Remembering My Sister, Kenitra Covington Jordan

In my heart to say to you…

Dear Sis,

The sun shines, and purple reigns, and the yellow butterflies are flitting. In this space in my heart you will forever live, with memories of your infinite devotion and love for Tommy and Matthew. Baking cookies and fun treats with Matthew and "Big Blue", Tommy sneaking them away with such feigned innocence, you paying careful attention to all things, anything that Matt Man might be allergic to, me imagining the delicious smells and the joy and love that filled your beautiful home. I smile when I think of the seafood salad, your creation, misappropriated by Tommy so that he is the potluck king with the bomb-diggety seafood salad at the family gatherings. When I think of all of these moments, I will smile fondly and broadly.  "Love divine, love excelling..."

In this space in my heart you will forever live, on paper in your writing, in our forever conversations on the couch whenever we gathered for family festivities. Oh how I looked forward to talking about school, the students, latest lesson preps, challenges, the power of the purple pen, and teaching Nirvana moments. After I stopped teaching, I continued to stay connected to the classroom through your passion and dedication to your craft and the profession, and for that I love you and thank you, and will cherish the journey forever. I know you and Mommee will continue those talks beyond the clouds, on sunny afternoons while the yellow butterflies frolic among sweet purple blooms of African violets and amethyst wisteria, perfumed scents wafting in and out of your beauty, against a clear blue sky, in "a land that is fairer than day..."

In this space in my heart you will forever live, inspiring me to keep writing, looking to your awesome example of being an accomplished, published author, working, writing, and researching your plot lines in the still of the night, those stolen moments when literary inspiration flows and begins to take shape and form, listening to the lilt of those voices and setting them free for our eyes to enjoy, following and living your ultimate dream. I was so excited to see those letters beside your name, LLC, ready to sail to the top of the charts. I could feel it in my bones. You were poised to blow up big in the publishing world. Eternal Bloom, Washed in His Blood, and all the volumes of mystery yet to unfold as you made your passions come to life... The silence on those pages now is deafening... It. Is. Finished... The finality is piercing. But to be sure, "your living was not in vain..."

In this space in my heart you will forever live, where I see an image of you on your knees, early in the morning, praying with the faith of a mustard seed, asking for God to bless the two of you with a child. That fervent petition was answered with the most beautiful "gift from God", Matthew, Matt Man, Da Mayor, Puff-n-Stuff, The Mighty Matthew... The joy was immeasurable, the love prodigious, the bond unbreakable, a model for love, faith, and charity, the greatest love of all. It is with this faith, strength, love, and devotion that I charge to my brother, heart and soul, to pick up the mantle of those dreams, memories, and goals you planned together, and drape yourself and Matthew in their beauty and truth. Focus on that "faith of a mustard seed" and believe. Call on God to help you face tomorrow. Push forward one day at a time, knowing she is smiling down, encouraging you, loving you, being proud of you, from a place "where there never is an unclouded day..."

In this space in my heart you will forever live, where the sun shines eternally, and purple reigns, and the yellow butterflies are always flitting.

"In the sweet, by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore..."

I love you, Sis.

On My Heart to Share

It's been a looong time since I have blogged, but this post that I share today really has been calling out to me.  It actually is a dual post, written by my dad and me.  His words have inspired my sagging heart and fortitude, casualties of my battles with MS, and are encouraging me to get back in the writing game.  

I always thought that I got my writing talent from my mom, but my dad is also a great storyteller and writer in his own right, too.  He wields a mighty pen that crafts the tales of family tradition and history that sustain you in good times and tough times.  I always learn something when talking with him or reading correspondence from him.  James Jordan, Jr. is definitely one of the mighty griots in the family, for sure.

This story is a beautiful one, written on the passing of our uncle, Langston Jordan, affectionately known to us as "Uncle Lank".  The most powerful revelation was what he shared about his dad, James Jordan, Sr.  I was a little girl when my grandpa passed, but I have a vague memory of when it happened.  I remember all of the men standing on the porch, and the ladies standing in the front hallway of my grandparent's house, not their faces, but their legs, and that everyone was dressed in black.  I didn't understand at the time what was going on, but I knew it was something serious and all of the grown ups were sad.  His dad passed right before Christmas, and that was something I never knew but I learned from his homily, which I typed up to send to my cousin, Jackie, and was read at Uncle Lank's Homegoing by my Aunt Cat. My mom used to talk about how her dad  passed during the Christmas season as well. She was more vocal than my dad, who walks softly but carries a big stick.  I had a moment while typing the story where I just was overwhelmed by the generosity and wealth of my parents' hearts, who always made Christmas such a magical time of year for us, full of mystery, delightful family traditions, and joy, so much so that I still look forward to the magic of Christmas just like a big kid myself.  We also were grounded in the true meaning of the holiday, the advent of the Prince of Peace, and I remember coming home from church after Christmas Eve services and looking towards the pasture by our house, to see if the cows truly were kneeling to welcome the coming of the Christ child born in a lowly manger stall. As I shed a few tears, I thought about how truly blessed I am to be born to such beautiful, strong people, who unselfishly put aside what I know had to some very sad memories of losing a parent at Christmastime to create the most awesome memories and experiences for me and my siblings, every year, without fail, which has got to be one of the greatest gifts of all.  Thank you, Mommee and Daddee.  I love you infinitely, always, and forever.

