Days of My Life

Now, I actually wish that people still stopped by here because a strange thing happened this weekend.

I was supposed to meet up with a friend at his request. We’ve never met before but have been communicating for several months. Cool dude from what I can tell. Anyway, I sent him a text thirty minutes before we were to meet to let him know I was running late. I actually got there an hour late. I called 30 minutes out to give him an ETA, and I left a message. We spoke the night before, and he told me where to meet and that he’d let me know the plan when I got there. He was to call that afternoon before our meeting time, which he didn’t. I saw that I’d missed a call from him while I was asleep. I thought nothing of it since there was no message. So I figured we were still on for our outing.

But he never showed up. I called to say I was leaving (my cousin waited with me), and I left a message again. My calls were never sent to voicemail the way they can be sent when you see a number you don’t want to answer. The phone just rang and went to voicemail after 4 rings or so. At first I figured, jerk. Then I thought of what I know of him and knew this was out of character. Not his M.O. at all from what little I know. He would’ve called, so I guessed he must’ve been hurt or something came up. Now, my aunt, being the wise woman that she is, said that if he’s like most men, he probably lost his phone (which is the only place where he has my number). It’s also his internet access where he has my email address. All he has is my first name and cell, so I’m not easy to find without his phone. With that said, I hope that he’s alright. I did call today, 24 hours later, to see if he’s alright. No answer again. Left another message and said a prayer. I figure if his phone is not within his grasp, he’s not getting the messages anyway. If he does have access to it, then he has little to say that I want to hear. Either way, no need to call again. I just trust that he’ll get in touch with me when he can. I’m sure something must’ve come up, and I just pray that all is well. Actually, I’m praying quite a bit.

The thought of him being hurt or in danger more than bothers me. He seems like a sweetheart of the McDreamy variety, and I hope against hope that all is well. In any case, it’s all just very bizarre.

UPDATE: My total weight loss since Father’s Day is 13 pounds. Goooo me!!!

When I was in the band in middle school, I used to come home and go over my new songs for my mom. I came home one day excited about our upcoming concert. I wanted to make sure my mom would be present and near the front row. After all, there were only a few of us Blacks in the band. And my band director had put together what he thought was a stellar concert. I thought so too. Until my mother heard me practice my songs.

She stopped me dead in my tracks after verifying with my father what she had just heard. She asked if I knew what I had just played, and I told her the name of the song and said, “yeah.” Well, the name I gave her was some fancy name, but the tune I had just played was “Dixie.” Oh, you don’t know Dixie? Well, it goes a little something like this when it has words:
O
, I wish I was in the land of cotton
Old times there are not forgotten
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.

In Dixie Land where I was born in
Early on one frosty mornin’
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.

Chorus:
O, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie!

Old Missus marry Will, the weaver,
William was a gay deceiver
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.

But when he put his arm around her
He smiled as fierce as a forty pounder
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.

Chorus:
O, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie!

His face was sharp as a butcher’s cleaver
But that did not seem to grieve her
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
Old Missus acted the foolish part
And died for a man that broke her heart
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.

Chorus:
O, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie!

My momma blasted that director from Ga. to La. right there in our kitchen. I was embarrassed by her anger until she explained the song. “Do you know what Dixie IS?!” “No.” “Well, Dixie is when Blacks were slaves. That’s what the land of cotton is, and my Black child is not playing no song celebrating that.” There was no room for me to protest.

I believe she called a few other Black parents, but on concert day, I was the only one who was not allowed to join in that selection. She almost pulled me from the whole concert. My white band director couldn’t understand all the fuss since it was just a song celebrating “our” rich Southern heritage. Guess he missed the part in history class where slavery wasn’t all that rich for the slaves. My great grandfather, whom I knew, was the son of slaves and was born right after the end of slavery. He lived to be 99, which is how I got to know him. He founded the local NAACP in his county, and he might’ve awakened from his senility had I played that Dixie song that day. I’m glad I didn’t, but I tell you this just to give you a picture of how the South reinforces its status quo early on, and I’m not even that old. This happened in modern times, and on a side note, there are still Southerners who are mad about the outcome of the Civil War. No lie. So given my Southern roots and family background (my uncles marched with Dr. King as children and one went on to become a major civil rights leader), you may understand my outrage at what follows.

