was, and will long remain the Caribbean's foremost Renaissance man. And yes, the Caribbean. Though he lived in Paris, I can still hear him announcing in that rich, heavily accented voice: "I am a West Indian." He was. Born and bred in Martinique, Edouard carried the place in his heart always. He loved the Caribbean--the warmth of the place and the people.<br /><br />I was a graduate student when I met Edouard and his wife, beautiful Sylvie. We became fast friends. We laughed often. Shared meals and stories. I lived in Edouard and Sylvie's home in Baton Rouge. We were family. When I walked into the room for my dissertation defense, there sat Edouard, grinning. We'd left the same house that morning, but he neglected to tell me that James, my disseratation director, invited him to my defense. After the defense, Edouard revealed that he'd read my disseration and decided that I, indeed, had a "very smart."<br /><br />I love him. He was a great man, a highly visible figure, sought after by students, colleagues and journalists. Edouard, more than anything, was a great man with a good heart--humble, loving, caring and kind. He was generous with his time, intellect and all material possessions. Edouard knew what mattered in this life.<br /><br />Many years have passed since Edouard, Sylvie and I have shared the same physical space, but they, Olivier and Mathieu are always in my heart. There has never been a better man than Edouard Glissant. Never. I honor him, and I cherish every moment I was in his presence. Edouard's life was a gift to me and to many. I loved him in life, and I love him in death. Sweet rest, my brother. Sweet rest. Je t'aime.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-19629706831621908562011-01-10T05:04:00.001-08:002011-01-10T07:48:59.975-08:00NO REGRETS...POSSIBILITIESMany of you will chuckle when I suggest that I have a "practical" side. Not a word one often uses to describe me. My practical side has not served me well. So what triggered this reflection? I proposed a course to a colleague in the Education Department. It's a course I've wanted to teach for years: "Inner City Blues." At the end of the proposal, I explain to my colleague why I, an English teacher, want to teach a course in his department. It's complicated.<br /><br />I've wanted to be a teacher since high school. I've known that I'd pursue a Ph.D. since I was a little girl. Even before I understood exactly what it was, this "doctor of 'losophy," as my great-grandmother called it, was a source of pride in my extended family. Granny could barely read, but her son, R.D., was a graduate of Cornell. He had a Ph.D. I wanted one because I wanted my family to be as proud of me as we were of R.D.<br /><br />When the time came, at 35, I decided to go back to school. There was a dilemma: Education or English? University professoring was NOT the goal. I intended to return to public school teaching, possibly move to becoming a principal or even a superintendent. That was the plan. Yes, I loved literature and reading, but I needed the credentials to continue my work in public schools. A well-meaning benefactor and mentor, herself a professor a Stanford, reminded me, in an uncomfortable kinda way that "there are more Black people with degrees in education than in the humanities." Though I knew that, there was something in Shirley's tone that bothered me--a note of caution or even a warning. Ironic because she taught in the ed school while maintaining "an appointment" in English. So I applied to 5 schools--all Ivy. Felt certain I'd get into 3 of 5. Applied to 4 programs in English; 1 in education: Harvard. It worked out exactly as I thought it would: Penn, yes; Brown, yes; Hopkins, no; Stanford, no; Harvard, yes. Harvard worked hard. Money. Calls from grad students. It's what I wanted to do, but there was the nagging fear and Shirley's words: "Get the degree in English. You can take courses for whatever certifications you want. Get the degree in English." My practical side answered and answered again when, out of the blue, an offer of a full fellowship came from the English Dept. at LSU, an institution to which I'd hadn't even applied. 4 years. Full ride: tuition, fees, no TA duties and a check. English and LSU it was.<br /><br />It took me all of 15 minutes to realize that practical is just that--practical. No one was reading literature in English classes. It was all theory all the time. Hated it then. Hate it now. I wanted to engage in "real world" conversations about issues that affected "real people." I wanted to read policy and make policy and be in the schools. Practical gave me Derrida, Barthes, Hegel, hermeneutics. "Help me, Jesus." My classmates were chattering in the language of theory, gushing and carrying on with exhibitions of erudition. I sat, sulked and wondered where the hell practical had taken me.<br /><br />It took me all of 15 minutes to realize that I didn't want to do what my professors did. In short, there was no way I wanted to be a professor. No friggin' way. I wasn't interested in literary studies or literary scholarship. I didn't want to write about books or theory. I wanted to be in the field teaching teachers, teaching students, working on issues in public education. My mentors and professors, all male and all white, guffawed when I told them that I wanted to go back to public school teaching. James asked how I could "waste" the time, study and energy it took to get a Ph.D. by returning to public schools. How could I, among his best students, betray him by going back to public school teaching? I was 40. I knew myself, and I knew what I wanted to do. The appeal to the practical me: "Who wouldn't want to be a university professor?" was strong, and then there was the issue of gratitude and making them proud. So when the offer to be the head of English at the brand new Mississippi School for the Arts came, I declined even though I knew I shouldn't have. I believed the guys knew better than I. After all, I had never been a professor. I was missing an opportunity of a lifetime.