Without further ado, the following words are from my dad.  I hope you enjoy!

 ********************

Greetings cousins, nieces, nephews, sisters, brothers, and friends, I regret I cannot be present at this time, as we celebrate a Family Gathering Remembering Langston Jordan on his homegoing.  I hope you all will also unite your hearts, minds, and spirit together in paying a tribute to a family who by all odds is not supposed to be here.  Langston was the last of the first generation of siblings born to Pomeroy and Carolina (Carrie) Jordan who were to become the first Oxford Jordans.

We are a family who by all odds, should not be here.  I am reminded of the first Biblical family account of people of color found in the book of Genesis.  This mother, Sarah, along with her son, Ishmael, was put out of the household from which she served with no place to go.  There was no place for them to go or lay their heads.  As God would have it, Abraham, the Biblical father of all nations, promised and kept his promise of survival for them.  So it goes with our family roots who were put out from Charlotte in Mecklenburg County and from Morganton in Burke County, both in western North Carolina.  Likewise, God in all His Providence had a place for them to lay their heads.  The place was Grant Asylum in Oxford, now known as Central Children’s Home.

A little boy named Pomeroy Jordan and a little girl named Carolina Shade along with her slightly older sister Mary Shade were brought to Oxford in the mid 1890s.  It was a rough and rocky road for them.  But as God would have it, Pomeroy and Carolina successfully survived their childhood and teen years and they fell in love and married once they became of age.

One of my childhood grandmothers always prayed and blessed everything and everybody—IN ALL WAYS!  One thing she always asked in her prayers was for the Lord to make us a blessing.  As a child, I thought she meant the Lord would give us lots of things.  Much later in life I realized that was not it at all.  What she was asking was for the Lord to make us, (you and me), all hearing her prayer—to make us a blessing for someone else, not things.  I feel the Lord blessed Langston with long life into his eighties.  Langston was the youngest sibling and was blessed with a life longer than any sibling or even his parents.  Langston was a blessing to our family.

Personally, Langston’s transition falls during Christmas week and I can’t help but remember and feel Christmas week as it was in 1969, over 45 years ago, when my own daddy, James Sr. known as “Jack”, “Shorty”, “Chuck-a-Luck”, passed away.  Daddy passed on December 19^th, Langston on December 18^th; Daddy’s service was on December 23^rd, Langston’s service today, December 22^nd.  These events will give Christmas Week a deeper meaning for me and I hope for you also; not just today, but in years to come.  In paying a family tribute and remembrance of Langston’s life, let each of us pay a deep reverence and thanksgiving to God from our family.

We are still here.  We are still standing.  We beat the odds.  I hope each of you will ask yourselves, “Where are you now [point toward and around the room] Ishmael who was put out?  Can you say we are still here and standing?”  I believe you can say, “Yes.”

Be thankful for Langston’s gift of longevity from God and for the promise of Abraham that our helplessness can be turned into hopefulness.  Thanks be to our Savior for Langston’s life as he now completes the unbroken circle of the first generation of Oxford Jordans.

May God richly bless our family.

 In remembrance of Mommee, whose spirit is always present at every family gathering.

Remembering and Honoring Legacy

November 22, 2014, a mighty oak fell in our family tree.  My dad called early that Saturday morning with the sad news.  Our uncle, one of my dad’s favorite uncles, Richard Cromwell Peace, had gone to Glory.  I say “our” Uncle Richard, because no matter the familial relationship, everyone pretty much referred to him as Uncle Richard.  My dad said that one of the things that he admired most was the way Uncle Richard always took care of family and always helped the community.  He worked with you and showed you how to do things so that you could be self-sufficient too, such an important life lesson that runs throughout the family.  I also found out in talking with Daddee after the memorial service, that Uncle Richard is actually “Little” Uncle Richard, as he was named after his uncle, “Big” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace.  I’ll tell you more about him a little later in my story.

I remember when I was a little girl how he instilled in us cousins and siblings, little acorns then, the importance of family and legacy.  Uncle Richard was one of the elders who would gather us together at the family reunions, make us sit up front, show us pictures and tell us the stories, history, and the legacy of the Jordan clan, born from the great Peaces, Alexander and Lethia Downey Peace.  These stories sustained me, made me proud, and helped me to endure when times got tough for me, especially in college and when I first started teaching.  I would think back to the fact that “I am from a long line of preachers and teachers”, and I could then square my shoulders more resolutely and press forward.

Sometimes we met for the family reunions at “The Home Place”, at Uncle Richard’s house down in the country past the family cemetery and Uncle Garland’s apple orchards with the best apples for eating, making pies, and making Mommee’s famous homemade apple and apple/plum jellies and homemade applesauce, chunky or smooth, the only applesauce that I would eat.  After some of her homemade applesauce, thawed from the freezer so that it still had a few frozen bits of applesauce it in, I never wanted to eat store bought applesauce.  One of the stories that we listened to was the story of how “The Home Place” came to be in the family.  The story goes that back in the day when the family went to the bank to make purchase of the land, the banker scoffed derisively and granted them the loan, saying, “You’ll be giving it back soon; that land will never be yours”.  That was over one hundred years ago, and I remember that legacy of determination, pride, a hard work ethic, and family, that “I’ll show you” attitude of quiet defiance that propels me to endure until I achieve my goals and overcome obstacles in life.

