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

Storms Raging, but I’m Still Smiling

“Mom, I’m sorry for all the things I did when I was a kid.  Will you please take off the curse that my kids will be 10x’s worse than me?  I can’t take it anymore.”

What a time, what a time!  The last two weeks have been a rollercoaster ride.  Started off great, plummeted downhill with celerity, and rebounded with amazing surprises and blessings.  To put it down plainly, my youngest son is a fiery little hellion, full of intelligence, wit, and opinions, and he has been giving me a serious run for the money in the fight for maintaining my faculties.  Such behavior has created major consternation in my soul, and I have been brooding and questioning where I have gone wrong with my youngest.  I was starting to feel like I was having a “Steve Perry Save my Son” moment.  I chuckle now, but one morning I had even started looking up wilderness camps for wayward children.  (I figured, “You want to be a Joe Hardrock?  Let me show you some real ones, lol.”)  Yes, I went there.

The opening quote is from a meme making the rounds on fb recently, one that I posted on my wall.  Lately, I have been thinking about those words as I deal with my youngest son, my sweet, rebellious, smart, maleficent, funny man (at least in his mind), the mighty Jalen Christopher Bunting.  As he stands on the precipice of turning 13 this summer, it seems as though he is fighting growing up, tooth and nail.  This school year has been a rough one for him, as he has often used his powers for evil and not for good, choosing to be rebellious and hard over being smart and knowledge seeking.  His grades are good overall, but could be even better.  He could easily be in the National Jr. Honor Society, but he doesn’t want to be.  We are working on him about why, if given the opportunity, it is a good thing to participate.  As I reviewed his performance on the tests given at school to monitor levels of student learning during the year, I got a little upset at how he has chosen to travel under the radar, so to speak, in his school performance.  All of his scores, in math, reading, and science, are all consistently in the above average to high range.  In a lot of ways Jalen is just like me—smart, opinionated, creative, musical and artistic.  He gets mad easily and shoots off his mouth way too much, just like me.  But the way that he rebels against his God-given smarts really gets my goat, and is radically different from the way I am, and the way that we are trying to raise him to be the best young man he can be. 

The Mother’s Day joy and love I got from him seemed to dissipate quickly as the week began.  Monday morning began with grumbling, fussing, and moving slowly to get out of the house to the bus stop. Monday evening got even worse with homework hassles.  Tuesday and Wednesday were not that much better, and by Thursday he was as “foul as maggoty stew”, full of that snarly, surly teenaged angst that makes a mom want to eat her young.  I had spent a large part of the week worrying over him, praying over him, wondering why he seems so hell bent on straying away from all of his talents and interests, his natural smarts and creativity, and gravitating towards this unengaged, angry, isolationist always wanting to be hidden away in his room, sullen, silent, and basically on an island unto himself.  No, no, no!  All alarms and whistles were going off in my mind—what is going on?  We are losing our child.  Even Duke had begun to express concern because Jalen had even become mum during their father-son talks, which occur all of the time. 

By that Thursday evening, amidst all of the torrential rain and thunder that created huge afternoon traffic snarls, toppled mighty oaks, and caused many creeks to overflow their banks, our prayers were answered.  Duke braved the wicked elements to pick him up from his second day of after school detention (yes, he had even started to act ugly at school), and as the floodgates opened up that afternoon, so did Jalen.  I don’t know what they discussed, but when he got home he apologized for his behavior, at home and in school.  He said that he knew better than to call the girl who rudely cut in front of him in the lunch line a “gardening tool”, and that he was going to do better.  His dad gave him his phone back under the absolute condition that if there is a phone call, email, or any contact from school that is negative, then the phone is gone—forever.  No more second chances.  I relented, even though the phone was supposed to be gone until summer for the detention incident. 

But I can happily say that since then and through the writing of this blog today, Jalen has been a changed man.  He has returned to the sweet, playful, creative pre-teen that we know and love.  He is being responsible for getting his work done without incessant nagging from me, and is not talking back and mumbling ugly, inaudible thoughts under his breath.  He is doing his chores without complaint and looking forward to the return of his allowance (no chores, no pay).  He and I are even talking a little bit more, and there are a lot more “thank yous” than complaints.   He still has his moments, but who doesn’t?  I can deal with this Jalen, and I count this as a blessing.  Not a surprise mind you, because as parents, we are trying to raise and nurture a positive, happy child who will grow up to be a thoughtful, productive, positive contributor to this world, and it is our expectation that he will be reasonably good.  I am very thankful for the blessing.

