Mimetalker's Open Salon Blog

My Daddy's Names

Sun, 16 Jun 2013 09:06:47 -0400

I called him "Daddy" when he taught me to ride a bike, and baited my fishing hook because I heard the worm scream, and whisker-scratched me good night. I still called him Daddy when he talked about his college track days and set up the high jump in the yard. I have my mother's short legs instead of his long ones. He set the bar so I could execute a clean jump. "Good job, Punky. Now, a little higher."

At bedtime, we asked questions. "Daddy, how does an airplane stay up in the sky? Why can we see the moon in the day time?" Our mother knew our ploy, but he ignored her sighs and launched into explanations that hurt my brain. I knew my Daddy was the world's smartest man.

He said he was an independent, but our family's political leanings were clear, "When in doubt, vote Republican." During the Kennedy-Nixon race the talk at family dinners was so vile I was terrified and angry when Kennedy won. The world was going to end, and my first ever birthday party was four days after the Inaugural. I asked God to let us live until the party was over. When I was still alive for my next birthday, I realized my family might be wrong about the damned democrats.

Against the warning of co-workers, my father bought a house in the only integrated section of town. He wanted his children to know from experience everyone is human. He started a Boy Scout troop at the neighborhood school and got word to black parents that their sons were welcome. He treated them like he did us...yelled when they messed up, smiled when they did good, and told them they can do better. Even so, he didn't like Dr. King and was unhappy with my adoration. "He's going too fast. Whites won’t change that quick."

I challenged him on that. "It's already been 100 YEARS!!! How long would you wait? How long would you want your children to wait?” He became quiet and turned back to his newspaper, but he wasn't reading it. He was a stubborn man, but he had a heart. That's why the term "Compassionate Conservative" never made me laugh.

In high school I began calling him "Dad". By then I had stopped asking questions before bedtime, and decided he wasn't as smart as I thought. But habits are hard to break and sometimes "Daddy" slipped out. I blushed, and he grinned.

After the grandchildren were born he became "Grandpa". I watched him play with my kids and delight in every thing they said and did. He caught my eye and smiled, “They remind me of you.” That was one of the surprise gifts from my children. I saw the father I missed when I was so busy growing up.

I pass his grave on my way to work. Most days I turn down the radio and throw a kiss. When I need help, I call for him, and use all his names: Dad, Daddy, Grandpa, Great Grandpa.

I have added another one...Father. When he was alive, it was too formal for the man who removed his suit and tie as he walked through our kitchen door, and gave them away when he retired. Mom insisted he keep one for funerals. But when he died, she was already gone so my brothers and I donated that suit to "Good Will" and buried him in his brown flannel shirt and corduroys.

“Father” is an honoring name...the longer he’s gone, the more I do.

Inter-Racial Marriage...first memories

Wed, 5 Jun 2013 10:06:22 -0400

This is a memoir (draft) piece for the book I'm working on...

1957

I am waiting for my neighbor to come out and play. Linda yells out her window they have company, but there aren’t any cars in front of her house, so she might be lying again. The back door opens. The neighbors who live on the other side come out. I heard my mother tell my father the girl “had to get married” and Linda said that meant Karen was pregnant. She was telling the truth this time because Karen is carrying a bassinet.

“Can I see?” Karen smiles. Her face is fatter now, but she’s still pretty. She lifts the pink blanket and I see a baby, so beautiful she doesn’t look real. She has black curly hair, and light brown skin.

“How did she get a tan?” Karen laughs but doesn’t answer my question.

After everyone leaves, Linda says I am stupid. “Don’t you know that baby is colored? Karen married a Negro.” I do feel stupid. I didn’t know that could happen.

That night I listen to my parents through the heat vent. Dad knows the colored boy's family and says it’s a shame. He was headed to college and now he is working at a factory. “He ruined his life for a girl who is nothing but trash.” My mother agrees. “I knew she was up to no good that night she came here.”

I loved that night. It was raining, and Karen asked to change clothes at our house because her parents were gone and she was locked out. My mother hesitated but I said, “She can use my room!”

