The Cover of the Rolling Stone

Everyone has their undies in a knot over the cover of the Rolling Stone this week. The Boston Bomber, the young kid from Uzbekistan who bombed the Boston Marathon is on the cover. People are screaming far and wide about it. Walgreen’s won’t sell it. It’s a big hoopla over it.

I don’t understand it. Or maybe I do. But I don’t see why his picture shouldn’t be there. Is there something going on I don’t know about? I doubt it. He’s newsworthy of course. But I will tell you how I see it.

It’s all part of that double standard. Let’s say for instance, that he and Trayvon were both walking down a street together. And let’s imagine that George Zimmerman and his handy gun was there watching them. I don’t think I need to tell you which one of them George would be watching. Which one he’d be angry about and which one he’d suspect of being up to something. Which one would he accost?

So while he’s making poor Trayvon’s life miserable, our cute little Bomber Boy goes on home unmolested. He can go meet his brother and the two of them can discuss their plans and keep working on their homemade bombs. Nobody suspects them of anything. They look just like everyone else around, for Christ’s sake. What could they possibly be up to? And if they got in trouble, golly gee, give them a break! They have their whole lives ahead of them! No reason to ruin their lives for a silly adolescent mistake. Boys will be boys right?

Unless they’re black.

So Trayvon fights back. The unknown, unidentified white man attacked him and Trayvon fought back and our neighbor hood watchdog killed him. The cops thought it was ok. I mean, he didn’t belong in that neighborhood, did he? What was he up to?

Meanwhile, Bomber Boy and his Bomber Brother refine their plans and get what they need and nobody suspects a thing. Everybody thinks they are great kids and nobody has any idea that they are the ones who were up to something. They are the ones who should have been followed. Did anybody talk to them? Ask questions? Think their behavior looked suspicious? Of course not!

They’re just like us!!!

So while George Zimmerman goes to court, it is really Trayvon who is put on trial. He shouldn’t have been on that street. He should have gone along with a strange man accosting him. He shouldn’t have fought back. He should have allowed the profiling to go on. He shouldn’t have wondered why a man would stop him. All he was doing was walking down the street, talking to a friend on the phone bringing home his iced tea and a bag of skittles. Eight robberies had taken place there in that area. Of course he was up to something.

Robberies. Not bombings. Nobody was killed. Nobody was maimed. It didn’t even get national attention. But folks were scared and so he had to be stopped.

He’s NOT one of us!!

And now Zimmerman goes free. Trayvon’s parents grieve his death. Sentient people the world over wonder why it happened that way. Racists smugly clutch their guns and try to convince everyone they were right after all. That kid was a thug. He asked for what he got.

But now they can’t stand to look at Bomber Boy on the cover of the Rolling Stone. He looks good. He looks like a boy they’d let their daughter go out with except for the fact he did toss a bomb that killed and injured some people. They had no idea that boy wanted to kill as many of them as he could.

Seeing his picture reminds them of their mistake. They would have defended that boy to the end of the earth. They don’t want to have to look at every young boy like him and wonder if he’s all right.

After all, he isn’t the one you have to watch. He isn’t the one you follow, you harass and arrest.

The black kid with the hoodie, the skittles and the iced tea.

HE”S the one who was ‘up to something,’ right?

And that’s why you killed him. 

Talking About Race: “It’s All So Vexifying…”

I remember it was a warm day and I was sitting in the dog park near my apartment on Camp Street. My dog Molly was running about and I was just sitting there on the fountain thinking and watching Molly play with some other dogs. There weren’t many people in the park and it was kind of quiet and I was just sitting there alone with my thoughts when a young girl came and sat near me.

We didn’t speak for a while. I was lost in my own thoughts as I usually am and she was squirming and kept getting up and down and I remember being mildly irritated as she was disturbing my near meditative state with her fidgeting.

I really hate it when people can’t just sit down and be still. You know, just sit there, be quiet and be still. It makes me feel so much better when I do it that I figure it has to work for other people too but unfortunately, there are those who just can’t sit still.