Out of the blue, over the past weekend, I got the biggest thrill and surprise, one that I never imagined or had even thought of, except in passing, for a very long time.  I was scrolling my fb feed and saw a post on my wall from LaShaun Bellamy, one of my line sisters from Duke!  Talk about a shock.  As my life unfolded and I left Duke University for NC State at the end of my sophomore year, and after pledging the burning sands of Delta land, I lost touch with that part of my life while forging ahead along the new path on which my life had decided to journey.  Sometimes, in talking with my husband about some of my good old college days and antics, I have talked about my life at Duke and reminisced about my pledging days, but pretty much those times are just a part of my memory bank, a part of my life’s résumé.  After accepting her friend request, I also have found and reconnected with almost all members of our spring ’83 line (in line order): Sharon Gramby-Sobukwe, Lavern Jones, Songhi Scott, Melvia Wallace, Shirley Lawson, and Sheila Anderson.  I brought up the rear as #9, and I hope to hear in the near future from #1 in the line, Freda Vandiver.  LaShaun was the median point in our line, #5. 

I have been floating in a very happy place and thinking on some of the marvelous times that I had with these awesome women.  I have already started thinking about how I can be a part of a reunion with folks as they come through NC or hopefully with everyone next year in 2015, as ideas, plans, and talking about possible get-togethers and reunions have already started.  I even heard from and am now friends with one of my best buddies at Duke, Spurgeon James.  Now I am wondering about and am going to start looking for some of the rest of the crew—Madeline Taylor, Anise Jackson, Marilyn Sanders, Nadina Henley, and Ramona Jester.  I have been thinking about the times when we lived in Hanes Hall, Trent Hall, and Central Campus Apartments, and how we helped each other and stuck together through good times and rough times.  We were good friends, and I am sorry that I lost contact for all of these years, but I am looking forward to fun times yet to be had in this stage of our lives.

Finding my friends through fb I count as both a beautiful surprise and a bountiful blessing, that the bond we share and the friendships we made can never be broken.  Truly life is beautiful, through the good times, and also in those times when life throws you curve balls and you miss your mark.  Despite all, at the end of every raging storm is a beautiful rainbow, a promise of better times.  The song in my heart is Walter Hawkins’, “Be Grateful”, and I am grateful—for life, for friendship, for love.

“God has not promised me, sunshine.  That’s not the way it’s goin’ to be.  But a little rain, mixed with God’s sunshine, a little pain, makes me appreciate the good times…” I’m grateful, and I’m happy.  Thank you, Lord, for both.

 

 

 

Bursting Through the Clouds

I have been suffering from the doldrums that I periodically experience, those times when all I want to do is shut myself off from the world and sleep and brood.    My mood slipped into darkness, crabbiness, and lethargy, succumbing to the malaise that crept into my fingers and sagged my soul. My mind, filled with stories and beautiful memories, became a prisoner trapped away in isolation.  All I craved was sleep, and the words scripted in my mind to be penned in my writing began to shatter like broken shards, and I lay down my pen.  Who cares about your stories, those memories you find beautiful?  Who cares?  My mind screamed at me, and I raged in silent uncooperativeness and sarcasm.  No one knows what I am going through, and they don’t even care.  The things I wanted to write about—an email from Jalen’s teacher, praising the wonderful endeavor he gave to his World War I ABC book,   Jordan’s stellar performance as Inspector Goole in the VGCC spring dinner theater production of J. B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls, even Jordan being racially profiled during a traffic stop when on his way to work…, how despite all obstacles, I feel like I am making progress—in the last couple of weeks, none of that seemed to matter.  I was just tired, grumpy, frumpy, and mad, and only wanted to be in hibernation.  Yes, the funk clouds had descended, and I gave in to their cumulonimbus charm. Eh, heh, heh, heh… Cackling, hairpins flying...  The wicked witch was sailing on her broom.

