Category: From the Soul

Though I know not
what a prayer really is
and so many
“How to live”
theories and
philosophies
lean towards Show Biz –
I never-the-less
bask in the multitudes
of petitions to a higher power
and self help psychology
that my family has realized
since my daughter
began her struggle
to remain alive….

To all you well wishers out there, know that I love each one of you dearly and deeply appreciate your prayers and your soothing words and your hugs and two kisses. Oh, you ease so much of the pain that our family is going through hoping that our Debbie will pull through.

Okay, so I know you’re thinking “Yeah, we cool, but how are YOU doing?” Well, you mean, other than not knowing whether I’m coming or going?

Actually, I’m okay, under the circumstances, one might say, but in all this I find myself wondering “Am I crazy?” Then I think I must be because I can’t rid myself of a most compelling urge to just let loose like Daffy Duck, casting my sanity to the four winds, the pain is so stunning.

My dearest Debbie: this is so scary, your cardiac arrest. Seeing you on Thanksgiving Day connected to all those tubes and machines buzzing and beeping and ringing, with their blue and green and yellow lines zigzagging across a bank of screens, dancing and flashing “vital sign” statistics like storm troopers – I thought I would die, baby. That was so surreal, so not you.

I cry to the universe, stunned, with a simple question on my tongue, like a character in the old time movies: “What’s the big idea?” I mean, really, what genre of karma is this that has you in such a dark valley between life and death? And I can’t help but recall when you got here.

Not too long ago I stood in a line at a grocery store with two men who were old and tall like me.

I was captivated by the scene and found myself reacting out loud, in a spirit of goodwill and levity, with: “Wow, it looks like National Old Tall People’s Day.” One of the men smiled and the other, as though he had just chugged a gallon of lemon juice, managed to say: “Yeah, if you want to call yourself old.” And being one who is tickled pink (picture that in a man the color of coffee without cream) to be old I had nothing else to say.

A little note: I told this story of being separated from my mother when I was six years old in “Say What? (Remembering a Childhood Experience),” OB Rag, November 2, 2011. After writing that piece I asked myself: What would my mother say about that year in our lives? And I started seeing her in my mind, standing with her hands on her hips, feet firmly on the ground, her natural stance for baring her soul – and from this image of her there came these words of recall – in her voice:

What a moment. Pulling that little boy of mine to my chest and telling him that we were going to have to live apart was the most heart wrenching experience of my life. I don’t know if I could do it again.

It was a “Say what?” moment if there ever was one, you know one of those moments where the words coming through your ears reach a brain that can only go: “Did I hear what I thought I just heard? Are you kidding me?”

I don’t recall what I was doing when the moment arrived but it was the first “Say what?” moment of my life, but being a six-year-old boy, all boy, as they say, and the year being 1944, I was probably chasing bad guys, ala “Geronimoooo…!” or “Hi-Yo, Silver, Away!” But, in the midst of whatever I was doing I heard my mother say: “We’re moving away.”

Oh, I have had moments in my life,
downs where pizzazz
seemed out of my grasp,
where joy and light
disintegrated into
notions I could only
think of as relics of the past –
and I’ve had some highs
wherein and whereas
I felt as mellow
as a funky
blast of jazz.

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling a bit of dread, kind of knowing that a man, who might be innocent, could end the day dead.

I decided to find as much humor in my day as I could. After unfolding my paper the word RELIEF in caps jumped out at me and lead my eyes to a photo featuring a tearful navy petty officer enjoying his newly arrived freedom to simply be who he is.

I chuckled to myself thinking how gays and lesbians can now, like us straight folks, “ask and tell” constantly, regularly, instantly. I mean we heteros can’t wait to be asked “How was she?” And we love to answer all braggy: “Hey, man, I took care of the B-I-Z!” And the woman responds to “How was he?” with: “Well, he pretty much went on without me.” But, finally: equality.

Boy, things you do when you’re seventeen.
Especially when you think you just about the coolest thing
the world has ever seen.
Know what I mean?
Now, I was cool at seventeen,
not to brag or anything,
but being a teenage male Negro
in 1955,
a dude had to be cool
just to stay alive;
That’s positively no jive….

Thoughts Stemming from 9-11

My radio alarm woke me up with someone summarizing a study that found that a significant number of schools have not done much as far as engaging students in learning experiences involving 9-11. Because it’s too “controversial.” Is that not sad?

That reminds me of a man on TV, not too long after that fateful day, who said we should tell our children that nothing like this will ever happen again.

There I am as happy as I can be, at 58, posing in front of a camera at the 40th reunion of Tucson High’s Class of ’56.

It’s a cliche but time does fly, like a peregrine falcon diving steeply for its prey against the background of the sky, as in a few weeks I will be basking in the midst of an increasingly dwindling number of classmates for our 55th. Boy, they’re getting old – and vice-versa.

There’s a proposal floating around the country called a “Contract for the American Dream.”

It’s an ages old dream, simple in its scheme, a dream where everyone has a place of employment (JOBS, NOT CUTS!), roofs over our heads on homes we own and secure futures for ourselves and our children so they can pass the good fortunes on.

The dream eases me into a “What if?” kind of modality. Like what if tomorrow Obama woke up truly realizing that the Good Old USA is in a kind of “do or die” situation. Either he, and Congress, does something or we, in spirit, without a doubt, will surely die.