<br /><br />I gave up. Began to apply to colleges and universities, and again, even in this, I didn't follow the dictates of my own heart and mind. If I HAD to be a professor, I knew I wanted to teach at a small, liberal arts college. I knew that. But, once again, I let the practical advice from those who "knew best" change my course. "Research 1. That's it. No little no name school in the middle of nowhere. You represent LSU wherever you go, and you're one of our outstanding grads." That's how I ended up at Vanderbilt. Kicking and screaming. Knowing all the while that it wasn't where I wanted to be or what I wanted to do or, or, or.........<br /><br />I have given my life to teaching. It's what I do. It's my passion and my vocation. That, however, is the only aspect of my professional life that I claim as mine. I've done other things, but I've always been in the classroom. I've kept that commitment to myself, and I think I've done some good from time to time. What I express now is not regret. No point in that, but this remembering gives meaning to the meaning of that proposal I sent to my colleague last week. That brief course description is the expression of my professional desires for the past 25 years. It is a proposal for a course for aspiring teachers; it is a proposal for a course on current issues in urban education. That course proposal is the expression of the work I've always wanted to do. It represents the freedom to follow my own heart and mind, and the commitment to live the rest of my life in ways that seem right to me rather than to please, make proud, be proud, change perceptions, break stereotypes (or not) and be practical. The proposal to Jim acknowledges that some deferred dreams can be reality.<br /><br />What others see as impulsivity, desperation or foolhardiness is rarely that. I think carefully about most decisions I make. I'm much more reluctant to accept well-meaning or even considered advice about the direction of my own life, and I refuse to believe that anyone knows me better than I know me or knows what's best for me. It's living the life that Margaret wants to live and doing lots of stuff that I've put on hold for many, many years. I'm so excited about life every, single day. I now trust myself. I'm an authority on me, and it feels great!Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-54914049276685482142010-12-29T19:50:00.000-08:002010-12-29T20:30:27.070-08:00Happy 2011I sent Christmas cards this year. To my friends who live far away. Don't quite know why. I felt the need to be in touch--felt somehow that my signature on a card: "Love, Kenny," and a sentence or two of "hello," was a way of saying to those whom I love that I love them. I also mailed a few gifts--things that also hold special meaning in particular relationships. I often buy things I like, and the person for whom I bought it doesn't come to me for months, sometimes years. My life is people; they are my riches, and I find myself going back, reaching back to those with whom I've lost contact--not heart contact, mind you, but that "hey, hiyadoin" contact. I need to reconnect. Remind them that my silence is just that. Nothing more.<br /><br />I'm going to begin parting with some very special things. No, not in the way of my ever-dying foremothers. My great-grandmother was "near death" every, single one of her 96 years. My grandmother, her daughter, called her children together every few years to "divide her worldly goods" before her impending death, and even my beloved mother, God rest her sweet soul, had several occasions of impending death beginning at about age 45. So no, I'm of them but not like them in that way. Since I have no biological children, there are things that have meant so much to me--little things, meaningless in the financial sense, but these are gifts I want to give while I have the pleasure of watching someone I love smile with the understanding that it's a simple gift of love.<br /><br />It was a lonely Christmas. I don't much like the holiday anyway, but I felt solitary, rudderless, acutely unattached. I was of course with my beloved partner and her family, but my family of origin--my mom and my brother--were so absent. No, the overwhelming feeling wasn't sadness; it was aloneness. I envy my friends who are grandmothers. I spent lots of time wishing I were a grandmother. More than anything, I want to be someone's grandmother. Not interested in motherhood at all, but I think a grandmother is the absolute best thing EVER. <br /><br />No resolutions for 2011. I've got lots of stuff to work on each and every day. I'm gonna be the same me in 2011, and I suspect that most of what I resolve will, as in years past, well, you know. I look forward to retirement in 2011. Every day I feel a bit more free, unburdened. I look forward to doing new things. Maybe I'll be a grandmother or something. And I'll continue to find joy in the joys of others: an engagement ring, a trip to Argentina, a child's discovery, the dean's list, a wedding, a new drug for MS.<br /><br />Perhaps I'll resolve my never-ending struggle with the divine. I feel the tug of the music, the cadences of the sermons the singing and the sway. Scripture comes to mind at the most inappropriate times, and those are times when nothing else seems to make as much sense anyway. Perhaps it's the pure poety: "God is our refuge and strength; an ever present help... Bless the Lord, oh my soul." Life was easier when I had no questions.