“Great, Thanks! Yours?”

 

A Facebook friend of mine posted that sign yesterday.  This morning, a neighbor who was driving past me and my dog Coqui stopped, lowered the window and shouted “How was your Christmas?”

“Great,” I lied.  “Yours?”

“Very nice,” she yelled.

So, I am a liar.  I am a terrible person who lies in order to 1) save my breath as well as my face; and 2) Avoid the glazed over stare of the person who mindlessly asked me a question concerning my well-being or lack thereof.

Here is what I would have said, had I not elected to flat-out lie:

“Well, I wasn’t really feeling the Christmas thing to begin with, so I was dragging my ass a bit as I rang my sister’s doorbell at exactly 1:30 p.m. Christmas Day. I arrived as planned, a half hour earlier than the time she said my nephew and his kids were asked to appear.  I knew my retail-employed sister was scheduled to be at her large chain store location at 4 a.m.the day after Christmas, which meant she’d have to arise at 2:30 a.m. (Yikes, that’s pretty unreal!)  So I brought my assigned items (dinner rolls and egg nog, because she thinks she is the only one who knows how to cook, but I do make homemade rolls; but I didn’t because it is a waste of time because the two kids are the only ones besides me who even bother with them at dinner.

Anyway, my nephew, who is notorious for his lack of consideration when it comes to keeping schedules, didn’t arrived at the prescribed time.  He didn’t bother answering his phone when his mother called at 2:30 p.m. to see if he was on his way.  He didn’t answer at 3..or 3:30…or 3:45 either. 

Noting the smoke starting to drift from her ears, I tried to fill the silence by asking what time she would get off from work the next day.  She said 11 a.m., to which I said, “Oh, that’s not so bad…I guess.”

Said she:  “No, it’s not so bad because YOU don’t have to do it.”

I must have looked exactly the way someone should look after having her head bitten off and I did let out a rather long and loud sigh. I slnked off to the farthest away from my fuming hostess and vowed not to open my mouth the rest of the day.  But no, that wouldn’t do either.

Sister Dearest realized what she had done, but instead of apologizing, she acted as if she never took a bite out of my ass and started making small talk about my exercise regimen, my son, etc. I answered as if I weren’t still stung.

But then her 21-year-old grandson, who had driven himself from his home and was on time, decided to try to fill the next pregnant pause by saying something akin to “so how’s it going, Nana?” 

“STOP TRYING TO MAKE SMALL TALK!  YOU KNOW I’M PISSED!”  She didn’t whisper.

At 4 p.m. – a full two hours late – the doorbell rang and my nephew and crew entered. 

And all hell broke loose.   I withdrew to a neutral corner of my mind, but by this time I, too, was rather irritated by my nephew’s lack of respect for his mother.  She yelled something about being disrespected.  He tried to say he thought she told him dinner was at 3, but, of course, that was not working, mainly because it was FOUR O’CLOCK! 

Meanwhile, my sister’s longtime companion arrived, walking into the middle of what must have looked like an episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  He wisely decided to stay out of it and instead walked over to me, saying:

“How are you?”

“Fine,” I replied with a weak smile. “How are you?”

Later, after I hadn’t uttered a word for nearly two hours, my sister asked me if I was okay… why was I so quiet?

“I’m fine,” I said, feigning surprise.  I really wanted to bolt out the door and drive to the safety of my empty home.

Looks like I really am a liar. If I had told the truth, it would have been necessary to explain why I had responded “It sucked.”  As we all know, the passing driver really didn’t want to know how my Christmas was unless it was “Great.”  And who the hell wants to reveal the truth: that her family is just as screwed up as everybody else’s?

Happy New Year to you, too!

Christmas is a Feeling…and I’ve lost it

Little L would lie in bed and wait for it:  that magical feeling that started right after Santa Claus finally brought up the rear of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. 

The anticipation of things to come was like a drug to Little L.  She loved the rehearsals for the Christmas play at school and the familiarity of Christmas carols sung at Sunday Mass amid gigantic potted poinsettias and aromatic pine boughs festooning the altars.  Her eyes would grow wide in front of the automated window scenes at Marshall Field in Chicago’s bustling Loop.  She pretended to believe in the poor man in the red velvet suit who endured children peeing on his lap and pulling his fake beard, just so she could get the gift he would pull out of his huge pack, lying beside his throne.