Karen followed me upstairs and let me stay while she got ready for a date. Her boyfriend was waiting in the car. “Don’t tell your mother.” She sent me on an errand for clear nail polish to fix a run in her stocking. Mom gave me the polish and asked what Karen was saying. I shrugged. “Nothing.”

When I got back she was putting on make-up. She used more than my mother did and I wanted some on me. Karen combed my hair and pinched my cheeks to make them red. She took my hand and led me to the mirror. "See how cute you are? You don't need make-up." She gave me a hug, and left me smelling like her.

After she was gone, my mother went into the bathroom and screamed. Karen cleaned her muddy shoes on her good towels. “Who goes into someone else’s house and acts like this?” My mother ranted about this for days. I wanted my mother to like Karen, and let her babysit me and teach me how to put on make up. But my mother doesn’t forget mistakes. She remembers all of mine.

I don’t think messing up the towels is that bad. Not bad enough to decide Karen is trash and not good enough to marry a Negro.

I see Karen’s baby one more time. Her grandmother takes her for a walk in the stroller and I run up to them. “She is the prettiest baby I have ever seen.” The grandmother smiles. “I’m sorry people hate your daughter.”

She nods, and walks away.

Mystery Trips, Elephants, Light-Up Wands...etc.

Sun, 2 Jun 2013 22:06:19 -0400

My four year old granddaughter has been asking since January if I would take her to the circus. Every time she asked, (often) I explained we have to wait until the circus comes to town. Watching televsion versions did nothing for her. She wanted to ride the elephant, eat cotton candy, and get a light up wand.

Today my daughter and I took the kids on a mystery trip to the Tebala Shrine Circus, in town for the week-end. When they realized where we were, they screamed. That is the best part of every mystery trip. I did it to my kids when they were little. The first time I made them wear blindfolds. We got a lot of strange looks and I thought I might get reported.

Within the first ten minutes my granddaughter got a pink slushy, cotton candy, and a flashing star wand. That cost $25. Not horrible, but there were two more grandchildren.

I have to say, the magic of the circus left me years ago. It may have happened the year the elephants had diarrhea. It's a hard image to get out of my mind. The act went on and on, and they were all stepping and sloshing in it. And then there was the clean up crew and the unfortunate man who should not have been standing where he was.

Today I watched the tiger act, and hoped they would escape. They went through the routine in obedient slow motion. The last tiger was reluctant, but he jumped on a disco ball and then yawned. The clown acts were dumber than usual and the acrobatic tricks were underwhelming, but that's been true ever since my first sighting of Cirque du Soleil.

But to be fair, I was distracted by keeping the kids from falling down the bleachers, or whacking people around us with the swords and wand.

At intermission my daughter and the kids rode the elephant at $10 per rider, even the two year old. The elephant walked twice around the ring. Ride over. But no diarrhea and the kids were ready to go home. We avoided the crush of the crowd, and maddened drivers leaving an unmarked parking lot. Be thankful for big favors.

On the way home I asked my granddaughter if the circus was as good as she had imagined. "No. My dreams are better."

That's my girl.

Artsy Fartsies: husband, son, & me

Sun, 26 May 2013 11:05:44 -0400

Today my husband is singing in a Choir Festival at the Baha'i House of Worship in Chicago. Two hundred people from all over the country came, including my brother and his wife. They practiced for three days and they will amaze everyone, especially those who heard the first practice.

Most likely my husband will have a solo because he has a magnificent voice. (he hasn't told me and I didn't ask. I enjoy being surprised.) After the concert, people will ask if he does this professionally, and when he says "No", they'll tell him that's a shame. I agree. He should have, but he didn't want to sacrifice family time to do it. I won't say that because he'll deny it, but it's true.

I came along to stay at the hotel and write while he practices all day and night. I eat breakfast with him and other choir people and they ask, "Are you singing with the choir?"

"You wouldn't want me." They smile sympathetically and assure me everyone can sing. I tell them when my kids were babies, my husband asked me not to sing to them. He is apologetic about that now, but it's too late. It's going in the memoir.

My husband came bone tired. He's the Executive Director of Human Services for the city and deals daily with the impact of shrinking resources for increasing numbers of poor people, most of whom are working their asses off. He was late getting to the first rehearsal because our friend died, and her husband wanted him to sing at her funeral.