This past Friday, the revelation of why I had been feeling this way finally dawned on me.  This Sunday would be Mother’s Day, and I had been missing my mother.  I also get down like this around February 22^nd, my mother’s birthday, and around August 19^th, the day she left this world and went, as my mom had said earlier that day, “to see her Mama and Daddy and to sleep with Jesus”.  Without realizing it, I seem to fall into a blue funk during these times of the year.  Without fail or notice, every year since 2004, I become this person so not like myself.  The feeling of sadness just seems to come over me in a whisper, as stealthily as fog, my mind oblivious to the fact but my heart willing the rest of my body to ache and creep along.  I have been going through the motions of living, doing the things necessary to keep the family running smoothly, but during the day when I was alone, all I could do was sleep.  I have not been reading, and my passion for writing became stagnant and just seemed like a laborious task.  Why write if there is no joy? 

Saturday began as another lazy day.  I had intentions of getting up early, but just lay around most of the morning, wasting time.  Duke had wanted to take me to the mall to get my toes done, something I have been lamenting and wishing that I could do for some time now.  I tried to get ready, but was so unmotivated that he ended up leaving me so that he would have time to take care of what he had on his agenda.  When he finally got back home, I was up and feeling slightly better.  Finally, the fog began to lift and my day began to brighten.  While they were out, he and Jalen got me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a pretty vase.  That made me smile.  Then Jalen went out and came back in with a big box of pretty, giant sized, juicy strawberries.  Both of those early Mother’s Day gifts made me feel special and loved, and just as unannounced as it rolled over me, the sadness and malaise seemed to fritter away.  The final leg of my journey back to my happy self came in the door about 11:45 that night—Jordan walked in the house.  That was a total surprise because I had no idea that he was coming.  He brought me a bouquet of flowers, too.

Sunday morning, Mother’s Day, was beautiful.  I had my whole family together and I was beaming.  The depression that I had been feeling for the last couple of weeks became a distant memory.  Breakfast was good and I ate all of it instead of throwing it away when Duke wasn’t looking, like I had been doing for the last two weeks.  (He was not happy when he discovered his hard labor half eaten and discarded, and threatened to not fix me anything else.)  But, after a good cup of coffee and the chatter of family filled the house, I felt better than I had in a while and even had the energy to tackle a shower, get dressed, and get out of the house.  The cards and gifts that I got for Mother’s Day were all so thoughtful and sweet, especially the handwritten notes that both Jordan and Jalen wrote to me in their cards.  Jordan said that they were following Grampa’s directives on how to address the envelopes and write the personal notes. They gave me all of the essentials that I need to help me in my quest to learn to play the guitar—an auto tuner, a music book, and a how-to video.  I have set as my goal to be able to play a recognizable tune by my birthday this summer.  I got some good chocolate from Duke, Russell Stover chocolates that I had been silently craving.  (Yes, Duke, you know me so well.)  By the time we got to the mall and I was sitting back in the chair getting my feet pampered and my back massaged, I felt quite loved and very thankful for the day and for my life.  I even got a very pretty blouse and skirt from Belk—on sale, and I had a coupon! 

Yes, I am very, very thankful for all of the blessings in my life—my children, my husband, my dad, my family and friends—I am most grateful.  When I go through my periods of sadness, memories such as the fun time I had on Sunday are what I know exist on the other side of the fog.  I have learned to be patient and to always believe in tomorrow.  Every day may not be a happy one, but it is okay.  As long as I am able to see the rising of a new day, that is the most important thing.  Plus, my feet are soft, and my toes are popping in pretty pink polish.  I am looking forward to getting my mane washed and retwisted this Friday.  I can see clearly now the rain is gone…  Life is good.  Yes!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling Rough, but Going On