Little L’s family didn’t do any decorating at all until the Big Night.  My sister, our cousins and I believed the floor-to-ceiling silver-painted pine tree was somehow put there by Santa, before he went about the task of arranging the unwrapped toys in a way that told a story, while at the same time putting each child’s presents in easy-to-find groups. 

Little L loved to wake up on Christmas morning – make that the wee, wee hours of the morning, while it was still night dark – and see the blue glow that silver tree emitted from its monochromatic lighting scheme.  The silver tinsels, meticulously placed one-strand-by-one, reflected the blue lights and enhanced the glow. Knowing she was not allowed to get up until the sun was about to rise, Little L would lie there and let the “feeling” of that glow wash over her while she fought the urge to wake her sleeping little sister in the twin bed beside her.

Christmas was a three to four week feast for all her senses.  The sights of blinking lights and precious nativity scenes; the smells of Christmas cookies mixed with the nauseous stench of diesel fuel that lessened to joy of the trip to the Loop; and the sounds of music from the radio or from the sound tracks of televised Christmas specials and classic movies converged to create a very excited little girl.

Even after I became Teen L, long eschewing the magical components of the season, that glow of tree lights worked on me every time.  Somehow that glow, which only worked on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, had the power to elevate even my adolescent moods, although I did have to be awakened by this time, having been out the night before.

Parenthood changed everything.  Mommy L had to create the magic for her tiny, excitable boy.  Year after year, through tight budgets and single parenthood, through work schedules and relentless sinus infections, Mommy L’s job was not to enjoy the run-up to Christmas, but to “make” Christmas. The joy she experienced at the sight of her little son jumping up and down in his footie pajamas with glee was her sensory reward.

Today I am Senior L.  Without grandchildren yet to spoil and help create the magic for, I find myself disinterested in the Miracle on 34th Street, weary of the sound of Jimmy Stewart’s voice and numb, even, to my favorite Christmas songs.  It all feels so artificial, so borderline dishonest.  While I do believe The Reason for the Season actually lived and walked among us more than 2000 years ago, I no longer believe he was anything more than a charismatic leader with superior staying power.  Celebrating his birth, for me, is similar to celebrating the birth of any other person of historical significance. 

When I watch as my sister and her son create the magic for his 9 and 11 year olds, I notice the changes from one year to the next.  I doubt they believe some portly dude flies in at night, parks his inexplicably airborne reindeer on their roof, and somehow squishes his ample girth and a jam-packed sack of presents into modern-day chimney flues.  I doubt they understand that without their generous and doting grandmother, their Christmas hauls would be vastly diminished. 

And yet, when they have children, they will repeat the same seemingly meaningless (to me, not to all of you, I’m sure) cycle.  And their grandparents will sit quietly, nibbling on pfeffernüsse, waiting for it all to be over, once again.

I understand the concept of Bah, Humbug better each year that passes by.

Affluenza* – A Rich Boy’s Plea

Ethan Couch

Now I’ve heard everything!  He did it because his family is too wealthy to teach him any better.

Sixteen-year-old Texan Ethan Couch killed four people last June when he crashed into them at 70 miles per hour, having a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. 

The other car?  There was no other car.  These victims were merely standing beside the road along with the nine others who were injured in the tragedy.

Rather than vehicular homicide, the teen was charged with four counts of manslaughter, because the court decided Ethan Couch was “too wealthy to understand the difference between good and bad.” Although the prosecutors in the case were seeking a 20-year prison sentence, the maximum for the manslaughter charges, Couch was given only 10 years of probation.

Dr. G. Dick Miller, the psychologist hired by the defense, told the court that Ethan Couch’s life could be salvaged if he spent a year or two in treatment with no contact with his parents.  There have been reports that they plan to send the teen to a $500,000/year facility in California somewhere – probably in some God-awful place like Malibu Beach or Santa Barbara.  Poor thing.

Dr. Miller testified that Ethan’s parents gave him “freedoms no young person should have.”  He said the boy is a victim of “affluenza” because his family believed wealth bought privilege.  He said the parents did not believe there was any link between behavior and consequences.

All this time many of us have understood how poverty contributes to the illegal, irrational and violent behavior of some young people raised in America’s pockets of poverty.  Many a defense attorney has used that excuse in their pleas for leniency for kids even younger than Ethan who commit heinous crimes.  We’ve all known it is possible to be too poor to keep children fed, clothed, educated and supervised properly.

But to be too rich?  Too rich to teach a child not to drink and drive?  Too rich to at least PAY somebody to teach the kid about consequences of breaking the law? I don’t buy it. 