Anyway, I had my notebook with me as I often do and I was taking notes here and there about the weather, how I felt and what I saw. The girl was young and kind of cute in a frivolous way. She had curly hair, though I didn’t write down what color it was. And she had this kind of irritating nasally loud voice. She had come to the park with a couple who had a dog, but they were far more interested in each other than they were in her and it was obviously pissing her off.

Every once in a while, she would yell something to them or get up and go say something to them and it was plain to see they were trying to ignore her.

But there she was, not too far from me, fidgeting and popping up and down and being loud. I didn’t want to go home yet and there weren’t too many other places to sit so I hoped she would either leave quickly or be quiet. I recall she was looking at me, and that I was wondering what her problem was when she finally said, “Your skin is very pretty.”

I am sure I said thank you. She asked me what I used on it and I told her that I didn’t really use anything, I just kept it clean and wore simple makeup. I was wearing MAC at the time and I told her about the regiment I had been on for a while.

She gave me a strange look and said she had wanted to try MAC, but she couldn’t afford it. I didn’t know what to say to that and so, I didn’t respond. She asked me what I did for a living and I told her I was the public information officer for the housing authority. She didn’t know what that meant and I told her I did public relations. She asked if I had gone to college for that job and I remember being irritated but answered her calmly.

“I went to college but not for that job.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Yes, I did. I have a degree from the University of Miami and I got my Masters from Southern Illinois University Carbondale,” I replied.

“Humph. Well, I didn’t finish college so I suppose I can’t get a job like you did.”

“You can always go back,” I said.

“I haven’t met too many colored people like you,” she said, peevishly.

I turned to look at her.

“What does that mean? And I prefer if you address me as black, if you feel you need to address me by my skin color,” I told her.

“I don’t know too many who went to college or ones that speak like you do or have a high paying job like you do.”

I thought about the bills I pay and chuckled at her assumption I had a high paying job. I also thought if I didn’t answer, she would leave.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you people,” she went on.

My hackles began to rise. “You people….” always does it.

“Are you colored or black or Afro whatevers? At least I didn’t call you a nigger like my father always says. I don’t know what I should say.”

“Why does that matter? We all have names. Use them.”

“I suppose now you are all pissed off with me,” she said, “cause I didn’t call you what you wanted me to. This race thing is all so vexifyin’. Ya’ll make it all so hard nowadays. I never know what to say. I was just trying to talk to you.”

And then she got up and left.

I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to go back to my thoughts but she had clearly put a stop to that. I was just a bit angry and wished that she’d been brave enough to continue the conversation but I knew that she had seen that I was mad and she left to escape the cursing out she was probably going to get.

I like to think I’m peaceful and want to teach folks but the truth is, sometimes my temper gets the best of me when I’m around stupid people and I end up just cussing them out. And I was headed for that with her.

I would have liked to explain to her that we were offended and tired of people who saw our skin color and came to all kinds of conclusions about us. Why couldn’t she have sat there and started a decent conversation with me? It was obvious she had some notions that were wrong and hurtful. I would have liked to have straightened that out.

She was angry and resentful and she had brought that out in me as well. I felt bad about that.

I wanted to tell her that college was important no matter who you were or what you did. She needed to know that there are a lot of very intelligent black people who did indeed go to college, who do speak quite well, and who have better jobs than what you usually see in Louisiana.

I remember getting on the streetcar in the morning and seeing the armies of young girls in uniforms going to their jobs as maids in the hotels downtown and in the French Quarter. I thought about all the young black men I saw sweeping streets, bussing tables, shucking oysters and doing otherwise menial jobs.

But I also thought about the past few mayors of New Orleans who were also black men. The lawyers and reporters and instructors that I knew that were black people. The world was changing albeit not as fast as I would have liked.

And yet we still had people who thought like that young girl. There was so much she didn’t know and so much she could have learned if we had talked a little more.