This deeply disturbs me. Please read it and come back. Now, read this about Genarlow Wilson down in Georgia. His case is very much like Marcus Dixon’s, also in Georgia, except that Genarlow’s crime is far worse. He had……hold your ears and cover your eyes…..oral sex, a crime that carries a far harsher sentence. Fortunately, unlike in Dixon’s case, the willing participant was not white. But I guess it’s not so fortunate if he’s still in jail.

There is an attack on Black men everywhere, but as is historically the case, it takes on epic proportions in the New South, that in my opinion, looks and sounds very much like the Old. In accounts of the Jena 6 and the Wilson case, whites in both communities claim that they have no racial problems. I saw a snippet of the video from the Wilson case somewhere on the web, and arguably, the most damning part in question is the part for which he was not found guilty. Even so, the lesser charge is the one that the DA is determined to make stick, even though the law used to convict Wilson has been amended because of the case. But in Ga., a new law can’t be applied unless the powers that be say so, and in this case, they don’t say so. And in La., it seems as if Wilson won’t be the only Black Southern youth in jail with an unjust sentence.

Disclaimer: I am neither advocating teen sex nor teen violence, okay. Now, move on.

We (most Blacks) know there are inequities in the justice system across the board, but in areas where it’s less blatant, there may be discrepancies in sentencing and arrests where an actual crime has been committed but there could have been a harsher punishment. In the South, racist whites have mustered up their old courage again and are flying their flag higher than ever. You know the one with the special bars and stripes minus some stars and 11 stripes. As a native of the deep South, this sickens me to my stomach. Many of us thought gone were the days of Emmett Till, but I’m not so sure. We know the formula quite well. It always begins with a little fear and intimidation. Combine a dose of deception to convince Blacks that they are powerless. Mentally subdue them into submission, and physically imprison them to further underscore the rights that they do not have. “Stay in your place niggers.” That’s the message you’re supposed to get. And if you think it can’t happen to you or yours, just remember that a “threat to justice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

At some point, we have to be like Fannie Lou Hamer and get sick and tired of being sick and tired. Our civil rights generation parents, in many cases, didn’t tell us enough of what segregation was really like for us to never be hoodwinked or bamboozled by racism again. We’re too busy chasing the god of materialism. And forr those who believe that we live in a colorblind society where racism isn’t real are foolish. Keep believing that until someone comes with a noose for you. Oh yeah, you hadn’t heard? Lynchings still occur, Black man, Black woman. Don’t keep your head in the sand. Justice is not blind, but she can be ignorant.

And I, for one, plan to do something. The first step is educating you to what’s going on in the world around us. And you best believe that I’ll be tuned in to www.gasupreme.us at 10am EST this morning to see the latest in the Wilson case. After one judge threw out the unjust sentence, the DA appealed to keep Wilson in prison. Today, we find out which the state supreme court will support. I.will.be.watching. And then, I plan to keep on screaming, fighting, yelling, and writing until “justice rolls down like a mighty stream.” And if I don’t see it in my lifetime, well, neither did Malcolm or Dr. King, but I won’t quit fighting, or I am not fit to live.

Unlike many whose ancestors left the South never to return, I feel that the South is mine. My family’s blood is spilled there. The dirt where we still plant has been fertilized with the sweat and tears of slaves, my ancestors. Their bones make the beds of our rivers. Their blood grips the roots of the trees where their children were/are slain. And the dust of their restless spirits blows in every summer’s breeze. That place that exists in a time outside of time, with its steel magnolias and juleps of mint, is bequeathed to the children of those who cultivated her.