In talking with my dad, I always learn something new, that there were TWO Uncle Richards, a “Big” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace, and a “Little” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace.  Their connection was another example of how family legacy would help me overcome an obstacle standing in the way of my life’s goals.  In graduate school at Duke, my first class was a history class about the immigrant experience in America.  Our final paper in the class was to write about an immigration experience of someone in our family.  Although I can go back a few generations in my family tree, especially on my father’s side of the family thanks to my cousin Chuckie, the family historian and genealogist, the only immigration experience I really knew was being stolen from Africa, somewhere in Africa perhaps never to be known by me, and brought to this land in chains to toil as slaves.  As I studied and asked my dad about my family’s history, I discovered that most of us chose to remain planted near our NC roots, but in talking with Daddee, he pointed out a notable exception, “Big” Uncle Richard, who I mistakenly thought was the same Uncle Richard that I grew up knowing.  Though in class readings and discussions we glossed over the Great Black Migration within the United States in the 1930s-1940s, a mass migration of African-American people seeking better lives and opportunities by leaving the repressive, regressive south and going to the big cities in the north, I knew a lot about the subject from my undergraduate days at Duke and four semesters of US and Afro-American history under the teaching of Dr. Raymond Gavins, who taught from the perspective of the disenfranchised and powerless people and regions in American history. 

I had discovered my topic and began to interview my dad, who told me the story.  “Big” Uncle Richard left Oxford to seek his destiny riding “The Silver Meteor”.  He was a Pullman porter on the route from Florida to New York, and was very successful in his career.  “Big” Uncle Richard was my Great Grandpa Peace’s brother, who “Little” Uncle Richard was named after.  As a porter he worked hard and saved his money.  He had a nice car, and always had money in his pockets.  My dad said that was a really big deal, especially for an African-American in the segregated society of 1940s America.  When the train would come through Oxford, “Big” Uncle Richard would stand on the back of the train, waving as the train passed by the station blowing its whistle.  I wonder if that is where the Jordan tradition of gathering on the porch to say the “Great Goodbye” came from, everyone calling out a chorus of goodbyes and waving as our car turned around past Mrs. Gregory’s house on the way back down W. Front Street, on our journey from Grandma Jordan’s house back to our home in the Warren County country.  From Grandpa Peace, preacher, ice delivery man, farmer, and jack-of-all trades, to “Big” Uncle Richard’s successful service as a Pullman porter, to “Little” Uncle Richard’s business and real estate acumen along with his brother, my Uncle John Thomas “Biggis” Peace, I could not help but learn the lessons of using dogged determination to reap the labors of hard work and working endlessly to achieve one’s goals, even when faced with difficulties.  The fruits of my labor earned me a B+ in my first graduate level course, and I was very proud of myself for figuring out a way to successfully accomplish the assignment’s goal.

That strong sense of legacy and family pride, and memories of a big family clan gathered together to fellowship at family reunions are nestled right beside memories of running around and playing with my cousins, my aunts and uncles slapping down books and laughing at the Bid Whist table (I always wanted to learn how to play), Uncle Ed frying the best fish and chicken in the big, black, cast iron cauldron pots in the back yard, and always, always, big pans of fresh corn pudding.  Those memories filled my heart and flooded my soul during the memorial service and bathed me also in the loving memory of Grandma Jordan, sitting in the short pews in the front of the church, right side, second row, adjacent to where the big organ, now in the choir stand, used to be.  As my cousin, Franthia Darby, sang Uncle Richard home to “Amazing Grace” (one of my favorite hymns), on his final leg of the journey to the everlasting life, I was overcome with emotion.  I wept quietly and shamelessly, but they were not tears of sadness; they were tears of uncontrollable joy as we said goodbye and remembered fondly a man we all loved, “Little” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace.  RIP

P.S.  Uncle Richard, please tell Aunt Rosa Lee that the grass she and I stomped down leading the Love Train one year when the family reunion was at our house in Embro has finally grown back, hahaha!

Blessed be the ties that bind,

Your niece, Jan

Standing Strong in the Midst of the Storm

Lately I have been feeling less than happy, dealing with the curves that life always seems to throw at me just when I am on the way to making a breakthrough towards living one of my dreams for myself.  Trying to stand strong in the midst of the storm is tiring, but I have been holding on, praying, and somehow maintaining.  Thinking back on the events of the last week, I have been feeling like my life is on a little upturn, and I am claiming a little success.  I measure that success through the filter of what it means to me to be an adult, a parent, a responsible person. It means biting my lip to mask the pain.  It means putting on my big girl pants and persevering.  It means thinking and planning, and trying really hard, harnessing small opportunities for success.  It means when I fall short, monitor and adjust, and try again.  It also means to keep believing, even when things seem impossible and highly unlikely, always believing that something good is going to happen for me.  And when things do go well, it means celebrating and saying thank you, and being happy if even for a moment, and using that moment of momentum to propel myself forward.  I am writing this blog tonight, the first one since July, and celebrating small successes.  Woot, woot!  Thank you, Lord!