Talking about race really is “vexifyin.” 

What Happened to the Men We Knew and Loved?

Few words bring a chill to a woman’s heart like “Honey, I don’t feel so good!”

For most of us, the thought of having to nurse a sick man is one of the worst things imaginable. Sometimes they are worse than babies.

Consider this -  when a woman gets a cold, she goes to the store and buys some Nyquil and Dayquil and Kleenex and lemons and orange juice. She goes home and has a cup of tea with honey and takes the medicine hoping she will feel better so that she can go to work the next day. It doesn’t occur to her to stay home because of a cold. Work is more important. And for a single woman, there is no choice. She has no other means of support so she has to go to work.

But a guy? He will get a case of the sniffles and will lie in bed, his nose red, his eyes swollen and is suddenly incapable of going to the kitchen to get his own orange juice. He will suddenly become a whining sniveling patient in need of care.

So suddenly, your workload is increased. You have to get up early and get the kids off to school, get ready for work and bring him his tea and orange juice and explain how to take the medicine so that he will feel better. He will look at you and say, “You know I don’t like to take medicine.” That means he wants you to stay home from work and nurse him.

Yes, there are few things in life more awful than having to take care of a sick man.

But it goes deeper than that. Somehow, a lot of men have become as needy as a two year old. Where is that macho Alpha male we kind of like?

He’s become that lazy, whiny, angry pissy ass man that you want to take an iron skillet to. He can’t accept responsibility for anything he does. It’s always somebody else’s fault.

If you catch him cheating with another woman, does he apologize and admit he couldn’t resist and that he was acting like a boy? No.

YOU didn’t dress sexy enough. YOU were too busy with the kids and you didn’t pay attention to his needs. YOU spent too much time at work and you ignored him. YOU didn’t give him sex when he wanted it and the way he wanted it.

It wasn’t his fault. He is a sex addict. He has a behavioral problem.

He didn’t lose his job because he never got there on time or because he refused to take direction. It couldn’t be because he wasn’t working hard enough. It wasn’t because he told off his boss for asking him to do something he didn’t want to do.

“That bastard never liked me. He knew I was smarter than him and he was threatened. He’s a dumb bastard anyway. Why should I work for him?” Or “That bitch hates men. She thought I was going to get her job and she’s a lesbian anyway.”

And if you got tired of his whining, insecure childish ways and left him wow! You were never happy. He couldn’t please you. You nagged and complained all the time. You made too many demands and wanted too much and he couldn’t take it. He was happy with you but he just couldn’t seem to make you happy. You were just a bitch anyway.

It’s never his fault.

Some of my friends and I were talking about sex not long ago. All of us had encountered men who didn’t seem to have a clue about how to please a woman in bed.

“He didn’t know how to kiss. He came at me with this wet mouth like a big fish or something. No technique. It was like he just sucked my face into his mouth and I couldn’t breathe.”

“He was a lazy bastard. He claimed he had a bad back so he only liked it when he could lay there and I had to get on top of him and do all the work while his lazy ass just laid there. Who wants that?”

“He couldn’t find my clitoris if I had painted a big red target on it.”

“The whole thing was over in less than five minutes and all I got out of it was a wet ass and I had to sleep in the wet spot. It never occurred to him that I might want to have an orgasm too. He got his and that was all.”

“I told him what I liked and he just ignored me and did what he liked.”

“He said if I loved him I wouldn’t make him wear a rubber.”

You know what I mean.

They don’t want to take us on dates anymore.

“Why don’t we just hook up?” or “We can just hang out.”

Instead of being a couple, you can be friends with benefits.

All that means is instead of taking you to dinner, they just want you to come over to his place, have some pizza, watch a movie and have sex. You understand there’s no strings, right?

You aren’t the only woman he’s seeing and you are just having fun.

He doesn’t remember your name so you are “boo,” or “princess.” He may even have two or three cell phones so that he can keep all of you compartmentalized.