Juvenile Judge Jean Boyd of Fort Worth did buy it, apparently, because by the time Ethan Couch is 26, he will have satisfied his debt to society and have the opportunity to resume his life of privilege and exceptionalism. 

I knew the almighty dollar had the loudest voice in this country, but this is a new low.  Perhaps Ethan Couch’s parents should go to prison.

_________________

*The book Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic defines it as "a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more".^[1]

When Nothing Seems Good Enough

 

A dear friend’s husband died last Friday.  She and I worked together when I lived in California.  My husband and I bought a home in the same town she and her husband lived in when we met. 

PJ is such a special woman.  She earned her Ph.D. in organizational development when she was well into her 50s.  Age never mattered much to her.  Her boundless energy propelled her in several directions at once, all the time.

When she married H., it never bothered her that he was quite a bit older than she was.  No one has an expiration date stamped on their buttocks, she’d say.  What mattered to her was his heart – the kind that determines one’s character.

The last time I saw PJ, we treated ourselves to a lost weekend in New York City.  She flew from California and I flew from Atlanta.  When we met at the hotel, it was as if no time at all had passed since our prior face-to-face encounter.

We have a lot in common.  She is of Mexican descent, so she has suffered as much discrimination in life as I have as a black woman.  H. was of Portuguese extraction, and while not nearly as pronounced as for PJ and me, he took his share of ethnic slurs.  But none of the three of us allowed any of that to prevent us from setting goals and reaching them. 

Both PJ and H. were soft-spoken and calming.  Whereas I am a true Type A personality, they hovered in the Type B serenity that often served to rein me in.  In short, they are, or were, one of those rare couples that remained madly in love until H.’s very last breath.

I just called PJ.  She answered, “Hi, L.”  Her voice was quivery.  Mine was nowhere to be found.  I finally squeaked out a shaky “how are you doing, Sweetheart?” 

“Funny you should call at this very moment,” she said in that calm, melodious voice of hers.  “I am standing in front of H.’s cremains.  I’m in the process of picking up the urn.”

My heart slammed into the bottom of my gut.  Great, I thought.  Timing is everything, and yours, L, sucks!

“No, it’s perfect timing,” she said, ever the lady, ever the fixer.  “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

No matter how many times I encounter this inevitability – death – I have yet to find a collection of words that come even close to suiting the occasion. 

“I am so sorry, PJ.  I have so many wonderful memories of you and H together.”

That’s it.  That’s all I could muster, except for croaking through the onset of my tearfulness, “I love you, PJ.”

Her tears started then.  I knew she wouldn’t hold me responsible for them, but I felt like crap anyway. 

I guess this is always going to be one of those times when nothing – no words or gestures – will seem good enough to reach the level of gravitas a death commands.

The Murder of Hope

 

So many of my fellow writers here are much younger than I.  Some terrific essays have been posted in the past few days, but most of the true memories of the day John F. Kennedy was slain have been from those of you who were in elementary school or even younger.

I was two weeks past my 19th birthday.  It was the second year of my college education in a place that, in retrospect, was probably as unlikely as it could have been at the time.  Politics were important to me then, but not important enough to have it influence my choice of schools. 

I learned in my first year that I had signed up to attend a small, liberal arts college in the prairies of Wisconsin in a town that distinguished itself as being the birthplace of the Republican Party.

Not only was I the only “Negro” woman enrolled there; I was also a part of a very small coterie of young Democrats.

At 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time on Friday, November 22, 1963, I was walking alone toward the Commons, hoping I hadn’t missed out completely on lunch.  My head was swirling with chemical formulas, exhausted from a brutal mid-term exam in chemistry.

Two guys I knew – the school was only 800 students strong, so I knew just about everybody by then – were walking toward me laughing.

“Did you hear, L?”

“Hear what?” I responded, smiling.

“Somebody killed Kennedy.”

Again, they smirked and chuckled.

“Yeah, right.  You two are such lunch buckets.”  That’s one of the many stupid things we called each other back then.  It meant they were “out to lunch” or idiots. I thought it applied particularly well for classmates who claimed to be Republicans.

They passed and I kept walking. 

But they were not joking.  It was true. I heard it from a fellow liberal who approached on that same stretch of sidewalk.  I heard it, but couldn’t process it.  It couldn’t happen in this country.  Not here.  Not now.

I changed my direction and headed for the dorm.  My appetite vanished as quickly as the President’s future.  I needed to talk to my mother.  Now.  I was confused, angry,  and scared. 