And I don’t care what anybody says. Black people own the South, even if we do not yet run it, because we earned it. It is “our” house, and we must protect our house. We’ve made contributions all over this country, but we own the South. America at least owes us that. And YES, I said owes because I do believe we are owed something for generations of inequity. Write a Congressman, the judges, somebody, and let your voice be heard. Don’t let these young boys be victimized in the exact same manner as those before them.

Of one thing you can be sure, wherever I am, there will be no “Dixie” whistling on my lips.

Since I”m taking you on this journey with me, I might as well take you all the way. Today I weighed in 12 pounds lighter than when I first started weighing myself last month. Kudos to me!!! I’ve probably lost about 32 pounds total or so, give or take away a few. I figure by the time I hit the gym again hard core I will have lost an additional 10 pounds or so in the next 2 or 3 weeks. I am loving watching the scale drop. I should be at my target weight and toned by October at the latest, and I’m feeling better than ever. Also, I am happy to announce that the boob dilemma isn’t causing too much stress since I have fit nicely into a DDD again (although I can still do the 36 G). Seem like TMI? Probably is. BUT the good thing is, I don’t know you. LOL. And from what I can tell, no one is reading but me anyway, so that’s comforting. I like it that way unless you already know me and have seen what I’m talking about, then of course, you can only concur and cheer from the sidelines. Rambling again, I see.

What’s funny though is that I did a photo shoot in May for a product that will likely come out next year, and when I make public appearances for the line, people are going to be like, “Where’s the plus-size chick?” The point was to showcase a “real” woman with natural hair who was still sexy in a very tasteful way. The photos were great, but hopefully, folks won’t be turned off by the incongruency of me then and me as I will be when the stuff hits the stores. Oh, well. I could actually have more serious problems, so I won’t claim that as one.

I wonder at what point should I start to buy new clothes? I’ve given away clothes for which safety pinning will no longer work, and I have tried to shrink my jeans as small as possible. Now, what? When I gained weight, I gave away all of my smaller clothes so they wouldn’t go to waste. Now, I have very little to wear, and I go back to work real soon. What a dilemma to have. Not a real one at all I suspect, but if only I could sew, I”d be in business.

I’ve rambled enough.
Peace

I love this pic I got in my email this morning. I checked my email before coming over here to post, and this was just so fitting for today’s post. Gotta love God’s timing!!!

I am different. No doubt about that . I know that we are all unique, but some of us try to blend into the crowd more than others. I’m one of the others. I’ve got my own beat and my own drummer. I’ve never been afraid to walk alone (well, except for that one time in the DC hood during the early 90s ). I am different and I love myself, but I am often misunderstood. That has been one of my greatest points of frustration. In friendships, intimate relationships, and even with family sometimes, I have always desired for someone just to see ME. Not the “me” they think I am or want me to be, but the “me” that I really am. And she’s not so perfect all the time, but she IS sincere and well meaning. I mean I would sometimes get really hot or really hurt when people exhibited their inability to see me and their great capacity to be either shallow or judgmental or both. Now, let me diverge for a second and tell you a little story.

I once moved into a very nice house from a one bedroom apartment. When I left the one bedroom, I gave all my furniture to charity, so I came with only my bed and a dresser to the new place. I had a table too, but that was mostly it in the way of furniture. The house had three bedrooms and 2 1/2 baths. It was a nice house.

There was a member of my church I didn’t know that well, but she had been particularly kind to my best friend when she was in need. I appreciated that and God laid it on my heart to be a blessing to her in turn. This lady and her husband were millionaires, but he passed suddenly, and as in many marriages, he had handled all the finances. It was not long after his passing that she found herself in need of downsizing and rapidly changing her lifestyle. She sold what many would consider a mansion and needed a place to go. Because of what she had done for my best friend, I invited she and her family (three children-two teens and one elem. age) to stay with me. She was around my parents’ age (late 50s, I was in my early 20s at the time), so she was mature but also Godly ( great combo). Witnessing her faith in the midst of adversity was really a blessing to me. So many people had been like leeches to she and her husband but were nowhere to be found when she had a need. I enjoyed her company and her children. They were like a family to me. Candy and I had just been living there alone.