And you better not ever answer or pick up that phone!

He doesn’t have to woo you or court you or even treat you with any respect. He can call you bitch or ho and you get excited because he seems to like you. You think he’s fun and exciting.

And if you do happen to get pregnant, does he stick around to help you with the baby? Nope. He’s off seeing another woman. YOU got pregnant, so you can handle the kid. He didn’t want a child anyway. (This is the same man who refused to wear a condom when you asked.)

What has happened to men? Where are the big strong masculine fellas that we not only loved but looked up to? We knew those men could make us feel good in bed, they could protect us if we needed it and they loved us.  They used to call us and ask us for dates and bring us flowers and candy and call us baby and sing love songs to us and marry us and help us take care of our children.

They used to care how they looked because they wanted to look good to us. Having sex with us was something they dreamed about and worked hard to get in our favor so that we would say yes. They tried to be charming so that we would want to be with them. They used to look in our eyes and touch our cheeks and we would melt.

They used to be men.

Where did they go? What happened? Will they be back? What do we do in the meantime?

Do they know how much we miss them?

Do they know we loved them?  

Losing You

I knew some white girls who exclusively dated black guys back home. I didn’t think much about it. Since I dated white men, it didn’t matter to me who dated who. I figured it was all good if we just all dated each other and didn’t worry about what color we were.

But I noticed something that did bother me. A few of those girls came from little towns out in the country and once they started dating black guys, suddenly when they talked, they sounded more black than I ever did. What was that all about?

I expected to hear “,,,gurl, let me tell you…” or “….no he didn’t’!” from the black girls I talked to. Not from the white ones.

I finally asked one of them why she felt she had to change the way she talked. She blinked and looked at me like I was stupid.

“Cause I’m with a black guy. I want to sound like what he’s used to.”

“Chile, please,” I said, “if he wanted a black girl, he’d be with one. He’s dating you so I don’t see why you think you have to try to sound like me.”

“Don’t you speak different with the white guys you date?” she asked.

No, I didn’t, I told her.

And I had to think about that one for a while.

As most black people who live in an integrated society must, I did speak two dialects. I always liked to say I am multi-dialectical. Yes, I do speak one way with my black friends and I do speak another in mixed company. It’s not that I am trying to be white or sound white. I recognize that I have never really spoken with the “ebonic” accent many white people assume we all have.

I did, however, have southern parents and I of course learned to speak from listening to them. The way they spoke was comfortable to me and I felt secure with it. But I went to an integrated school and I had white teachers and they made sure I did not say “dem, dose and dat”  I said them, those and that and always have.

I did have a lisp, and truthfully, I still do but I know how to control it. I had years of speech therapy to correct it. Most of the time, my “sss” roll off my tongue effortlessly.  But when I am angry or upset, that “sss” sound does become more of a “th” sound.

My parents were on the job about it too. If my brothers and I got lazy and mispronounced a word, they would stop us and spell the word the way we said it.

Example: “Look, Mom, he’s buck naked….” only it didn’t sound like that.

Mom would glare at me and say, “Buck nekkid? B-u-c-k  n-e-k-k-i-d?? Don’t you know how to speak?”

Or “Ooo, look at that!” Which would sound like “lookadat!” That would really get her goat. She would spell it to Dad who would give us the look and say we sounded like ‘field hands.’

I explained to them that I knew how it was supposed to sound and I knew the right way to say it but if I was at home, I wanted to be able to say it the way that felt like home. I didn’t make those mistakes when I was out and about. When they recognized we did know the difference, they were all right with it. They were concerned that we would be held back in society if we didn’t know how to speak correctly. And so we learned.

I didn’t think much about the way I spoke for years until I was in college. I was having a discussion with a white friend and a black friend came up and I turned to her and spoke to her and then she left. When I looked back at my white friend, he had this look of amazed puzzlement on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“When you turned to talk to her, it sounded like you were speaking a completely different language. I didn’t understand a word you said,” he said, still staring at me with a very strange look on his face.