Speaking of putting on my big girl pants…  Saturday (9/20), I had hoped to go to my hometown, Warrenton, NC, for the 1^st Annual African-American Cultural Festival.  I had my camera charged up, and envisioned rolling through town with my boys, Jordan and Jalen, showing and telling them about my childhood life, and listening to the rich, proud history of contributions of black people to the County of Warren, carved from the huge swath of land once owned by the Earl of Bute.  I had even pictured in my mind how I was going to see the exhibits set up in the old Community Center, home of the former library for black Warrentonians during the time of segregation.  Jordan and Jalen would go up the long, wide rows of concrete steps, so fun to sit on back in the day, and video and take pictures of everything on display so that I could feel a part of the exhibit.  I had hoped that I would see some of my old schoolmates, especially Veronica Coleman Alston and her husband, Herman Alston, who spearheaded and organized this annual event.  I have heard and read nothing but positive reviews about the festival.  Awesome job, you guys!  I am hoping that next year will allow me to attend.

Though bummed by not being able to attend, I still feel good about the reason that I didn’t—sacrificing my wants and whims for the real necessity of meeting family obligations.  I try to spend my money in thrift, and try to plan for fun times every now and again, lately only every once in a blue moon, as my mom used to say.  I received an unexpected but greatly appreciated financial blessing earlier in the week, which made my heart smile, and gave ease to the worries I have been mulling, fighting, and wrestling with in my mind lately.  I tried up until the last minute of Saturday morning to convince myself that the boys and I could go to the festival (Duke had to work) and have frugal fun, and finish up homework and other obligations Saturday night and Sunday.  But my reality silently screamed in my head at me and said that I was listening to Jan, child, and was ready to satisfy her wants of the idyllic day I had planned in my mind and heart.  But Jan, mom, tugged on my gut and pulled on my familial heartstrings as my mind refocused on our reality and the blessing of being able to fulfill family obligations, that this is the responsible, loving thing to do, and what I am supposed to do to help the family through tough times.  After coffee and morning news, I made sure that Jalen got up to finish his outside of class reading so that we could go to the library to check out new books.  He also wrote excellent journal entries about his reading for the week, much better than the drivel he tried to pass off the week before, which I made him redo several times before passing the muster of something the teacher would want to read.  Kudos and parent signature on the first go round.  Blessing!

We got showered and dressed, and went to the library.  Jalen got another Walter Dean Myers book, The Autobiography of My Dead Brother, which I secretly smiled about as we met at the self-checkout counter.  I didn’t dare arouse his rebellious nature with my approval and make him not want to read the book, lol.  But it is a book that I have on a list of books I googled with him in mind, books that are pretty good reads, popular among avid teen readers, and often discussed in 8^th grade language arts classes. I have such knowledge, why not shower it on my own child, I figure?  After all, the legacy of sharing the love of books with others has been a passion since birth, and not just because of teaching.  Story hour with Mommee before going to bed at night, fondly remembered, and later reading under the covers with a flashlight, desperate to finish the book I was reading, were the precursors to my love of reading made manifest in my teaching.  He seems to be enjoying the book so far.  Blessing!

While drinking my coffee, I was also surfing the net on my Nook, and ran across a sale at Belk’s that really decided that we were not going to the festival.  We did not buy new uniforms at the beginning of the school year.  Jalen has plenty of the horrendous, mandatory to order to get the right shade of woodsman green polo shirts worn in the middle school, and his shorts from last year still fit.  But with playing football and a markedly increased appetite, they were beginning to get snug.  Belk’s had a fantastic door buster sale on men’s Savane slacks—buy one, get TWO free!  At $65 a pair, this was an excellent deal at about $22 bucks a piece.  Perfect—the choice of how to spend my money was easy, and I didn’t care if he really didn’t want them because he wanted more shorts.  As fall began this week and the temperature has become crispier, I totally ignored him and made him go try on a pair of the 32 x 32s.  Great fit, room to grow, the sales clerk and I scoured the shelves to find the 3 pair of khakis left in his size.  Blessing!  Monday morning I saw him in his old shorts, but when he finally emerged from his room he had on the slacks and looked really nice.  I smiled; another victory.  Blessing!

After a quick pick up of a few items at the grocery store, we headed home to complete chores, work on homework, and veg out on football.  By the time that Duke got home from work, the aroma of a turkey vegetable soup well on its way was filling up the kitchen.  Judging by the little bit that is left today, it was delicious.  My mama taught me how to make a good soup stock, no matter what is on hand to throw in the pot.  We were like Bill Cosby on The Cosby Show when he was determined to make an anniversary dinner from the Islands for Clair—“Cal-la-loooooo!”  The soup was yummy and filling.  Blessing!