I have to admit to feeling pretty rough today, even though I am trying so hard not to think about how bad I feel.  Life has been really busy around my house lately.  Jalen has been in project mode.  Duke has been working six days a week pretty regularly as of late, and this week his cousin Myles is in the States, so he has been visiting with him and getting home later than usual.  I have been dealing with Jalen and homework a lot one on one, and he is taking advantage of his dad being busy and is trying to rebel against mom with his little 12 year old swagger, which makes me have to bow back and remind him who is really the boss—me.  Don’t get me wrong, I can still handle him, but it does take a lot of wind out of my sails, there is no way of masking, and he tries to take advantage, as kids will do, especially willful ones like the Mighty Jalen (Okay, Mommee, quit laughing from “Beyond the Clouds”.  Yes, I know I am getting it back tenfold.).  But that’s when I do the tag team parenting thing and put him on the phone with his dad, and when Duke finishes laying down the law, even from afar, Jalen straightens up and unpuffs that little chest.  Above all of that, I think the effects of Monday’s fall and all of this torrential rain have taken their toll on my body, and I am feeling aches in muscles that I forgot that I had, lol.  I slept pretty much all day again today, falling asleep on Andy and Barney, through the midday news, waking up just in time to see Ronan Farrow and Joy Reid, and prepare for Jalen to get home from school.  I like to be up when he leaves for school, and when he gets home from school.  I think that adds to his stability as a child.  I am thankful that I thought to take an ibuprofen, and now, as I am shucking corn to make the corn pudding that Jalen asked about yesterday and that he is helping me fix up for the oven in a few minutes, I am feeling pretty good.  I am writing my blog, and Jalen has been given a half hour of play time outside under the condition that he jumps right on his homework without complaint when he comes back inside.  In this moment of quiet relaxation, my song for every occasion is Eddie Kane’s, from The Five Heartbeats, “I Feel Like Going On”.  My happy place, my spirit, is still intact, though my body admits a little defeat for wear and tear.

In the last three weeks, I have supervised and supported Jalen as he worked on projects in language arts and social studies (an ABC book on WWI), science (a 3-D animal cell), art (a recycled garment, website, business card, and portfolio of fashions), and due this Friday, math (a foldable of math terms and definitions).  He has another language arts project due in a few weeks, a comic strip based on a book he has read and not already done a project on this year.  These have all been really fantastic projects, so many opportunities for creative thinking and out of the box learning.  Perhaps you ask, “Then why am I tired in this instance”?  Being Jalen’s supervisor is tough work because he believes in the mode of doing just enough to get by, slapping down “just the facts, Jack” and he is done.  Finito, finished, it’s a wrap.  The teacher in me cannot abide such a trifling, cavalier attitude, tossing aside such smarts, creativity, and talents in such an apathetic manner.  Because if Jalen senses that kind of weakness in you, one of a low bar of expectations, that is exactly what he will give you.  His dad and I really get on him, and when we are aware, as we try always to be, of major assignments, duties, and commitments, we force the issue of giving one’s best.  Anything less is unacceptable.  That does not mean he has to be perfect, but perfection, 100% completion to the best of one’s abilities, should always be the goal.  It’s that self-motivation and drive that we want to instill in him; we will not always be here on this Earth, so as his parents it is our duty to teach him, one we take quite seriously.  It is a blessing and a curse that his mama was/is also a teacher, for I look at his projects through my teacher eyes and according to the assignment rubric.  I make sure he completes, and re-does as needed, everything he needs to do to make his project a good one, even if it means my doing a little research or reading so that I know he is shooting straight from the hip.  My son is smart, but he “uses his powers for evil and not for good”, as I tell him sometimes, jokingly facetious, but serious in intent, nonetheless.  He gets it, and even though we do willful battle to the point where I am exhausted, the resulting projects are always amazing to me. The things he comes up with when pushed to exercise his innate talents, and earn a stellar grade that he is really proud of, whether he admits it or not, are satisfying to us both.

 I am tired, yes, but I am also committed to my children and being supportive of their talents and dreams.  I am plodding along, hoping that life will be generous and give me the luxury of time to realize my dream—getting my car outfitted with hand controls so that I can be more mobile and independent.  I often lament about my inability to drive myself around, but it also hurts me that my disability affects Jalen because I can’t get around and be the football or basketball or baseball mom or karate mom or band mom (all activities Jalen is interested in) like I was with Jordan (basketball mom supreme, even down to the crazy basketball hat I made and wore to every game during his freshman high school season).  I miss having the means and the strength to be able to travel with Jalen like we did with Jordan when he played AAU basketball.  I regret that I can’t let Jalen stay after school for activities because he has no way home in a reasonable, dependable fashion.  This guilt that I feel from my living with this disability takes its toll on all of us with delicious delight.  I try to balance my fussing with him between being a parent who is trying desperately to survive and being a 12 year old kid who just wants to be like his peers.  I know he feels so much resentment that his mom is sick, and he feels left out, like he has a grandma for a mom.  And I wrestle with having the energy and the faculties to deal with all that life has given me, the good and the bad of it all.  We cannot control the hand we are dealt, only the way we play the hand.