I hadn’t realized I had done that. It was such a second nature to me that I had never really paid any attention to it. But I became aware of it and knew it was true.

Part of me wanted to say, “You weren’t supposed to understand it.” There was that desire to have a conversation that white people didn’t get. Something of our own, you know.

But what it really was came from a desire to conform and belong. Most of the black people I knew did not speak the way I did. They accused me of being too proper, of putting on airs, of ‘ackin’ white” and other such rubbish. I wasn’t. It was the natural way I spoke.

If I was going to get along with black people, I was going to have to speak the way they did and so I used the dialect I was used to using at home with my parents.

And if I was going to get along with white people, I would have to speak English the way it should be spoken. It’s a fine line that most black people have to walk. Many of us learned when we were young that we had to be multi-dialectical in order to succeed. We had to be able to conform to the crowd we were with.

For some of us, like me, it becomes second nature. We go back and forth all the time without missing a beat.

Look, the way black people talk is rhythmic, musical and colorful. We have a way of describing things that is instantly understandable even if you have never heard the term before. And the way we speak becomes part of the daily lexicon.

Sounding black has become cool. And a white person who uses the terms we do almost always elicits laughter. Remember “Bringing Down the House” with Queen Latifah and Steve Martin? Eugene Levy stole the movie and had us all in hysterics with some of the things he said in scenes with Queen Latifah.

So in that case, for conformity, yes, speaking a different dialect is acceptable.

But I do not change the way I am for the men I date. I speak the way I speak and when I have been with a guy for a while, I have lapsed into my “Sistaspeak” with him. And every one of them has loved it.

They knew it meant that I was comfortable with them and knew I could be me and say whatever I wanted to and I wasn’t making a difference because of them. They took it as a form of acceptance and perhaps it was.

And this goes for this weight thing too. We have gotten in a total kerfuffle about this. Here’s the deal:

Black women are built different from white women. Yeah, we have the same basic equipment, but there are subtle differences. We tend to be a bit rounder than white women. Our thighs are rounder, most often our butts are and we can carry weight better than they can. A black woman can weigh more than a white woman and look just as good as she does.

Now let’s be realistic. There is an epidemic of obesity in our country. Way too many of us are overweight. We love our 72 ounce Cokes, our super size fries and those big Hershey bars.

We do.

Admit it.

Not enough of us like to exercise and we sit at our computers or at our desks at work and we don’t move around like we used to.

You know it’s true.

It’s not just black women who are overweight. White women are too. And yes, black AND white men. So let’s not make this thing all about us because that’s not true.

The truth is we all look better when we are not overweight, regardless of our race or sex. Men like to look at women with a trim waist and long shapely legs. We like to look at men with buffed bodies with a six-pack. So let’s not get our undies in a bundle if someone says he or she prefers us to be in shape. We ALL look better when we’re in shape.

Being fat is not sexy. It’s not attractive and it’s not healthy. Too many black women have let their weight go and still want to slide into a skin tight dress and 6 inch heels and think they should still be able to “pull” the best looking men.

Yes, there are exceptions to every rule but it’s not the norm. Most of the time, the big girls who think they are sex kittens will find that people are laughing at them behind their back. People can be cruel to fat women.

White men like women who make them look good. If a sista wants to date white men, she needs to look good for the one she wants. But mostly, she needs to look good for herself. That’s true no matter who she dates.

But for someone to say that all white men like skinny women and expect for black women to all be skinny is a damn fool. There are a lot of plus sized sistas walking around with white guys who love that big booty more than anything on this earth.

And yes, there are a lot of white men who like skinny athletic women and God bless ‘em. If that’s what he wants and you know that’s not you, pass him right on by. Leave him for the skinny woman.

And trust me, I’ve had more than my share of fat white men drooling at me. No thanks. While I don’t expect all the men to look like Gerard Butler, I am not turned on by men who look like John Candy. At. All. A few extra pounds is fine. Chris Farley is not.