It’s just a little more struggle until the end of the month, but I am thankful for family, friends, and life.  I am standing a little stronger, I feel a little happier, and my wings are not so low to the ground.  My dreams may still be simmering on the back burners, but I still believe they will come true.  I am standing strong in the midst of the storm.  I am reasonably happy, and these are the things that really count.  Blessing!

 

 

 

Saying Bye-bye to the Old Boredom Blues

In my last post, I spoke of being at a crossroad, wondering which way I should go, what can I do to give myself some direction, some purpose, a little more satisfaction than what I currently feel about myself.  I am tired of the earworm that keeps looping in the background of my life, “I can’t get no… satisfaction… I try, and I try… but I can’t get no… SATISFACTION”!  Crescendo, cymbals, drum solo spazz out, bam!  I have been nursing a mega cup of dissatisfaction lately, succumbing to and venting over some of the realities and limitations that MS has brought my way.  I have to a certain degree given in to such a fate, doing a lot of sleeping after having sat up most of the night watching TV, and waking up only to watch more TV.  I do the daily crossword in the newspaper, and read the paper afterwards, and I play a lot of online Scrabble, currently touting over five million, two hundred something points.  I get Jalen to help me with fixing us some lunch and preparing dinner, and I make sure that he does a little reading Mondays-Fridays, building on the outside reading schedule that he maintained during the past school year.  He does the same amount of reading, 2.5 hours/week, but I don’t bother him to read on the weekends, so he feels like we have compromised, heh, heh.  Plus, he knows that is his ticket to get outside to play or visit his friends, so we have had no reading drama this summer.  In fact, he is really enjoying the book I got him for his birthday, The Harlem Hellfighters, by Max Brooks (son of Mel Brooks).  It’s historical fiction, a graphic novel in format that tells the experiences of black soldiers in France during WWI, and is very well done, in the same caliber of Art Spiegelmann’s graphic novel about the Holocaust of WWII, Maus.  I am glad that he likes it and finds the story interesting.  This summer has been low key and lazy for sure, and, lounging in endless lethargy, I have begun to bore myself. 

My dad wrote me a beautiful letter a couple of weeks ago, reminding me that I still have a few things yet to contribute to the world.  He told me not to be discouraged, to say my prayers, and to talk to God.  “Be still and listen to Him.  He will hear you and guide you”.  My dad told me that sometimes He will give you an answer that you may not want to hear, but it will be the truth and you should listen.  God always answers prayer, by and by.   Good old dad.  He is such a wonderful man—thoughtful, practical, enduring, spiritual, always loving without fail.  I have always thought that I get my literary acumen from my mother, but my dad is a powerful writer, too.  He knows exactly how to string words together to convey his thoughts, and is very thoughtful in his correspondence and conversations. I always learn much from him, and know that my literary gift is entwined just as much with his genes as it is with my mom’s.  After reading his letter, I have begun to feel a lot better; my spirit has somewhat been lifted to a happier place, especially after all of the birthday love I received.

My dad is also full of surprises.  July 27^th was Jalen’s birthday, the big 13, which means he now officially can be called “the teenager” (shout out here to my Aunt Lethia, who can really lay on saying that phrase; family members know what I mean, lol).  We had a family cookout and birthday party in his honor, so Jordan and Zuri were here, too.  Jordan announced, “Mom.  I’ve got a surprise for you!”  I had been preoccupied with making sure Jalen had a fun party, even down to the Party Cake ice cream he requested (which he and Duke ate all of, an entire ½ gallon, in less than a day!), and wasn’t expecting anything, so my face lit up like a Christmas tree as he walked in with a keyboard!  It belonged to my mom, and had been sitting in the closet back home.  “Right on time, Dad”, because it was like an answered prayer as to what I can do while at the crossroad.  Unlike playing the guitar, which I can’t do yet, I know how to play the piano.  I have not played in years, not even very much when I go home to see my dad, but I took formal lessons from the age of seven until seventeen, when I graduated from high school.   It’s not a full keyboard but it’s a nice one, with a good sound and a lot of bells and whistles to play around with.  The piano sound is really nice, and I started playing with it immediately.  Jordan didn’t bring me any of my music books, which is just fine with me as I will definitely know where they are, so I started trying to pick out something from memory.   I do not play by ear, something I hope to learn how to do someday (perhaps if I get off of my tuchas and learn to play my guitar I’ll be able to), but those many years of music theory and practicing scales do not fade into oblivion.  Pieces of practice, practice, practice admonishments somehow permeate the musical soul and psyche.  I was proud of myself as I was able to pick out and play “Happy Birthday” to accompany us singing to Jalen that afternoon.  I’m not talking any piddly one finger action, either.  I’m talking full chords and triads, and a couple of gospel-like seven chords at the end.  I am still very rusty, but when I tried to play the song again today, there was less hesitation in my fingers. 

