Yvonne Battle-Felton's Open Salon Blog

The Thing About 40

Fri, 4 May 2012 19:05:48 -0400

The thing about 40

Before turning 40, I heard a lot about it how liberating 40 is. How 40 would bring even more confidence and opportunities. Turning 40 would be like becoming myself—like I did in my 20’s, my 30’s—all over again. It would begin a time to re-rediscover me.

I’m 40 and I’m doing things I never thought I would do.

Of all of the many things I do now—and one I can actually talk about—I'm asking for money to pursue a project that I believe can change lives. If nothing else my research will allow me to tell stories—it’s what I do—stories that may answer questions of how people connect; how people build families; how people rebuild themselves.

I am applying for and to grants, scholarships, fellowships and every other type of funding in between; I am doing what my grandmother said never to do: asking for money.

And now I have launched my own Kickstarter project; I have prepared a proposal shamelessly asking for funding to help me tell the stories of mothers searching for children; the stories of what happened after the Emancipation; the stories still unfolding today.

And, I’ve put it online for virtually everyone to see.

Confidence to have a dream and dedication to pursuing it; come to think of it, my grandmother would be proud after all.

Learning About Learning (Trying to find a Tutor)

Thu, 3 May 2012 00:05:17 -0400

My son is failing algebra. As an English major I can’t help him. Well, not in the way I would expect to be able to help him. I would love to be able to open the book, flip to the page and see not the answers, but how to solve the problems.

But Algebra 2 does not make any sense to me.

Because my son goes to a Title I school in Baltimore County, they offer students who need help free tutoring services in Math and Reading. The system allows parents the freedom to choose from an array of tutors claiming a number of specialties that in my experience so far, they just may not have.

I first contacted Title I a few months ago; at the tutoring fair they handed me a booklet filled with data, information and resources; and the freedom and responsibility to choose the best provider.

The information is good, relevant, but something in this system is broken and I know broken when I see it because I have broken many things—and I’ve fixed a few too.

My first choice was Gap Busters. They looked good on paper and in person when I met them at the fair. If only they had called back. My son was set up for their services but they never contacted me.

A week later I chose C2 Education. The representative was also nice, friendly and at the fair—I should mention that most of the providers did not attend the fair. While C2 Education offers help for children struggling with standard math, they cannot seem to educate children in Algebra 2. Optimistically, they thought giving the tutor pamphlets would refresh her memory and help my son.

It did neither.

And so we went to A to Z tutoring. Now, I could call them A to F because my son is still failing. But, since he was already failing before he was set up with them and because he is failing not because they did help but because they didn’t, I won’t play with their name.

The representative/supervisor again seemed nice. My son does not need tutoring in how to be nice. On the phone I was told a tutor would contact me between “today and tomorrow.” That was a few tomorrows ago.

I waited Monday, then Tuesday; on Wednesday I left a voice message.

Three tutors later and my son is still failing Algebra 2. My son is learning a lot through this experience. He’s learning that you have to be your own advocate and that sometimes systems fall apart.

So, what do I do? I call; I complain; I write about it. And then I find a tutor who will help my son learn Algebra 2. And what do I learn? I guess it’s time to learn Algebra 2 and time to fix the system.

Rediscovering my Hair Style

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 13:04:28 -0400

My daughter is a beautiful young woman with thick, dark brown hair; wine colored, almond shaped eyes; creamy, full cheeks and hundreds of other attributes, talents and gifts. When the hair on her head is long, thin and shiny she believes me when I tell her she is beautiful. When her hair is her natural length, either natural or relaxed, she does not.

It isn’t that she only feels beautiful when her hair is beautiful; she worries that she is only beautiful when her hair is longer.

I wish I could convince her otherwise.

My words are not those that will convince her, probably because I have and sometimes still do feel the same way about myself. When my hair is braided it frames my face and falls to my shoulders, the faint swish of braids makes me move differently and sometimes even feel differently. Braids, more precisely the hair, makes me feel more beautiful—for awhile.

As a child I had short thick hair. I can remember trudging behind my sister through the streets of Atlantic City as we went to my grandmother’s friend: a hair dresser. Before, when I was more naïve, I used to enjoy the walk. Entering her house was similar to a trip to the museum. Thick plastic covered already hard furniture; multi-colored baubles adorned every surface; what wasn’t slick with plastic was covered in color. Color followed her. Thick lipstick stained the hairdresser’s teeth. She didn’t seem to notice. That was fine, I guess. Something about her wigs should have told my grandmother she didn’t really do hair—my grandmother didn’t seem to notice.