<br /><br />I look to 2011 with great optimism, great joy and a heart that overflows with love and gratitude for the life I've had the marvelous privilege of living. "Love without conditions; mercy unmeasured." Happy New Year y'all. May you receive your hearts' desires; weather all storms, and store all the peace and love you can hold. You'll need it.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-47415850628541560612010-12-15T08:50:00.000-08:002010-12-15T10:03:47.901-08:00MOVINGThis is the first place that I've lived that my mother won't see. It occurred to me in the midst of the move. It's a shame too because I love this house more than any other, except perhaps the first one I ever owned. The move inspired lots of thinking about my mom. As we moved Bunny's inheritances from her mother: fine furniture with marble tops, heirloom sterling and dishes that are now worth thousands, I smiled when I caressed those trinkets that were my mother's: a smooth stone, a wooden cross, her glasses and bible, a few pieces of costume jewelry. These are my treasures, and though they're worth nothing in terms of monetary value, they're items that I cherish. All remind me of my mama, and I found myself often saying: "Look, this is MY mama's stuff, and it means as much or more to me than fine gold."<br /><br />These sentiments express a vast difference between my partner and me. Though we both grew with middle-class values and highly educated parents, her family was also economically middle-class. Mine was far from that. Though I certainly didn't as a child and young woman, I now appreciate my early deprivation. I need less material stuff to be happy. I love a bargain and great sales. I have good taste, but I'm also a smart shopper. I'm satisfied with less. I need less to be happy. I live in a perpetual state of wonder. This tiny 100 year old house in this tiny snow-covered village has brought me immense pleasure and joy. Nothing special about it. It's certainly modest by most standards, and it would be considered by some, a step down from our last house. For me, it's a huge step up, and I'm thrilled. I'm in a sense of wonder about my life now. I never, ever dreamed that I'd be able to live the life I now live. There's absolutely no material thing in this world that I want. Nothing. I have everything I need, and I just can't believe it. I've exceeded my material imaginings, and I don't choose to manufacture more. This is why I can retire next year. Will I have a ton of income? Nope. I don't need a ton. My freedom and my life are far more important to me than money.<br /><br />My mama, who, like my partner, had an extremely privileged upbringing, lamented the loss of status her entire life. She hated "being poor" and agonized over the loss of her "very wealthy" childhood and young adulthood for her entire life. Mama would say she "married down," and when my grandfather's brothers and others "acquired" all of his wealth, my grandmother, who never worked, acquired enough to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Her children, however, didn't get much from their father.<br /><br />My parents struggled my entire life. We lived in various ratty parsonages on Daddy's miserable salaries. When Daddy died (I was 13), we were left with nothing. No insurance, no Social Security, and a pension of less than $50. per month. My mother hatred working and hatred poverty even more. She never adjusted to deprivation and lived daily with the past that had long vanished from her life. Even as she was dying, she spoke to the father whom she adored and who provided her with the best of everything money could buy. As Mama died, she assured her father that "I've been a good girl."<br /><br />My mother's sadness eventually became mine. Even as a child, I never mourned the absence of things. I was sensitive to my mother's sorrow in that regard. I worked, earned money for what I needed and made myself satisfied. I never asked for that which she couldn't buy, and I never complained about what I didn't have. The Christmas before my father died, he wasn't able to give us any of the things we wanted. My brother got a baseball shirt, and I got a stuffed dog. My daddy cried. I hugged him and acted like that dog was the single best present I'd ever received in my life. What mattered then and now is that my daddy didn't hurt because of what he was unable to buy me. Deprivation made me care about the real stuff that had nothing to do with money, and that's the way I feel today. I'm so, so grateful for this life I have, and I'm so, so grateful that I know what to want.<br /><br />I count my wealth in human relationships. I count my wealth in love, kindness, good wishes and concern. I count my wealth in good deeds I'm able to do. And despite all criticisms I receive, I count my wealth by the ways in which I can help others who need when they need. So yeah, if my "little sister" from Big Sisters ten years ago, "ain't got no money to pay her rent," I'll send it to her. And yeah, if one of my students needs books or a ticket home or clothes, I'll buy them. If somebody mama can't feed her child, then she can have my last dime. That's just the way it is cause I got food and clothes and shelter and everything I need and more than that. I don't need to save for a rainy day cause it may not rain, and I may not be around when it does. I live in the here and now. I'm here by the good will, kindness, generosity and love of other people. So there's just no need to tell me about how I "have no sense about money." I do have sense. It's a different kind of sense. Money is a gift to be shared. That's the way it works in my world.