Today when I practiced, I warmed up with a little “Happy Birthday”, and then messed around with trying to remember the chorus of “How I Got Over”, ala Aretha Franklin.  I also started working on playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”, because these are the songs I grew up playing and singing in church, and they are kind of ingrained in me.  I love hymns, spirituals, and old-fashioned gospel sheet music songs.  Such music takes me back to my Baptist roots, back to Penn Avenue and remembering my Grandma Jordan, back to Mount Zion and Sunday School, and riding to church picnics at Kerr Lake on the back of Mr. Boyd’s old farm truck packed with all of us kids, back to Greater Lovely Hill and getting baptized in the pond down the road, singing in the Junior Choir, playing piano and organ, homecoming outside with the sawhorse-made serving tables when everyone brought their favorite dishes to share and everyone found somewhere to sit, maybe even on the back of a pick-up truck…  Oh the joy that floods my soul!  (A reference to “He Touched Me”, yet another favorite song in the key of F, my  favorite key in which to play, only one flat and a soulful sound that fits most of the churches that I grew up in).

I did a little internet surfing yesterday on Amazon, and looked up some of the hymnals I used to play from.  I told you, I don’t play by ear; I am “a slave to the page” when it comes to playing piano.  I read and interpret music, so I need some notes to look at while I play.  I found all three that I was looking for: The New National Baptist Hymnal (“the red book”), Songs of Zion, a paperback collection of hymns and gospel, and Lift Every Voice and Sing II, both of the latter two I used when I played for a predominantly African-American Lutheran church in Durham, Abiding Savior.  I really hate that I lost touch with the people I met in that church.  Even though I am Baptist, I really felt at home there and was abundantly embraced by its members, and also grew tremendously in my faith.  When Jordan was born, he was adopted as the “choir baby”, as he was usually sitting with someone in the choir, having been stolen away from Duke most of the time, or on those occasional Sundays when I came alone.  I tried to let him sit near me in his baby carrier and he was mostly fine and content, but I would look around during the opening hymn and he was gone, being rocked in somebody’s arms.  Some Sundays he would make it all around the church, hugged and cuddled throughout the whole service.  Agape love is beautiful!  With all of these pleasant memories, how could I not go back to my church roots for peace of mind?  Even though I want all three books right now, I have decided to be “fiscally responsible” like the kids in the Kmart back to school commercial, and just order them one book at the time, starting with Songs of Zion, which has a nice selection of hymns, and is also the least expensive.  Then I will save up and get the other two.  Gotta stay practical and grounded so that I can stick to my plan.

I am still at a crossroad, but I now think I will have a better time as I begin the journey down the road.  I have been reading the beginning of my drawing manual, and plan to get me some pencils (4H, HB, and 4B are the basics, I’ve learned), and art gum this weekend.  I decided to put these purchases off to help ensure Jalen had a happy birthday (and he did!).  I already have an 11 x 14 sketch journal, a good size for me to hold, brand new, still in the bag, so I’m ready.  Armed with my keyboard and my sketch journal, I am ready to start filling up my days a little bit more creatively, with songs and doodles, which already is starting out as fun.  Bye-bye, old boredom blues.  Maybe now I can get a little “satisfaction”.  J 

 

 

Reflecting, Refocusing, and Rejoicing

It’s been over a month since I’ve last posted, that topic focusing on the death of one of my supreme muses, the mighty Dr. Maya Angelou, née Marguerite Johnson.  She adopted my state, The Tarheel State (the only way this Wolfpack grad will acknowledge her Tarheel status, lol), as her home.  One of the things she admonished was the importance of literacy, so that one can record his or her story, so that the world will forever know upon discovery that we were here.  So it is perhaps appropriate that I should take time, having celebrated fifty-one years of life this past 19^th of July, to reflect upon and chronicle a few moments of my life over the past year.  I need to remind myself that I am still here, still have something to offer in this life, and still am a voice in this world (been watching the Different World episode where visiting professor Whoopi Goldberg has the students write their own eulogies).

Feeling like I am at a crossroad, at the age of fifty-one, physically disabled but vibrant in mind, wishes, and ideas, I must admit is kind of scary.  It is also rather depressing and mundane, not being able to do much of anything, trapped in the house all of the time, wishing for hand controls to freedom.  I sometimes get lost in thought, imagining driving myself to the YMCA to use my Silver Slippers membership for some much needed exercise, or driving myself to Nash Community College for the painting, or photography, or creative writing, or basic guitar, or basic Spanish class that I most recently signed up for.  I can even see myself being able to volunteer or work in some small capacity in a school, or start working on renewal credits to keep my teaching certificate current.  June 30, 2018 will be here before we blink our eyes. It is frustrating to think that such lonesome days of longing and dreaming may be my lot for the rest of my life.  I just cannot accept such a fate.  I can’t!

So…  I reflect.  What have I done with the last year of my life? The biggest thing that pops into my mind has been the personal financial goals I have set for myself, the things I have been doing to help myself and my family.  I will not go into great detail, because as my husband is fond of saying, “Everybody’s business ain’t nobody’s business”, lol.  But I have reached my goal of paying off several bills, little by little, a little extra when I could, lifting that drain off of me, which really feels good.  I have learned and continue to try to pare down my wants and whims, to the brass tacks and “that’s the facts, Jack” bare necessities of life, and a few minimal splurges, usually at holidays and birthdays.  For example, we have wireless internet and upper tier cable but forego movies at the theater most of the time.  In the last year, we went to the movies to see The Butler and 42, and before that, I have to scroll way back to Red Tails.  Otherwise, I wait to watch a movie as many times as I want, stopping when I want, on cable.

