"Obama Shares His Feelings"

Such is the front-page headline on the paper thrown on my lawn this morning.

Carrying it into the house, my mind said, “And I know there is much more our President is not sharing regarding his ‘feelings’ about the George Zimmerman trial.  He can’t.  He is the elected leader of everyone and we have a complex problem in America that must be solved with rational attention.”

Well, that’s how I felt about that headline. 

But Trayvon Martin continues to be on trial as he has been from the moment his killer met up with him that dark night in Sanford, Florida.  I’m angry at the evidence of that.

What to do?   I’m working hard to keep the pain I feel buried in hopeful, common sense words and action.  It’s difficult, because I’ve lived so long and experienced so much.  Read my award winning memoir, Black Star Girl.

Not included in my book is an experience with my son.  I remember a sunny Saturday morning ride with Darin.  He was driving his almost brand new lacquer- black Honda Prelude, a 1987 model.  Darin was 25 years old, going on 26 – finally the proud owner of the car he had worked and saved diligently to buy.   It wasn’t his first car.   First, a used Lincoln (a huge vehicle) bought through a newspaper ad, then a used Escort were his before getting the long dreamed of Prelude.  Both Farah and Darin had jobs from the time they were of age to go to work for others.  Neither my daughter nor my son was frivolous with their hard earned pay.

Well on this summer Saturday before noon Darin picked me up to take me to a hot dog  ‘joint’.  He wanted to show me what a fine business it was, the kind he hoped to own one day.  We were laughing and talking with each other when I saw his face go somber after a casual glance into his side view mirror.  Abruptly left turning into a drive, he mumbled, “Wonder what’s up?” By that time the police car was beside him.   I’m remembering the officer did not get out of his car.  That was strange.  He looked across at Darin and said, “What was that all about?” Darin in an even but puzzled tone questioned, “What?”

I'm silent, thinking, was this officer trying to make trouble for the young black ‘boy’ looking too happy on a carefree Saturday morning?  To me that was quite apparent.  The policeman firmly replied, “You know what you did.” 

I wanted to immediately weigh in, be ‘the adult’ in the car.  We had done nothing suspect or illegal.  But knowing my son was his own man and I should do all I could not to interfere, I glanced at the officer but held myself aloof until the officer added, “you know you saw me”.  While Darin calmly claimed, “I didn’t see you ‘til just now”, I slowly leaned forward and looked the man directly in the eye in my most authoritative manner.  It worked.  He warned, “well be careful.” Gruffly adding, “watch what you’re doing.”  He sped away.

I don’t remember visiting the hot dog place or anything we did after that encounter – except talk.  We tried to figure out what the police stop was all about. Perhaps he thought the car was stolen and was having the plates run. We were heading from one town into another and maybe he wanted ‘the collar’.   But he didn’t get out of his car!  We did agree he must have thought we were two ‘kids’.  I personally liked that. 

Whatever the reason for the Police Officer to stop Darin, we were fortunate.  I had the opportunity of seeing the young man’s response in a trying situation.  I was proud of him. Even though we were unnecessarily harassed, only our happy time was ruined.

I truly believe I wouldn’t have the story to tell if my son and I were white, not black in America.  That is sad.  It is an unfair reality that continues. 

My heartfelt sympathy and prayers for their strength go out to Trayvon Martin’s parents, his entire family and friends.  “God bless you.” 

Hate? and Trayvon Martin

 

I don’t hate a mosquito.  For sure though, I do feel my human condition is more important than his continuing to live sitting on my skin.  So, if possible, I kill him.  I didn’t hate him though.

Hate -To feel intense or passionate dislike.

They say there is a fine line between love and hate.

Love: To feel intense or passionate like?  Hmmmm

For sure there was no love between Trayvon Martin and the man with the gun.

I’m more certain there was no hate.

Now I’m thinking, it was worse.

It was the gunman’s total disregard for the individual (Trayvon Martin) juxtaposed against his own opportunity to feel authority.    “Watching” was powerless.   

The gunman was self-involved and the power he wanted to feel was more important than the well-being of the young man out enjoying his nighttime walk.

The young man was shot to death.

The gunman lives to shoot another day.

I killed the mosquito because how I wanted to feel was more important to ME than the insect’s well being.