<br /><br />And don't leave this post thinking "I'm blessed," or "God is smiling on me," or none of that nonsense. God ain't got no reason for blessing me more than any other human in this world. God ain't smiling on me and frowning on the homeless. God ain't blessing me and cursing those in need. This ain't God. It's circumstance--a coming together of various circumstances. Just sayin'. If God is God, she ain't operating like that. No way. No how. Later.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-5108328812876604132010-12-07T09:40:00.000-08:002010-12-07T10:00:13.868-08:00MOVING AGAINMy friend, Marianne, says "never say never or always." Okay, I won't, but I will say I hope I never, ever move again in my entire life. And yes, that means I'm prepared to live in Canton for however long forever is. By the time Mary is ready to retire, I'll be 70 (gasp!), and I can't imagine uprooting and starting over at that age. I'm adjusting to the idea that Canton is home. Canton is home. Canton is home.<br /><br />I've mailed my official notification of my intention to retire one year from now. After I return from Semester at Sea, I'll be busy trying to find ways to make myself a life here after St. Lawrence. I'm beginning to broaden my horizons in the north country. My work with hospice is the most fulfilling work I do. I love the people there. I suspect I'll do some adjunct work if SLU will have me. I'm likely to miss teaching just enough to teach one course per term. That would be fun.<br /><br />I'm very excited about my new house. I'm excited about moving back to the village. If I can get through the next few days without falling apart (moving does that to me), I expect to have a long and fruitful life for the rest of my life in Canton.<br /><br /> Moving in the snow. We seem to love doing things the hard way. Later.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-18825022273390312892010-11-13T11:20:00.000-08:002010-11-13T12:19:39.564-08:00THINGS TO DOteach abroad for a semester<br />find a hobby<br />learn to love myself more<br />try vegetarianism<br />see a movie once a week<br />continue my work with Hospice<br />be a foster parent (infants only)<br />find reasons to walk and walk and walk<br />read more for pleasure rather than classes<br />entertain more--small gatherings of people i really love<br /><br />i've moved through several stages. i've reached acceptance. i've come to refer to the very old new house as the "gingerbread house." it reminds me of houses i read about as a child. i never imagined that i'd find an old house beautiful, but this house is beautiful to me. magical. funny, since the move means downsizing. that, too, brings me great satisfaction. i'm drowning in excess, stuff, too much of too muchness. i don't deny the beauty of this now house, but i seek other kinds of beauty--the beauty of smaller spaces and neighbors. the very same sun shines on main street; the same snow falls. i look forward to my move and my "to dos."<br /><br />i'm composing, also like little kids sometimes do, a "best friends in the north country" list. this is important because i need to remind myself and them of the love we share and the meaning of our relationship. i've been all too concerned about the others--occasional friends, conditional friends, " i'll be your friend if" friends. these have blurred my vision, prevented me from seeing clearly the ones who kept the vigil; the ones who came to me in moments of trauma and deep sadness; the ones who pray and the ones who don't; the ones upon whose shoulders i've wept; those with whom i roll on the floor with raucous laughter and speak my own language; those who have seen me braless and without my partials. i've released the pain of harsh words, criticisms, taking back campuses, false accusations, searches, failed plans and dreams. i concentrate on the abundance of love and blessings; the love lost and found: shannon, marietta, andy and andy, clay, maqueda, reed. "miss bass you taught me 27 years ago, and i love you still." these are glorious gifts. gems. jewels. sun.<br /><br />there's nothing wrong with the drummer i hear or the dance i dance in response. it's mine, and i<br />love the sound of the beat. it sounds so different because i'm out of my element, my region, my cultural milieu. in another place and at another time, there are others who dance to my beat.<br /><br />and so, today i write with gratitude for the love and understanding; for your expressions of joy even in my pain; for welcoming me back when i don't want to be; for congratulating her on making the "best decision." i thank you for sticking with and standing by. i thank you for telling me the truth as you see it. i thank you for not loving me less in spite of myself. you, my best north country friends, are, indeed, some of my best all times all places friends. and i thank you for that.<br /><br />and so i begin again in a little, yellow gingerbread house on a busy street in a tiny town. like rapunzel (except i have no hair), i'll look out from the turret, smile, and wave hello to the busy world outside my window.<br /><br />"bless be the tie that binds..."Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-90773852726484473552010-10-30T07:07:00.000-07:002010-10-30T07:21:05.474-07:00FOCUS ON THE JOYBack on the schedule. Moving on. I can do this. I am fundamentally incapable of holding on to disappointment, sadness and anger. Just can't do it. I wish I could make a similar declaration about shame. I can't shake shame, and everything seems to come back to me as that ugly, awful feeling. I carry shame with me all the time.<br /><br />Focus on the joy: Main Street, downsizing, 62 and full retirement benefits, Ireland, making myself get out more, great friends and good health and possibilities.<br /><br />As is true with most trials, the real friends emerge and surface; the wheat separates from the chaff. No illusions and no losses. Reality check.<br /><br />Peace out. And a good day to you.