Vacations are also a distant memory.  One of the best was back in 2008, also remarkable because that was when I finally had a definite name for what was happening to me, multiple sclerosis, July 1, 2008.  I had three days of steroid treatments, via IV drip, back and forth to Greenville daily, with the IV line still in my hand, trying awkwardly not to disturb it or get it wet while in the shower.   But I was happy because I finally knew what was making me stumble sometimes, or drag my foot, or lose my balance—MS, my cruel, personal warden.  Our vacation to Myrtle Beach was exceptionally nice that year.  The following two summers we were able to go back to the beach for good times and a little chillaxing, but since then, we have been on a four year drought.  “Ahhh… maybe we’ll get to be beach bums next summer…”  The reverie winds its way through my mind as I imagine the warm, sea salty air at sunset as I sit on the deck with a cool drink in hand, savoring the long, saved for moment.  Hmmm… I wonder how much to rent a beach wheelchair for a few days?  Convincing myself that the beach is no good because of jellyfish, sharks, and riptides is wearing really thin with me, not to mention Jalen, too.  I think Duke could even stand a day or two of fishing and beach fun as well.

 

I am thankful upon reflection that my health has been pretty good overall.  Had a couple of sniffles, once probably needing to go to the doctor but didn’t.  Not being able to drive myself anywhere is quite limiting.  Duke has been working Monday through Saturdays pretty steadily, and he is my mode of transport.   I just hated to ask him to take off, which I know he would have, and chose to doctor on myself instead, knowing that he would take me to see the doctor if I felt like I was not getting any better.  But God continues to bless me with relatively good health.  While I remain humbled by MS, I rejoice every day that I open my eyes that I am in my right faculties, have a roof over my head and food in the fridge, can grumble profusely but still pay my bills, and still have enough hope to dream of and make plans towards better days.  My house may not be the one I want, but it is a happy home filled with love.  For that blessing, I am most grateful.

As I look forward to the rest of this year, I am refocused on my main goals: adding savings to my secret stash, shopping sales, clipping coupons, and getting the best deals for the things we need for living, allowing for a little fun every now and then; finding something constructive and fulfilling to do during the day to make myself feel more purposeful in the world and less of a burden; putting myself first and making myself an appointment to go to Raleigh and see my neurologist, even if it means Duke has to take a day off of work; continuing to focus on getting my truck outfitted with hand controls; and helping us move to a better house, one more suitable for my adaptive needs.  My initial purpose for my secret stash was to be able to help make Christmas a little merrier this year, but lately I have been giving a lot of thought to regaining my independence and getting my truck back up and running, and ready for me to drive myself.  That may be the best gift of all, not only for me, but also to help shuttle Jalen to more extracurricular activities just like I was able to do for Jordan.  If I can do that, the world better look out!  I can see myself back in the game again, true player for real, doing something purposeful to make myself happy and to help someone else, hopefully in the educational arena.  Closely followed by that is my deep desire for us to get our own house, one that we can truly call our own.

Without feeling guilty, I need to learn to be more selfish and focus on me, and do things that will make Jan happy.  My guitar is still sitting patiently, waiting for me to strum some tunes with the interest and enthusiasm I had when I bought it.  I am still working on that.  I also ordered me a how to manual for drawing, a passion I once had growing up and was pretty good at doing.  My book came today, and while we are out shopping for Jalen’s birthday presents this weekend, I plan to at least get me a couple of drawing pencils, charcoal pencils, a pencil sharpener, and some art gum, which will at least let me get started.  Perhaps rediscovering my penchant for drawing will give me a spark, help me figure out something that I can do with others, make those connections that I long for.  I hope that I can get back into the rhythm of writing, and pull what is floating around in the crevices of my brain onto the printed page in some form.  I plan on asking the neurologist about how to go about getting the hand controls for my truck.  Perhaps that wish can finally become more than a mere pipe dream, and I can begin to feel a little independence and feel like I am truly back again in control of my destiny.  I am smiling now just thinking about the possibilities.

It may seem as though all I have done in this blog is complain, but I really am not trying to sound ungrateful or elicit pity.  Every day I am enveloped in love, both the kind I adore, like when my husband fixes me coffee every morning, and the annoying kind of love that Jalen gives me daily (yes, I am being a little facetious), and that I can’t imagine living without.  Even Jordan brings me joy, as he continues to grow into manhood, balancing college life, basketball, theater, and a part-time, grave yard shift job.   My prayers over him are being answered.  Thank you, Lord!  I am very thankful for life, and am very happy for the love of family and friends.  Even amongst complaint I rejoice, for I realize that I am fortunate that I can still do basic things for myself; albeit slowly or awkwardly, I can still do them.  I am happy that despite all that I go through, I can still see the positive side of life’s situations and still believe that things are going to get better, that something is going to open up for me that will let this black butterfly spread her wings and fly once more.   Thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord! 