When I was a kid I had an idea of what styles would make me look glamorous. Either the hairdresser didn’t agree, or she couldn’t do them. No matter what my sister and I asked for the results were the same: dreadful.

I learned not to ask. I learned not to think in terms of hair style.

It would be years before I would even realize it was gone—let alone determine to find it again.

My next hair styles were developed by people who had little interest in the end results. Their friendships already tested in other areas, these friends of my grandmother or friends of my mother didn’t feel pressured to perform hair miracles. And so they didn’t. My short hair got even shorter. They weren’t taking care of it. I wasn’t taking care of it.

My last childhood hair memory was at a hair school. The technician assigned to do my hair needed her instructor to show her just how to do my hair. The instructor laughed at the task, or at something she was thinking, or at their adult conversation. It doesn’t, as an adult, matter what they were laughing at. At ten, they were laughing at me.

I never went back.

Over the years I mainly allowed hairstylists to style my hair. I literally put my identity in their hands. Sometimes I was impressed, other times not so much.

Three decades and three children after my first visits to the hair salon, I still don’t have my hair style. Braided, relaxed, weaved, I haven’t given much thought to the style more to the effect.

Sliding in to salon chairs became more of a task.

“What do you want done?” they would ask.

“Something cute,” I replied vaguely.

For five years or so my neighbor did my hair.

“How do you want me to style it?”

“Something that says I’m 35 and sexy.”

A few hours later I would be sexier. Sometimes, a bit too sexy.

Today my hair is braided. It’s time to take them out.

It’s also time to develop a hair style. For the past few weeks I have been considering: a wrap; a bob; something short, healthy, and confident. I am considering styles that frame my face and highlight my cheek bones.

Each day I get closer to picturing hair styles; my styles. No matter which I decide on, my sense of hair style is coming back—one strand at a time.

Exes and Oh's

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 14:12:29 -0500

Exes and Oh’s

The other day I met a guy. “I’m a widower and a single father,” he announced. “This is usually the part where women run. Let’s see if you do the same,” he challenged.

I would bet that most women don’t run because he is a widower or a single father, but because his attitude inspires flight.

Issuing a challenge is really not the best way to inspire me to break the pattern. I’m not that competitive.

While I knew we weren’t going much farther than the ‘getting to know you’ stage, I kept the conversation going as long as I could.

“So, how did your last relationship end?” I asked.

Now, I don’t read people’s looks at all well—truth be told I don’t really try. I’m enamored with words: I don’t study expressions unless they are expressed through them.

But I could read his look.

“She died.”

I think it was the tone that annoyed me most. Not the ‘I already told you that’ but the malice with which he uttered the words. As if he was challenging me to again do what few had done before me: date him.

I’m a divorced, single mother.

When I say I’m divorced, do people assume I am talking about my last relationship? Labels seem to have a way of sticking around. When I am dating do I have to say I’m dating and divorced? If I remarry will I be a married, divorced mother of 3?

When my children are grown will I still be a single mother? Or does single drop off when they turn 18?

I am not the woman to date first. I am not ‘first date after the end (rather it ended from natural causes or not) of a long relationship’ material. I’m not even sure I’m ready to be in a relationship so I can help someone else get into one?

I don’t know what people think of when they hear the labels I choose to define myself by, so I will translate them.

Divorced: I was married. I know how to hold on to something of value and when to let go of something when it no longer works.

Single mother: I have priorities. I know how to put the needs of others before me. I know how to accept responsibility, how to encourage, and how to love someone other than myself.

It also means if you want to spend time with me, you have to have yourself together.

A clarification: I’m not looking for a father for my children.

Needless to say, the conversation with the single, father widower ended. Not because he is a single father. Not because he is a widower. But because I don’t date challenges; I’m not that competitive.

Learning to Speak Me: Part II

Thu, 19 May 2011 01:05:06 -0400

seduce me

do not squander silences

create of words a cassock

sway me gently

do not write poetry.

do not speak poetically.

do not ponder in meter or philosophize in line.

do not brood in rhythm or contemplate in rhyme—often.

think

say

mean

don’t speak

speak

tell me what my words say to you

know this

if my tone offends you, you aren’t listening