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-63742166403703641752010-10-26T05:15:00.000-07:002010-10-26T05:41:26.294-07:00MOTIONSI think I must not "live right." That's what the grannies used to say. One of my friends told me to "let it be." That must be good advice. I miss my mother. She would have something sensible to tell me about this situation. She would understand and provide the appropriate soothing words to get me beyond this. I was so certain that we were leaving that I bought tickets to a show in Iowa for next April. I was so certain that I woke up every morning with a huge smile in my heart. The uncertainty about jobs and housing didn't bother me. I knew something good was gonna happen. I'm now convinced that I just don't live right. How much of one's all too brief life must be given in service to....? How long does one sacrifice dreams? When does one get permission to live the life that she deserves? Or maybe this IS the life that she deserves.<br /><br />I will "let it be," but this is a deep, deep wound. It is a deep, deep blow to my spirit, my insides hurt. I am sadder than sad. It seems like I've been crying for years--dean's search, harassment accusation, TBOC, my mama.... I'm pretty tired. I need an attitude adjustment: expect nothing, don't dream, suck it up, go through the motions, pretend that you're just fine, smile always. "Don't worry, be happy." I may not ever speak of this again, but know this: it is ever in my head and my heart.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-85063308353491659222010-10-23T07:31:00.000-07:002010-10-23T12:49:36.046-07:00Before you tell me that happiness is within, let me tell you that I know that, but I also know that there are externals that contribute to happiness. Not many of us would be happy if we were homeless, for example. Yes, that's an extreme example, but I'd take on any person who argued that life's stuff doesn't matter. So here I am. Happy and not. My insides feel okay. If they didn't, I wouldn't be able to assert with such clarity what I need. I know what I need and why I need it. I need another job.<br /><br />I'm apparently remaining in the north country, a reality that's tough to accept. Okay, but I still need a new job, and this place, like Iowa, isn't teeming with possibilities. I was the top candidate for two marvelous jobs in Iowa City--job descriptions that made me drool. The first was the director of the Iowa City Foreign Relations Council. The official planner, greeter, winer and diner for all international visitors who came to Iowa City, and there are tons because of the UI Writer's Workshop. Salary: $35,000. The second was similarly attractive: Executive Director of UNIowa, the state branch of the United Nations. Fabulous job. Loved everything about the description. Salary: $28,000. And you know what? Had the Iowan in my home still wanted to go to Iowa, I would have taken one of the jobs in a heartbeat. But she had a change of heart. Problem? She likes her job.<br /><br />The question is: What to do? I'm on unpaid leave next semester. Need it. I'm searching for satisfying work in the north country and trying to figure out my place here beyond SLU. I'm new to the Board of Directors of Hospice, and I LOVE the work. I love it. It's fulfilling and challenging and rewarding. Holding on and continuing with that makes me very happy. I've applied for a job for which I probably don't have a chance in hell, but, again, it's a great job--rewarding work. If that falls through then..............?<br /><br />I'm very happy that we've sold our house. Yes, it's beautiful. Yes, the views are wonderful, and yes, I like it for someone else. I've never been able to stay here alone comfortably at night. When Mary's away, I'm afraid to stay here. It's dark and even though there are neighbors across the road, it's creepy. I have terrible nightmares in this house at night. I stare out at the darkness. When my mama came for what would be her last visit, she told me: "This is a beautiful place, but I wouldn't live here for anything. Too dark. Too creepy." I laughed, but I agreed, and mama wouldn't even sleep in bed alone here with us and the dogs in the house. Both my partner and I have often spoken of moving back to town. Sidewalks would be nice. Walking the dogs on sidewalks would be nice. Route 68 is not nice. I want smaller. Less yard to manage. Less and less of it all. I want to walk to the store, the P.O., the library, the farmer's market. That's a good thing. We're experienced movers if nothing else.<br /><br />Even the best relationships are tough. I'm not sure I'd define this as compromise. It's a situation where someone HAS to give up something if we're to remain in the same house. That seems to be our priority, but it's hard to give up, "suck it up and deal." Looks like this is it. Maybe. All I can say is I'm disappointed and kinda sad, but, as per usual, I'll survive. Resilience is my strong suit. Later.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-36991645523200039462010-10-09T11:17:00.000-07:002010-10-09T11:53:25.470-07:00BEEN A WHILELots going on in life right now, or, actually, maybe not much. Some who observe me believe that I'm slowly becoming certifiable. I continue to pack my worldly belongings and make arrangements for the move to Iowa with gusto! There would be no questions about my behavior if I had a job and a place to live. My practical partner and friends have given up on "bringing me to my senses." I've come down with a huge case of the power of positive thinking and the simple-minded belief that I'll get a job. Any evidence of that? Not at the moment, but I believe it will come. What, I ask, is my alternative? Do I give in and give up? "Accept reality"? Or do I just remain me--ever hopeful on some days; sobbing on others because I'm afraid I'm stuck. I prefer the hopeful idiot, and so I pack, rent trucks, buy airline tickets, look for huge storage places in Iowa. Mary's looking for a small house to rent in Canton for one semester. Maybe I'll be here as well, but I hope not. Oh, by the way, looking for a job is b-r-u-t-a-l. Wow! This is a painful but great experience for me. My professional life, in this sense, has been, as Grandma would say: "a flowery bed of ease." Time for me to know intimately what others go through, and hey, not a word about a PhD please. Worthless outside of the academy--just worthless (in the humanities at least). The best it gets you is a lot of quizzical looks and crazy questions about why you want a job. I shoulda been a nurse or something in medicine or perhaps even an IT person. Not an English teacher with a PhD. Nope. Nada.