As I reread this blog and bring it to a close, I don’t know how I jumped from Jalen’s projects to my little pity party, but it is how I feel, and all of these feelings contribute to my fatigue, which is constant and ever present.  The way I compose my mind to deal with my life is my strength, and I am learning to be true to that part of myself through my writing.  I am letting my writing lead me and comfort me, and keep me in my happy place.  I would like to end today’s blog with a little of my creative, motherly spirit, a poem to my son, and Eddie Kane’s, “I Feel Like Going On”.  Peace and love.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iw2rzc1RgVA

 

A Prayer Poem, For My Son

Hey there son, with your hard, hard, head

I pray every day you don’t end up dead.

I wonder, I wonder, what will I say,

If they book you, convict, you, and send you away.

I try every day, to show you the right way,

To read and to study, and to learn every day.

You have what it takes, as smart as a whip,

But you shun it, rebuff it, and don’t give a flip.

I flex my muscles and pump up the pace.

You glare at me defiantly, a scowl on your face.

I love you, I love you; I pray you will see,

And change your ways, for yourself, and not for me.

Acknowledge the lessons, hold fast to your dreams.

Life is not as bad as it seems.

Know your brother loves you, your mom and dad care.

Family is steadfast and true, and will always be there.

This is my prayer, my sincere wish for you.

Open your eyes, and your heart, and you’ll feel it, too.

1/26/14

 

Felling the Effects of MS

As we move through this second week of the Easter season, I have been floating in a happy place that I have not been in a while.  Everything seemed to be gelling, despite my limited physicality and more sore and tighter than usual muscles.  Easter Sunday dinner with my dad was wonderful.  Jalen was working hard to get all of his work done.  Despite being told at the last minute, things worked in our favor for us to be able to attend the athletic banquet with Jordan.  I had a lunch date with a good friend, and I got to see Jordan again at the end of the week as we coordinated our schedules to go vote.  We even made plans to throw a little food on the grill over the weekend.  I was tired, but I got chances to rest and slept pretty well, which made me feel better.  It just felt good to be involved in life and doing things, getting out of the house, and having somewhere to go other than the grocery store.  Yes, I felt pretty happy.

Then, it happened.  I fell, pretty hard too.  This past Monday morning, ready to start my day, and coming back to the couch, I fell.  It just seemed I lost my balance somehow, went ever so slightly atilt, and bam!  I was on the floor.  I knocked over my ice water, the clock, and all of my coupons.  I barely missed hitting my laptop, which I had sitting on the floor in front of me, ready to be booted up for me to begin typing.  Like a tall piece of timber, I had been felled.  Here I was, sprawled on the floor, all alone just after Jalen had left for school, feeling totally dejected.  Damn this MS!  I hate getting the wakeup call that says, “Slow your roll, woman.  Don’t you know that you can’t move like that anymore?”  I just sat there for a minute and cried, feeling totally sorry for myself, not to mention, the impact of hitting the floor with a thud.

I tried to get up.  I couldn’t get a grip on the floor because when I fell, my slides flew off my feet.  I was trying to grab the back of the sofa cushion so that I could pull myself up, but I just kept sliding back, unable to get enough traction to pull upward.  My body was also sort of twisted, so even though I was in a sitting position, it was still very awkward to move.  I shifted so that I was sitting flat on my butt, but then all I could do was stretch my legs out.  Trying to roll onto my knees was painful.  I started to panic.  “What am I going to do?  I can’t sit here all day.  Oh my stars!  I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”  Laugh, cry, cuss, laugh some more.  What am I going to do?  My frustration began to mount, which makes moving an even more impossible task with each fuming breath.

 I called my husband, even though he was at work, over an hour away.  I didn’t want or expect him to come rushing home; I just needed to talk to him so that I could re-center myself.  Just hearing his voice telling me to calm down, get myself together, and try again gave me the confidence that I needed to boost my fragile ego, which was plastered on the floor beside me.  He even made me laugh, which was the way he captured my heart when we first met, how he could always make me smile, even in sad times.  That is one thing that binds us together—no matter what, we can make each other laugh.  And when I am laughing, I can’t help but feel better. 