The election of President Kennedy had meant to my young mind that things were getting much, much better.  He won, despite being a Catholic.  That was huge for me because I shared that “stigma” with him, although I didn’t  understand why it was such a big issue in the scheme of things.  He talked about what a nation should be and what he was saying sounded very much like he agreed that people like me should have a fair shake.  Maybe I wouldn’t have to be so mindful of my race anymore.  Maybe I could just be another college coed.  Maybe the turmoil that was going on the the Deep South at the time would come to a halt and things would change.

By the time I reached my mother on the hall telephone in the dorm, my hope was DOA.

Urban Decay and Feral Teens

 

It appears the simulated violence in video games is no longer exhilarating enough for some urban teenagers.  There’s a new game in town that is all the rage among seemingly asocial posses of thrill seekers.  They call it Knockout.

The object of the game?  To see if the teen has enough skill and strength to knock unconscious some random pedestrian in one well-placed blow.  When successful, the unsuspecting pedestrian falls like a tree and the posse celebrates. 

Sometimes the prey doesn’t recover.  One man, Ralph Santiago,46, was found dead in Hoboken, N.J., his head and broken neck wedged between two iron fence posts. Video surveillance recorded his assailant delivering the knockout blow.

Apparently, this phenomenon is moving across America’s vast landscape, coming soon to a city near you. There have been deaths as a result of such attacks in Syracuse, St. Louis and New Jersey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=u_PEBsEyYHQ

America, what have we done!? How have we allowed our society to decline into a re-enactment of Lord of the Flies?

The proverbial elephant on the table, based on the reports of such incidents to date, is the race of the young people shown in the videos mindlessly attacking innocent people who happen by at the exact moment these feral human beings decided to get their “fun on.”

These are the first two comments I saw when I scrolled down on yesterday’s CBS DC report on Knockout:

jimjenky• 3 minutes ago

• Yep, call me a racist, but soon as I saw the article title I knew the race of those playing this game. Oh, but we need to understand that this is the result of slavery, the break-up of the black family, the on-going racism of America and its effects on the lives of black youth, etc, etc, etc. The biggest problem with black America, especially with black youths, is the continued excuses that are given for their poor conduct, thus encouraging further poor conduct. Face facts, America, the greatest enemy of black America are black Americans. Time to look at whether this is cultural of genetic.

Roxy• 3 minutes ago

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Yes, the guilty parties were black.  And no matter how hateful we find the comments I’ve pasted above, the truth is that I also knew without seeing the video that the kids involved would be black.  That is particularly problematic for me because I am also black and I spend a good deal of my time writing about and fighting against the stereotypes that plague me and other mothers of sons who are black and innocent of such ignorant,feral behavior.

To answer the commenter jimjenky, let me say this:  It is not genetic, it is cultural.  It HAS been looked at to see if this kind of amoral behavior is genetically inherent to descendants of black Africans.  It is not.  So no, it is not about race.

It is about decade after decade of poverty among black families who cannot join the White Flight that renders inner cities dark-skinned and even poorer. 

It is about children in those dark-skinned cities being raised by child mothers, who were raised by child mothers, who were raised by child mothers.

It is about the propensity for residents of these dark-skinned cities to turn to drugs and drug trafficking to both escape the relentless grind of poverty that they can’t hope to escape and to earn the kind of living they think they deserve. 

jimjenky stated: “Face facts, America, the greatest enemy of black America are black Americans.”

This is where it gets difficult for me.  This is a statement I cannot refute.  I, too, am afraid of groups of black teenagers.  As a senior citizen, I am feeling more and more vulnerable to the dangers of simply leaving my house. 

Last week I was afraid to carry my cell phone while walking my dog because young black men and woman are making a sport out of jumping out of cars and snatching the devices right out of the hands of pedestrians.  Now I have to be concerned about being the random target of a so-called game to see if one of those thugs can knock me out in one punch.  The chances that these crimes will be committed by black youths are well into 90th percentiles. 

What’s interesting about my concerns is that I do not live in a blighted neighborhood.  On the contrary, this is considered an upscale in-town neighborhood with a fair amount of cultural diversity, but still predominately white.  In-town Atlanta has undergone an impressive gentrification over the past three or four decades.  In fact, many of those white flyers have reclaimed large sections of the inner-city, pushing the dark-skinned city dwellers outward into the exurban areas and creating new pockets of urban-like blight.