<br /><br />I've had my first dreams about my mother since she died two years ago. I remember them vividly. I think it's her way of weighing in on this moving business. In the middle of the last dream, I went back to that brief time when she was here. July 16-September 16, 2008. I saw the face of every, single person who stood by me during that time. That core group that kept the vigil toward the end--read scripture, sang her favorite hymns, did whatever they could to comfort me. And then there were those who dropped by. Some cried; one person lotioned her dry, dying skin and spoke softly to her. There was a steady stream of people during those last days and final hours. I see some of them from time to time, but not often anymore. I don't spend much time on campus. But I hold all of them in my heart--every, single one. Funny, there are a couple with whom I had quite a professional disagreement last year. I suspect they would say that I didn't love them or that we are no longer friends. So not true. Well, maybe half not true. We may not be friends, but I'll love you always for what you did for me during that time. My vision of my friend sitting alone in Gunnison in his suit observing my hand in Mary's replays over and over. I carry mental snapshots of special people at an extraordinary moment in my lifetime--the most extraordinary moment in my lifetime. Sometimes I hear the words they spoke to me; other times I feel the touch. So I got mad love, big love, deep love and forever love for them all, and that love has nothing to do with anything in our professional lives. It's personal--as personal and intimate as any experience can be. Nothing trumps that. Just sayin'.<br /><br />Okay, so now I'm going back to my mad woman self--packing my stuff to move to my no home in Iowa that I'll pay for with my no job. And guess what? It's all gonna be just fine.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-39101100924166004822010-09-15T05:28:00.001-07:002010-09-15T06:00:20.691-07:00"DON'T HATE."I love the ways that our students have begun to use this phrase and other related ones: "Hateration," "Don't be hating on me." "You a hater." The concision of "don't hate" appeals to me. It's also very funny when used in most contexts. The phrase came to mind as an interpreter of some of my blog posts decided that I would either be perceived as "crazy" or a "hater" Both designations make me smile because I know and they know that nothing could be further from the truth. Though I understand why some "haters" would want to put me in those categories, nothing that I write is fueled by either mental illness (crazy) or hate. While much of it seems personal, particularly to those who see themselves in the blog, my observations are over a period of twenty years. I've seen what I see for twenty years; watched the same scenes unfold in the same ways at three different institutions and then some. <br /><br />Rather than suggest some imbalance, why not engage me? Those "concerned" and "conscious" ones just need to "reach out." I'm more than happy to explain and engage. I hear comments via the grapevines, but no one ever wants to speak to me about my blogs. Well, at least not those who feel implicated. Just so you know: this blog ain't fueled by no hate. This blog is inspired by years of observation, exceptionality, tokenism, racism--personal and institutional, and great personal cost.<br /><br />As a matter of fact, I owe you out there a debt of gratitude. You have precipitated my move toward freedom; you have encouraged me, in your own "innocent" ways to do what I should have done a long time ago. My heart is light; my burden is eased. I feel great joy and excitement about all the possibilities that are before me. And yes, I'm anxious and terrified. I've sold my home. We have no jobs. The economy is... well, you know. But this great mix of emotions is one huge promise of HOPE for a new life, a new beginning, a new job, new experiences. In other words, I am free. Who would "hate on" that? And this is my gift to myself as I look toward 61 next week. I give myself the right to take these risks in the quest for liberation. It's exhilarating.<br /><br />Peace out, y'all. I'm going to Iowa City today to get me a JOB! "Don't hate."Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-53856673494072480162010-09-13T04:55:00.000-07:002010-09-13T05:55:47.319-07:00LIBERALS AND CONSERVATIVESI've many progressive, white, liberal friends, but they usually don't identify themselves as such. They just go about their business, living their lives, doing the things they do. And then there are the self-identified liberals--those who waste no opportunity to acquaint us with their latest and most pressing cause or issue and their jargon. These folks are always looking out for the underdog or less fortunate. They use terms like "disenfranchised," "essentialized," "underclass." I can always count on these liberals to have my best interest at heart, and I can also count on them to know, even more than I, what my best interest is. Either life experience or erudition gives them an incredible understanding, empathy, if you will, of all things pertaining to race and social justice. I owe these liberals so much. They helped me get to where I am today. They make promises they can't possibly keep. The "problem" of "diversity" is never solved because what, then, would they have to do? Whom, then, would they protect? Who would be their cause?