I hung up the phone, and I just sat there, thinking.  I was on the floor, not sure if I could get up, but strangely, I felt blessed.  I started thanking God that though I would have some black and blue bruises, I didn’t break any bones or anything.  I have a husband who loves me dearly, who works so hard to make his family happy.  He’s not a perfect man, but he is a very good man; you’d be hard pressed to find one better.  His heart is so beautiful and kind, just like his mama.  I thought about the fun day I had with my friend Rhonda, who had treated me to lunch last week, and a divine drink, a Malibu Hurricane (sooo good!).  She even gave me a signed copy of her debut novel, The First Nine Lives of Isabella LaFelini (you should get a copy; it’s good!).  I started smiling about Jordan's and Jalen’s latest accomplishments—Jordan, an outstanding basketball player (#6 in the regional conference in rebounding) and a budding thespian, and Jalen, a temperamental but awesome artist who has the good hearted envy of his big brother over how well he draws at age 12 (Jalen draws circles around Jordan, literally and figuratively!)—and how proud I am of both of them.  Despite the struggles of living with MS, I really have much to be thankful for and I have no good reason for feeling all sorry for myself and wallowing in self-pity.

As all of these memories and blessings floated through my mind, I began to feel brighter, a little lighter.  The embarrassment I felt from falling, even though I was alone, the helplessness in my struggle to get up off of the floor, the wallowing in despair from the ravages of MS on my body and my independent spirit… all of these burdens of negativity began to fade away from me, and the happy karma of my husband’s voice enveloped me.  Like a mighty lumberjack, I felt the crack of each timber as I felled the effects of MS in my own personal forest where only I hear the sound of the trees as they fall.  I found my shoes and slid them on.  I inched my way on the floor, lifting up and scooting until I got to the end of the couch, and rolled up on my knees.  Ignoring the pain I felt, I pulled myself up by grabbing the back part of the sofa’s arm, and after a couple of attempts I was able to pull myself up enough to roll onto the couch and reposition myself.  Hahaha, MS!  Take that!  I turned the tables on the cruel monster, felling its effects on my life just as swiftly as I had been felled a half hour earlier.  I called Duke back and assured him that I was okay.  I could hear him sigh with relief.  I finished fidgeting into a comfortable position, pulled my fuzzy red blanket around me, and got some well-deserved and much needed slumber.

Tiiiiimberrrrr!  Jan—1.  MS—0.  Felling the effects of MS is hard work, but it feels good to win.  I am a winner, and I am back in my happy place.

 

 

Riding Life’s Sine Wave

I have really been rolling the last few days, sometimes up and sometimes down, always trying to stay encouraged.  I was so very tired this past weekend, but was determined to fix a corn pudding, fresh string beans, and the turnip greens for our dinner with dad.  Everything turned out wonderfully—the fresh white corn was really good in the corn pudding, the string beans had little diced red potatoes in them, and the turnip greens were even better than the ones I previously cooked on my trial run—culinary perfection and a small boost for my domestic self.  And as my dad served himself a second helping, he looked at me and asked, “Did you fix these turnip greens?  They are really good.”  I was beaming.  The ham and macaroni and cheese that my dad made, the deviled eggs that my sister made were especially good, as was everything that was prepared.  The lemon Bundt cake that my dad was going to make turned into this gorgeous yellow layer cake with the most exquisitely iced homemade chocolate frosting.  I kept looking at that cake all through dinner, so deeply chocolate and decadent looking, and yes, it was as delicious as it looked.  My dad is an awesome cook, attentive to every detail of preparation, taste, and presentation.  Enjoying the fellowship of all who were blessed to gather around the table made me feel alive and renewed, so appropriate for a beautiful Easter Sunday afternoon.  The struggle of trying to get showered and dressed became a distant memory, and even though I was sort of hurting and moving really slowly, I praised the fact that I was able to move, and basked in the grace and blessing of being with family.

Monday was a different story; I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck.  I had definitely crested down a steep sine wave and was now in the belly of the curve.  Even breakfast and a cup of coffee did not help.  After Duke left for work, instead of sitting up like I usually do, I fell back asleep.  Thank goodness for alarm clocks and snooze buttons!  Somehow I became alert enough to see to it that Jalen got up and off to school in good fashion, and then it was lights out.  No Morning Joe or Good Morning, America; no episodes of Andy Griffith, The Waltons, or Dr. Quinn, some of my favorite reruns to watch during the day.  Not even an In the Heat of the Night, Gillespie/Bubba fix…  Dreamland was calling my name.  I slept all day long, only moving to pull myself up off of the couch to go to the bathroom.  My muscles were so tight and sore, and being stretched out on the couch like a slumbering bear in hibernation was just what my body needed to lift me out of that valley.  By the time Jalen got home, I was up to greet him, and see that he got on to doing his homework.  He wanted to go outside for a little while before getting started, and because he worked so well on his rough draft for an English project all week during spring break, I let him.  He came back in and got started on his work without complaint—read, and began working in earnest on the final draft of his project—an ABC book about World War I.  Yay!  Back to riding the sine wave, moving on up. 