When she came, she brought all that she couldn’t store, and my garage became storage as well as the rest of the house. She furnished the living room with a beautiful mauve leather set: queen sleeper sofa and two reclining chairs. The boys shared a small room upstairs opposite the small room I took for myself and they slept on separate twin mattresses of good quality. She stocked the refrigerator and pantry with plenty of food for her family and Candy and I as well. She installed the internet and a second phone line. She was a pearl with pearl wisdom. And when she and her family moved into a home of their own, she wanted to bless me with something, so she left the furniture and the mattresses. That was a tremendous blessing. The furniture was really nice and because I the way it came to me, it gained sentimental value. Appreciating it was like appreciating the relationship that brought it to me. I treasured it as I treasured the giver. I love it still.

But when I moved again (the lady and her family had left the state by then), this time to another state, I was convinced to give my furniture away. I had no help to make the move. So many people had asked me for that furniture it was ridiculous, and really shameful the way people act sometimes. They had heard who gave it to me and knew it was nice. I also had a reputation for giving away things among those who really knew me.

There was this one lady who let me stay with her family for the months between moving out of the house and moving out of state. She was one who had asked for my furniture, so I gave it to her. She’s a nice lady, but her extended family is right in the dictionary after the word “ghetto.” I don’t think it was even a year after I left that she gave my furniture to another family member whose house is “the” hub for all the ghetto activity–drugs, hiding out, children everywhere, you name it-it happens. I know when you give people something it’s theirs to do as they please, which is exactly what I told her when she asked if I’d mind if she gave my furniture to this family member. Knowing what I knew of where the furniture was going, I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed though.

I understand she wanted this person to have something nice, but you can’t give Bloomingdale’s quality stuff to people with a WalMart mentality or they will just treat the Bloomies stuff just like it came from WalMart. The lady I gave the stuff to initially is a nice lady who sometimes exhibits some Walmart ways. She’s really sweet though but sometimes still has a poverty mentality. I’m not mad she gave the furniture away. That’s not the point of this. The point is that she couldn’t really appreciate the furniture’s value and in turn passed it on to people who also could not. I initially wanted to give it to someone who really needed it but would also appreciate it, and that appreciation would be visible in how well they took care of their stuff. I opted instead for someone who had just been kind to me. Not a bad choice but she never knew and still doesn’t know her worth. Bloomies stuff–Walmart mentality. Not a good match.

Now back to me. I had to realize that I was wasting my time trying to get people with a Walmart mentality to see my Bloomies quality self. It doesn’t work. So then I was reminded of Jesus’ admonition not to cast your pearls before swine. I am a pearl. In fact, we all are, but some of us are still under oyster gunk because we don’t know that we are. I know who and what I am. And I now understand that some people will never “see me” because you cannot do with over-the-counter glasses what you can do with those prescribed from an optometrist’s care. No Walmart for Bloomies. Understanding this is the key to decreasing my frustration because extremely gifted people are often severely misunderstood. So I count it a privilege to be in the hall of greatness, joining others who are equally, if not moreso, misunderstood. I also am privileged to understand that no swine—whether friend, family member, or significant other—will ever be able to appreciate a pearl.

How she hated to be shaved down so low!!! She liked it best when she was furry all over like a mop!! That little cockapoo…

For the past couple of nights, I’ve been dreaming of my puppydog Candy. I don’t know what that means, but in my dreams she does all of the silly things that in life made me laugh. She showers me with puppy hugs and kisses and is just plain full of fun. I find myself even laughing at her antics during the day when I’m awake now as I remember one funny event or another. The memories make missing her less real, less painful. She was my peace of love here on Earth, and I can only imagine what sweet dreams of her must mean.

February 17, 2007

I pray my baby is resting in peace, and if her presence in my dreams is any indication, I know that she is.