The problem is the feral thugs are mobile.  If they have no car to use to cruise the areas where the stuff they want is likely to be, they steal it.  Their thought process seems to be simply “I don’t have one; I need one; I’ll take yours.”  There is no conscience involved.  It is pragmatic. Morality and conscience have vanished among this group. 

It has vanished to the point that knocking innocent passersby unconscious is a leisurely pastime.  

You and I may disagree about how we got to this place, but this is where we are.  Blaming it on black people will not protect non-black people from the Knockout Game.  Blaming it on white people will not protect non-white from becoming prey. 

America, we have a problem.  There is nowhere to hide.

Better than Sex

 

At first glance, I’m pretty sure I look like a real girly-girl.  I admit to paying meticulous attention to my public presentation – clothes must fit, hair must be neat and the melasma spots on my cheeks concealed.  And I never leave the house without earrings! 

When it comes to what we women commonly refer to as “pampering”, however, I’m not big on it.  Waiting around in a hair salon while people rearrange and transform their follicles is my idea of torture.  I do it once in a while just to remind myself how much I hate it. I usually go straight home and rewash and restyle my hair after dropping anywhere between $65 and $100, plus tip.  Who needs that?

I can think of at least three times in my life when I have been generously gifted with a certificate for a Spa Day at one of Atlanta’s most chi-chi establishments.  They all expired and went unused.  Did I feel guilty about the big bucks I wasted?  Yes…but not enough to pick up the phone and make the appointments.

A couple of weeks ago my son called and asked how I was feeling.  On that particular day I was literally aching in every joint and muscle in my body.  It didn’t feel like the flu or a cold coming on.  I was just achy – like a person in her very latest 60s will be from time to time.

I must digress from the real purpose of this post to explain that my son, as wonderful as he is, sometimes allows gift-giving events like birthdays and Christmas to sneak up on him.  He never fails to produce something, but it is usually something like flowers and candy and teddy bears; things that can be called in and delivered immediately, if not sooner.

I almost threw the thing in the trash, something I do without opening most of the mail I receive these days.  As I stood over the trash can sorting through the campaign materials someone spent too much money to print and send; the ubiquitous flyers about new gutters and carpet cleaners; the countless catalogs that I am constantly asking retailers not so send; and the birthday card from my mother, something told me to open the substantial high-quality ivory envelope.

My son, in his thoughtful kindness, had sent me a gift certificate for something called a Hot Stone Massage –60 minutes.  The certificate was signed “Happy Birthday” from Stephen.   I was so touched by his attention to my needs.  I was also terrified I would do what I had done so many times before and allow the gift to expire, so I called and made the appointment.   I have just come back from the most blissful hour of my life.

The spa is located on the ground floor of a hugely expensive high-rise condominium in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.  For those who don’t know, Buckhead is like the Beverly Hills of the south.  It is full of people like the Real Housewives of Atlanta.  They have money and time to burn and they spend both freely in hair salons, nail salons, and spas.

From the moment I went through the etched glass doors it was Zen, Zen, Zen.  Music sounding very much like it was being played by Andreas Vollenweider seemed to gently invade my pores.  I could practically feel my blood pressure head downward.

Natalie, my Russian masseuse, spoke in a soft, pleasingly accented voice, suggesting I strip down to my own personal level of comfort, which for me meant buck naked.  She gave me plenty of time to slide into a deliciously clean bed of opulent linens.  I almost fell asleep just waiting for Natalie to return.

I was a bit apprehensive about this hot stone situation.  What was she going to do, place them on my tortured muscles and let them sit there?  Would they be too hot?  Could the heat aggravate my constant companion, Eminess*? We discussed all that and decided to proceed.

Never has an hour gone by so fast.  I had only had deep tissue massages before in my life, so those memories don’t bring nirvana to mind.  They hurt, at times.  This was so totally different, I was transported to a place I have only visited for the brief amount of time spent in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy.  No thoughts about sickness.  No thoughts about politics.  No thoughts about anything except how good I felt, body and soul.  And for an entire hour!

When Natalie stopped rubbing me with massage oil and the heated river stones held in the palm of her hand, she covered my body with a damp heated blanket.  I could have slept there for the rest of the day and night.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t part of the gift, so I had to find the strength to arise from the table and re-dress my painless and seemingly boneless body.

I have no idea how much that transcendent sixty minutes cost my son, but I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to do that regularly.  I’ll have to remember to complain about my aches and pains a little before Christmas.  Who knows?  Maybe Santa Stephen will read my mind again.

 

* Eminess is my “pet name” for Multiple Sclerosis