 

About 8:30 pm, screeeeech!  “Mom, I’ve got a science project due Wednesday, a 3-D model of a cell, and I need a Styrofoam ball.”  The sine wave just plummeted with quick velocity.  I sent him to wake up his dad and explain to him what he needed, and with Duke being tired and in a grumpy mood, I could see that Jalen was fighting a losing battle.   So here comes mom to the rescue, waking him up and pleading for them to go to Wal-Mart and get the ball and other needed supplies so that we are not scrambling Tuesday night.  What I was really wishing and was slightly tempted to do was to take Jalen and go myself, but I knew that was wishful, foolish thinking.  I asked Jalen when the project was assigned, and of course he said the teacher gave the assignment out today.  I am thinking to myself, “No teacher in his or her right mind is going to assign a project this involved with only a two day turn around.”  Meanwhile, I am fuming and praying, and Duke gets up and takes him to Wal-Mart at 9:00 pm.  Oh, the sacrifices we make for our children!  But at least he is ready to complete his work on Tuesday night.

Tuesday evening, we get dinner on quickly after school—beef ribs, lima beans, and rice—and he jumps right on his homework.  The sine wave is still moving up, with only a few wobbles here and there as he writes his report, gathers up the things he is going to use for the organelles inside of the cell, and we figure out how to cut the Styrofoam sphere without messing it up.  In the midst of our flow (I’ve almost got the ball cut; Jalen is fashioning his mitochondria, Golgi body, nucleus…), I get a text from Jordan, 8:00 pm.  “Y’all are coming to the athletic banquet tomorrow night?”  TOMORROW NIGHT?  “You never mentioned this, son.”  “I didn’t?  I’m sorry. I meant to.  I really hope you all can come.”  “It is very short notice, but we will try our best to make it.”  “Thanks.  I love you, mom.”  (In his defense, Jordan is very busy with classes and studying, the titular role in a play, and working a graveyard shift job at UPS.)  With Styrofoam pieces and chips of glitter from the Christmas ornament we cut in half for the nucleolus all over me, Jalen and I get back to work.  I typed his report for him while he finished his project.  Though he waited until the last minute, he really did a nice job, I thought, on his paper and his animal cell.  Yes, I did email the teacher to ask when the project was assigned, and like I thought, it was assigned before the break.  And yes, there will be a consequence for his not being truthful.  When he went to bed at 10:00, the project was complete, sitting on the kitchen table, on tripod legs made of push pins (very creative, son!), replete with the long skewers he insisted on using to label the cell parts.  I am so glad he woke up this morning with a refreshed mind which was more amenable to my suggestion to shorten the skewers.  The last thing he did before going to the bus stop was to shorten the sticks, and I am happy I didn’t fuss with him about doing so.  It was after all, his project, and his grade. 

We’ll see how the wave ride ends today.  I am looking forward to going to lunch with a good friend, something I rarely do, go out somewhere during the day on my own, because I can’t drive myself.  I took my shower early, before Jalen left (just in case, always wary of falling), and when I got out of the shower on my own, I briefly felt like I was getting ready for school.  Boy, I felt the momentary rush of having a sense of purpose to take out into the world.  So missed…  I have my clothes laid out and ready to put on, and my game plan for getting out of the house independently is also ready.  I am looking forward to some good food and conversation at El Tapatio.  Fiesta time!  I am also praying that Duke will be able to make it home in time for us to be able to go to the athletic banquet tonight.  Even if we miss the dinner, I’d like to be able to be there to see the program.  Last year’s banquet was very nice, and I believe in supporting my children and celebrating their accomplishments.  Hopefully, those memories will stay with them and push them forward through their lives, even when I am no longer here on this Earth.