Every day I've seen his spirit lifting. He's singing in the shower again, and in his sleep. I get up and write rather than punch him.

The first concert is going on right now and I am at Starbucks. I'll make the second one. It'll be better than the first (my theory). I am sitting at the same table I did last night. My son was here too, at another table. We sat with our backs to each other. He came to Chicago for the week-end to work on a new play. This afternoon while the choir sings, he will be in a theater-friend's apartment with actors who will read it aloud so he will know what works and what is crap. He didn't tell me what the play is about, or its name. It isn't time yet.

My son forgot to bring the power chord to his computer, and fortunately for him, we both have Macs. When Starbucks closed I let him keep it for the night. This morning he brought it back and I asked, "So, are you finished with the play?"

Pause.

We both laugh. Silly question.

"I've got the first draft."

I love my artsy-fartsy family.

A Shroud, Rose Water, & Love

Fri, 24 May 2013 00:05:30 -0400

Before I left work, I exchanged my pants for a skirt. There is no dress code for preparing a body for Baha’i burial, but for Esther, we decided to follow the Native American tradition of women wearing dresses in sacred ceremonies.There are instructions for the shroud: Cotton or silk. We chose cotton because she was a cotton-kind-of-gal. No frills, but bright colors, and flower prints.

Three of us had done this before, but only once. That made us the leaders, and true to the way we three women "lead", we admitted we will be figuring this out as we go. The one who knows how to sew and is not intimidated by fabric stores brought the cloth and rose scented water. I had the Baha’i burial ring with the inscription: "I came forth from God, and return unto Him, detached from all save Him, holding fast to His Name, the Merciful, the Compassionate."

The ring was in a zippered pocket of my backpack. All day, I remembered it was there, and tried to focus on work. I answered emails, shopped at Office Depot, and recruited kids for a summer arts program. But that made me think of Esther. She always came to the culminating performance, even if she didn’t know any of the kids.

Throughout the day I would think of someone who might not have heard yet, and called them. If they didn’t know, I explained about the massive stroke, the peaceful passing, and funeral tomorrow. If they already knew, we shared an Esther story. Everyone said they worried about Ben.

Esther was a feminist who adored her husband. Maybe they worked out equality issues before I knew them. Or maybe they didn’t have any. At women gatherings, if someone complained about her husband, Esther was silent, or changed the subject. I don't recall them holding hands, or hugging in public, but they didn't need to. When she was technically alive I promised we would take care of Ben. It felt like the right thing to say, but now, I’m at a loss for how to do it. I couldn’t do it for my dad when Mom died. Ben echoed my father's words... “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to go first.”

I got to the funeral home and didn’t see any recognizable cars. I waited outside until two friends came, and we discovered two women inside I didn’t know. We waited and more came, and then more. By the time everyone arrived, there were fifteen of us.

We asked for a CD player, but never used it. We sang, prayed, chanted and spoke. Those who wished took turns. We poured rose water on bright blue washcloths, women on each side, washed and thanked her body. “You served her well.” There was tears and laughter and sometimes both.

The ring was placed on her finger, and we consulted on how to do the wrapping. The three of us each had different experiences. We decided to do what none of us had done. We began at her feet and used the whole cloth, moving up the body, working together, holding, lifting, wrapping. Then took turns securing it with ribbons.

"Should we put her in the casket?" The Funeral Director told the first women who arrived that we could place her if we wished, or have them do it. When I did this for my niece, that wasn’t an option. I hadn’t expected to make this decision. What if we drop her? I felt Esther laughing at my silly worry. There were fifteen of us to do this. And it was the way it should be...women who loved her... laying her body in the coffin, tucking her in.

Afterwards, we fell in a circle around the casket. We chanted a prayer and sang Amazing Grace. We thanked each other, we thanked Esther. We stood in silence, no one wanted to leave.

But it was time to let go.

Splendid travels Esther...

Esther, and her beloved Ben.

Baha'i Perspective on Death

http://info.bahai.org/article-1-4-5-2.html