<br /><br />I've been criticized by the liberals for the relationships I have with conservatives: Republicans, members of the NRA, flagwavers, staunch and firm believers in a "conservative" interpretation of the Constitution and Christians, devout and otherwise. It should be no surprise that some "conservatives" are very dear to me. There is a deep and abiding bond between us that goes beyond political positions and persuasions. These are people who have loved and supported me. I can count on them, and they can count on me. We do not have to agree. To them, I am simply a person--not a representative, not diversity or even a minority. I'm me.<br /><br />Self-proclaimed liberals often judge people by their politics rather than, as Shelby Steele would say, "the content of their character." This version of liberal can only hang out with like-minded folks who speak their language and support their causes. In my institution, one of the most effective "recruiters" of faculty of color is a "patriarchal, conservative, far-right, gun toting, hunting, Republican." In addition to effective recruiting, this "right wing nut" was the most effective "retainer" of faculty of color as well. Every, single person of color in the department is happy and content. There was no well-meaning, patronizing, rhetoric. No "lowering of standards" as a nod to "diversity." Just a good person whose genuine commitment is immediately transparent to a prospective colleague.<br /><br />Liberals suffocate, patronize, affirmative actionize, determine, run, rule with the smug self-assurance that they are always absolutely right. They pity those of us who get in the way; they attempt to crush and denigrate those who get in their way. There is nothing worse to a self-proclaimed liberal than a "minority" who doesn't get with the program--a minority who opposes and exposes them--a minority who refuses to capitulate to their rigid requirements for membership in the club. They will find one who will. These liberals have no credibility if they have no "minority" among them. <br /><br />I seen you before, Ms. Liberal, and like the emperor, you ain't got no clothes. Peace out.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-44166323969103814762010-09-11T09:32:00.000-07:002010-09-11T10:29:10.391-07:00THE SURPRISELast night, a colleague and sometime friend looked directly into my eyes and said: "Yeah, I heard it. I don't believe it. Nobody does." The topic was the likelihood of my departure from SLU and the north country. It was an incredibly revealing moment. Although I've wanted to leave for at least 5 years, I don't think I've ever threatened to do so (or "cried wolf" as some would say). I read job ads and imagined myself doing all kinds of things, but I've never said: "This will be my last year at SLU." Now, I don't write because I expect anything from anyone, but the assumption that I couldn't possibly be telling the truth is a curious one. Why couldn't I be? Is it because the job and tenure are simply too good to "give up"? Is it because some overestimate the my feelings about the place? What would I possibly have to gain by fueling such a rumor? Negotiations? More money? Some attractive deal?<br /><br />I'm amazed by my own conviction and commitment in this matter. I've had no misgivings or second thoughts. Nothing has given me pause--not the almost certain and significant decrease in salary or the probability of beginning a position about which I know nothing; not even leaving friends and "family" here whom I dearly love. Not one, single thing has caused a flicker of reconsideration.<br /><br />The decision, or more likely the responses to it (even no response is a response) has taught me so much about my relationships here. My best friends aren't; one casual friend has emerged as a longstanding best friend whom I've unconsciously overlooked. The silences from friends are varied and various. There are pained silences (but not many), angry silences, "how could you" silences, "how dare you" silences, and "I don't give a damn" silences. I learn something from them all.<br /><br />A student asked me last night if I would miss academe. He's a kid who thinks he wants to be an academic. I uttered an emphatic "no." He looked sad, and said "what about us?" Rather than feel the tremendous sense of obligation that I've felt for all these years, I simply and gently told him that no one is indispensable. There will be another; there are others who will do what I've done and more. Then, I reminded him that students, in my opinion, are not academe. I love all of my life as teacher, even to this very day. I love the ways students have touched my life--have given me life and such delight and joy. I love my students enough to leave them when I know that my passion and enthusiasm wane. Would I feel this way if my life in the profession had been less tumultuous? Perhaps not. But it has, and I do.<br /><br />My computer documents are gone--the syllabi and course descriptions, the tenure file. I've given away 500 books, and the book shelves in my office are clear. I'm tossing mementos of years past that I've hauled from place to place. My file cabinet is clear save my teaching evaluations. They're the one "safety" feature that I hold onto "just in case." When I sign a contract, the evals, too, will go. I will leave the profession with my memories alone. They will sustain me.