May I never meet up with a fellow human being who challenges my right to peacefully exist in my space to the extent that I am squashed like I squash that mosquito.  

(Thank You, my granddaughter Jai, for letting me use your precious art work.)

Race Related

It’s about Paula Deen. 

The headlines reported, under oath the television personality said she had used the “n” word, “in the past”.  If you do not know what the “n” word is, good!  If you do know, then no doubt you are aware it is a derogatory label/word that should never be said.  Exception – it seems if you are of African heritage and attribute the word to another of African heritage, eh!  I’ll say this.  In my circles it’s not acceptable, at all!!!

Anyway, I’ve read that using the “n” word was one of a few less-than-admirable racially demeaning admissions made by Paula Deen, of European heritage, born in the deep south in the late 40’s.  None of what I read was OK.  But did it warrant the consequences interested parties are dealing with these days? 

Several corporate entities have announced a cessation of contracts with Paula Deen and her companies.  Paula has offered tear filled commentary; words vouching for her sense of self that does not think, feel or condone what the reported racially based inappropriate incidents imply.

From the people, there’s a hue and cry of disgust and sympathy. Sympathy because “who hasn’t used demeaning terminology at some time?”  Disgust because here’s evidence of the strong undercurrent of racial disparity we cannot seem to overcome as a group of people in this country.  And the perpetrator is a public icon. One person posted on the Internet, “Don’t you wish you had picked your own cotton?”

The questioner was not speaking to a person like me but I have an answer.

“Having lived my entire life in this country I was born in AND having lived my entire life as the descendant of slaves AND having managed to live a constructive, happy life in spite of the emotionally draining feat of periodically dealing with persons and groups of persons who demean me simply on SEEING me, I for one wish they had picked their own cotton and labored and toiled, broke their own backs to earn their future without taking away from me and mine.”

But that has not been America's history.  The good thing is we have come very far.  The not so good is, when incidents like this Paula Deen moment surface, the resultant discussion is verification we’ve ‘got a ways to go’.  Depressing.

Reminder

Welcome a happy attitude.

When a challenging thought 

Comes to mind,

Smile.                                   

Our world will be a better place for it.

                          

                                     My daughter's smile inspired my thinking today.

                              

Paula Deen Didn't Teach Me How To Cook

My mother was a great cook.  She taught me all I knew.  (I use the past tense. After all, via televised cooking shows, I know so much more today.)  Still, long before I left home for college I could confidently fix a complete family meal, thanks to mother.

Mother (June 24, 1911- August 12, 1987)

Baking an apple pie this morning I heard mother's voice, reminding me not to handle the pie dough too much.  “Your pie crust will not be tender and flaky,” her patient words came to mind as they do from time to time. 

I don’t know how she learned to cook.  She didn’t have a mother to teach her.  One afternoon, when I was a grade school student, helping her in the kitchen, I was saddened hearing mother tell me her mother was buried on her 8^th birthday.  That was in 1919.  Grandpa didn’t remarry.  And, it doesn’t seem likely her only sister, Aunt Cora, almost five years old when mother was born, taught her.  Perhaps it was the woman mother worked for as a housekeeper those years before she and daddy married.  The lady was always spoken of as a kind and caring person.  She may have taught her.

Daddy loved mother’s cooking, all the while boasting about being a good cook himself.  “I just don’t have the time.” We laughed.  He did make delicious snow ice cream.

A year or so ago, watching Paula Deen’s cooking show, reminded me of my father's unbridled taste for butter.  Mother’s yellow cake, hot from the oven, garnished with creamery butter served with a tall glass of cold milk was a favorite dessert of his. 

Many of Paula Deen’s recipes were butter rich.  Influenced by her glowing positivity, I wanted to consider diets laden with fats and sugars were not as bad for ones health as the medical community told me – even knowing heart disease killed my daddy at the young age of 58.  

When it was revealed that Paula Deen had been diagnosed earlier with diabetes, I stopped watching her.  She immediately lost her credibility with me.  (I was surprised her show wasn’t cancelled then.)

                       .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

The Food Network remains a favorite TV channel. Their programming has strengthened my cooking initiative.  I’m not as shy with the knives!

Who teaches/taught you how to cook?