Wheeeeee!  Riding the sine wave has its ups and downs, and I am determined to hold on, cheering through the fun dips, hanging on and pushing through the scary turns.  Life is indeed good.

Before he decided to shorten the sticks

Expressing Myself

Among other things, April is National Poetry Month and also Tax Day.  At the same time, the recent ruling by the Supreme Court, the highest court in the land that is supposed to ensure the blessings of liberty for us all, passed legislation that equates in my mind the idea that “if you want to play, you’ve got to pay”.  And even more importantly, the voice of a “Regular Joe Ella” like me gets shuffled to the shadows, and doesn’t even seem to be heard.  I feel like my voice is being silenced, reduced, made to count only 3/5 as much, or perhaps not at all (WHICH WILL NEVER, EVER HAPPEN AS LONG AS MY BODY HAS BREATH AND I AM IN MY RIGHT MIND).  But I have been feeling the pain of the penchant by some to turn back the clock to a time when life was made purposefully and strategically hard by sharecropping, by Jim Crow, by disenfranchisement, by violence in the still of the night, and by the “eyes blind to the ways” in stark daylight.  The resurrection of identified hate groups in the state of NC stands at a whopping 33.  There are those of the upper crust clamoring for the poor and struggling to “kiss the ground that they walk on” and give them a parade that pays homage to their wealth and the fact that they throw us a couple of crumbs from their sumptuous tables.  There are even cries for no minimum wage at all, and that the peasants are “free” to work for $3-4 an hour (or did they mean a day, as in the past that is longed for when life was good?).  All of this regressive longing for nostalgic days which were nightmares for others stirs and grinds in my mind as I wrestle with the idea of our great democracy being quietly and systematically turned into an oligarchy, also golden during a time long ago.   

My mind flipped back to a book I read in graduate school at NCSU, James Agee’s, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.  The class, about the autobiography, was a graduate level English class, taught by Dr. Lucinda McKeithan, an extraordinary, challenging professor from whom I learned so very much.  The class was hard, but I really enjoyed it, and worked my tail off to get that A-, of which I was sooooo proud of earning.  Most of the students in the class were writers and English majors, some already with MFA degrees and published work, and I often felt inadequate and small in comparison.  I love to write, and I read a lot, but I came to the class with an undergraduate degree in Speech Communication, not English, and NCSU’s English department has the reputation of a stellar faculty of literary juggernauts.  But I do think that my writing skills are strong, especially when I can be expressive and pepper my thoughts with poetry in the form of free flowing thoughts.  The response to the chapter, “Money”, is what I slaved over for many hours one weekend.  It was three of the hardest paragraphs that I have birthed, and I still was not sure if it was the kind of writing that Dr. Mac wanted.  I remember reading in class that night; my voice was quiet but strong.  When I finished reading, the whole class clapped for me, the only person they clapped for that night.  Dr. Mac asked for a copy to keep.  I remember sitting there for a few minutes, stunned.  “They really liked it!”  I felt, for a moment, like a writer. 

In honor of National Poetry Month and Tax Day (that necessary evil, I mean duty, that is just as important as voting), I share that response with you.  I hope you enjoy; it is a peeling back of one of the many layers of my soul.

 

Gudger’s Final Thoughts

 

                    From dust I was born and to dust I return, kicking, spitting, cursing, swearing all the way.  I am the dust, made from dust, my dreams too are dry and dusty--now gone.  No home, no land, no mule, no money--nothing to show for my years of hard work.  I was cheated, never even having enough extra to buy my wife a pretty dress, even though she wouldn’t want it, doesn’t know how to be pretty no more.  Crying tears of sand, silent, sobless, now she will toil even more the hard.

          I paid you back (and then some) for everything you gave me on credit--unfairly, begrudgingly, sneakily benevolent--knowing while my family shivers and sags in the fierce January winter, ground too hard even to scratch up a knobby root for an almost soup, yours will be feasting on the meat and gravy of my family’s hard labor, of your thumb pressed on the scale as I bought my seed on faith. 

          We lie on the floor, bodies pressed together like a set of coarse wooden spoons, trying desperately to keep warm beneath the snow that drifts into our sleep and upon our weary heads.  I couldn’t go away, and try again, because I owe and am now too tired to fight.  I rest.  I am the dust, where cotton no longer grows.

June 16, 2004

In response to “Money” (101-03), from Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, James Agee