<br /><br />The time has come, believe it or not, the time has come.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-51454903924386790532010-09-08T06:11:00.000-07:002010-09-10T04:18:19.984-07:00DEMOTED: THE NEGRO SWAPSo, I have finally been demoted. I've lost the title of HNIC. Lest you think I'm lamenting that fact, let me assure you that the demotion is welcome and entirely predictable. So why do I write? It's to further point out the ways in which racism works--the "innocent" and "unconscious" ways for which all involved would likely posit "good and noble" reasons. So here we are: a star emerges from the bowels of academe--one previously anxious, overburdened and mostly unto itself has taken center stage. The HNIC is everywhere--places its never been before--front and center, vocal, smiling and happy, loving life and living large. Not one bit of shame or self-consciousness. Previous enemies are now dearest friends. Oh joy! The social life of the HNIC soars. There are dinners and dates and gatherings of every sort. Ain't life grand? How do we explain the emergence of this up and coming figure? Where has it been? So here's the thing: The new HNIC is good. The new HNIC became an HNIC through the good graces of white folks--by popular demand. They helped, wrote, cajoled, guided, advised, and now, finally, they love, enjoy, fete and honor. They pat themselves on the back for a job well done. This HNIC, the chosen one, has all of the appropriate qualities: relatively quiet, makes no waves, no strong challenges to the system (except in its own particular interest), and more than anything else, it is grateful. The best possible Negro is a grateful Negro. The best possible HNIC is one that doesn't remind the good folks that racism is alive and well and working in its not so mysterious ways. In addition to gratitude, the new HNIC is "highly intelligent." It reads books. It is, or so I hear, very much like the learned white folks in both intellect and demeanor. Now I know some of y'all are gonna criticize me for being bitter and resentful; others are going to suggest that I read too much into "innocent" coincidences. Believe me when I tell you that I could have written the complete story before it began to unfold. Why? Cause while other folks were being learned, I was a Negro who studied white folks in the academy--white institutions, and the strange workings of "diversity." I've studied race in this country in theory and practice, and I been a keen observer for all these 20 years. I know there can only be one. The others will never matter in the way the HNIC matters. We just need one--just one. It gives me great joy and great pleasure to see the first act of this performance before I leave, and if you'd like to know how this show will end, I can tell you that too. For me, the title, HNIC, has offered years of pain and heartache and tokenism at its worst. You see, I was never chosen. My title was inevitable given my solitary position and tenure. It was a job I never wanted. Perhaps the reign of the next will be a more positive one. I hope so. I hope so.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6391428097095170063.post-19370894164540198292010-08-26T17:38:00.000-07:002010-08-26T18:06:05.383-07:00THOUGHT I WAS GONE, DIDN'T YA?Funny thing about leaving. You're gone before you're actually gone. People start thinking about you as yesterday, in the past, not current. There's something comforting in that--of being spoken of in the past tense, even when you're still alive. I'm noting, with interest, the responses to my impending departure: one is a deep sigh of relief, a gratitude for my silence. "She's finally shut up." Another response, the most puzzling of the bunch, is the anger: "How dare she?" There are those who think I've flipped. "Who, tell me, WHO gives up tenure and a great job in this economy?" I do. And despite my anxiety over the unknownness of it all, I feel better than I've felt in a long, long time--maybe for as long as I've been in the academy. I have no more obligations "to the race." I have no more obligations to "diversify the institution." I do not have to be spokesperson for faculty, staff and students of color. I get to be nobody, in the way, a has been. A teacher on the decline, nearing retirement, nuts. I find it incredibly satisfying to have forfeited my title as HNIC. Nobody cares what I say or if I say or.... A ton of burdens have fallen from my weary shoulders, and for once, I'm thinking about me, my life and the life of my partner. I've not had one moment of regret about this decision. I'm committed to giving my best to the students in my courses this semester, but I wonder if I have any best left in me. I apply for positions others can't imagine that I really want, but I want them. Executive assistant to a college president, entering the corporate world, working in a bookstore. All are possibilities that excite me. All represent a certain freedom from an all-consuming profession. I imagine the joy of reading bad novels. Having a day where I don't have to figure out what to do. What I want to do now is just have fun, enjoy my family and friends, enjoy my life to the fullest. I just want a job--just a job, even if it's one I don't like so well. Perhaps everything really does go full circle. Maybe I long for the childhood I never had--the time for play and frolic; the time for ME. I think, for the very first time in my life EVER, I'm making a choice for me, my life rather than for someone or something external to me. I'm going to continue chronicle this journey. Lots left for me to learn. At the moment, I'm flying high.Mrs. B's Sweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04743711655206251544noreply@blogger.com3