Here I stand at a crossroad, a little scared, somewhat confused, but a whole lot of happy, and determined to get back into the game, even if just for one last dance, a final swan song, this time ending on my own terms and in my own way.  Overall, as I reflect, refocus, and rejoice, I realize how bountifully I have been blessed.  My life is not perfect, but it is good.

 

 

 

 

 

Saying Goodbye

“The ability to have somebody to tell your story to is so important… It says: I was here.  I may be gone tomorrow.  But you know I was here.”  Dr. Maya Angelou, talking about the importance of literacy 

In my sadness, I have a story to tell.  My thoughts may be rambling, but they are real.  I have shed quite a few tears in the last couple of days, in different moments of sadness, but one common thread seems to run through my tears… the mention and reminders of mothers.  A mother’s love is encompassing and deep, a love that can be crushing when she is gone, yet cherished and adored just the same, all swirled together at the same time.

Already feeling the loss of a great literary giant, Dr. Maya Angelou, a woman whom I liked to imagine could have easily fit into my family as my mother, my aunt, or a dear first cousin, I watched the news as Kelli Bordeaux’s mother said that final goodbye to her daughter.  She was a soldier who was killed in Fayetteville and hidden away in a shallow grave for over a year, and finally the sad news was recently revealed.  She was so pretty, seemed so full of life, and from all accounts was a fun, vibrant person.  So many people searched for her, including the man who killed her, before he finally was convinced to lead police to the grave where he had buried her.  “Why”, is still not known.  Seeing Ms. Bordeaux’s empty boots, the final roll call was given, and her mom kissed her picture goodbye; the tears flowed again as I said a prayer for her mother.  Mothers should not have to bury their daughters.  The reverse is hard enough.

Earlier in the day, Jordan texted me and broke the news that Maya Angelou had passed.  I was watching TV and doing a little midmorning snoozing after having sat up to watch both Venus and Serena lose during the early morning broadcast of the French Open.  That was a double bummer.  I woke up, stunned, and just sat there, still and quiet.  I thought about the morning that I was pulling into the parking lot at school when Tom Joyner announced that Coretta Scott King had lost her battle with her illness, cancer, if I remember correctly.  I remember sitting in the car, still and stunned, and I just had to give into the tears that began to fall.  I also started thinking about my mom and how much we both loved Maya (and Alice, and Toni…), and a quiet sadness waved over me and made my tears spill onto my cheeks. 

I always could imagine Maya Angelou as a member of my family, laughing and talking and telling stories. Ever since my mom gave me a trilogy of her books for Christmas when I was in ninth grade, back when I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was listed in the fiction section of the library, when that book and only a few scant others were the only ones found in the "special section for Black lit", that one shelf in the back of the store or in the front to the side so they could watch you, or when the bookstores had no black authors at all--thank God for The Know Bookstore in Durham... ever since all of that, I have loved Maya Angelou. Just thinking out loud and remembering.

I also changed my profile picture briefly in honor of Maya.  I plan to change it back to the “bring back our girls” picture I have posted to represent my profile, as I have not forgotten them, and continue to await hope in vigil with their mothers and those praying across the globe for their safe return.  I am standing by my bulletin board in my old classroom, Room 507, Literature Heaven (my name for my old haunt, and also the name of a wiki page I made back then, circa 2008). That was my picture I took for a project that I did with my homeroom that year, a mini poster introducing ourselves.  When I taught, Maya Angelou was one of my teaching heroes; my other teaching hero and role model was my mother.  One of the many things that they both had in common, and I worked hard to emulate, was their superb storytelling ability.  I try to give my voice a musical cadence when I read, to really become the character of whom I am reading, to break out in song when the music is embedded within the story or just seems to enhance the story and thrill the listeners.  How could I teach Virginia Hamilton’s “The People Could Fly” without introducing the story with a verse of “I’ll Fly Away?”  Even big children love to be read to, in middle school and high school, and I learned how to teach, mesmerize, and instill a love of literature in my students from two of the best role models on the planet!  Zora would be very proud that her legacy for storytelling lives on, from the lips of the famous and the not so famous, everyday sisters, extraordinary teachers like Mary Elizabeth Mayfield Jordan, great legends like Dr. Maya Angelou, and even a good but paling in comparison  storyteller like me.

If I were still teaching, my lesson would have to include Maya in some way. I would make it work, even if I had to table part of my planned lesson. She is that important to the literary world. It would not even be a stretch to deviate. In all of her amazing ways, I know she would have fit—poetry, fiction, writing, history, memoir, informational text... my mind is popping with possibilities... autobio, end of the year road maps, life stories as you say goodbye to middle school, epitaphs, thoughts about "the hyphen", a letter to the author... Oh, how I will miss her.

My mama here on earth is gone. My hero, my shero, Dr. Maya Angelou, born Marguerite Johnson, has gone to the Great Beyond. She broke all of the fettered cages that threatened to silence her voice while on her journey through this life, a life lesson to be admired and to learn from.  Shedding a few tears right now. I will miss your sonorous, melodious voice, so beautiful, rich, and strong. Tell my Mom hello. I know you and she will be sharing poetry tonight. RIP. 

 

“Listen to yourself and in the quietude you might hear the voice of God.”  Dr. Angelou’s last tweet with the world, May 23, 20014