A man who loves you loves all things about you – even the way you speak and especially the way you look. He knows there are things different about black women and it is perhaps because of those things that he loves you.

The biggest mistake a woman can make is to lose herself trying to please a man. Who are you when you are trying to be someone else? You’re not the person he fell in love with and you are not the person you are. You soon become uncomfortable because you are pretending. And you find you are in a relationship that doesn’t work because nothing is real about it.

I realized a long time ago that I had to be me and if that is different, so be it. I was not going to change for anyone. I didn’t care what anyone said. I will speak the way I want. I will dress the way I want. I will move the way I want. I will dance the way I want. I will sing (off key) the way I want.

All those things make me the unique being that I am and you either accept me or you don’t.

It’s all the same to me. 

That Awkward Moment…..

I’d known ever since I first realized that boys were kinda cute. I had dealt with my own demons about it. But no one had ever asked me and I had never actually expressed the fact that I preferred white boys. I just knew I did.

I tried to pretend that I liked a couple of black guys I went to school with. I thought it was what I was supposed to do. Both of them were on the basketball team and they were like the Big Men on Campus and they had their choice of almost any girl they wanted.

I had known one of those boys for years. Our parents had been the best of friends and I suppose they thought we would end up together. Nope. He had his eye on a girl who was much lighter skinned than me and she already had womanly curves and most important – she had “good hair.” She had long thick wavy black hair down to her shoulders that never needed to see a hot comb or a perm kit. No matter that she was dumber than a box of said hair. She had what it takes and I didn’t.

The other boy’s mother thought I was “too dark” for her son and not cute enough. (She regretted that later when I matured.) But it didn’t really bother me. I heaved a big sigh of relief and figured that this was a sign that I should not try to pretend any more. So at that point, I said to myself, “I like white boys.”

I thought about it for a long time. Was I missing anything when I heard other black girls swooning over some guy and saying, “Ooh, damn I love me a chocolate brother!” or “Oooh, that n&*%a is so fine!”

Was there something about black men that was alluring that I was missing? Did my preference set me up to not get along with other black women? I didn’t really have any close friends that were black at that point in my life. I didn’t share their enthusiasm for “bruthas.” And did it make me some sort of “race traitor” because I didn’t like “my own kind?”

Was there something wrong with me?

Over the years, a few people including my mother tried to set me up with guys they thought I would like. I didn’t.

When I left home, I met some other black girls who felt the same way I did. We all preferred white guys. I had never met any other black girls who felt the way I did and it was great. We might have felt like we were different with other black folks, but we were totally comfortable with each other. We didn’t have to explain or say anything. It was all right to like white guys.

One night I was in a bar back in my hometown with friends and one of the guys I grew up with came and sat at the bar next to me. We started talking because we hadn’t seen each other in years. He asked that question that you know is going to preface another question that you probably don’t want to answer: “Can I ask you a question?”

I said yes.

“What did us brothers do to make you hate us? I mean I know we kind of gave you a hard time in high school, but was it enough to turn you against us all forever?”

I suppose it’s simple to always think there is a reason or that you’re turning against something. But that wasn’t it at all. There was no reason. I don’t hate black men. There was nothing political, no cultural or revenge based reason why I like white men. I just do. That’s all. I just do.

I laughed and told him that I just preferred them and that was all. And then I asked why he would ask me since he was married to a white woman himself. I guess it was all right for him.

I went on never really putting voice to it but handily getting out of dating any black men who crossed my path. I am sure all my friends and family knew it but since I didn’t say anything, they didn’t either.

I noticed that some of my white girlfriends were actively dating black guys and seemed happy. But some of them were friendly with black men but never got serious or even considered dating them. So I asked one of my friends why she didn’t. She hemmed and hawed and said that she didn’t want to do anything that would upset her father.

I knew that was a crock. Her father would have been just as pissed if he knew some of the things she was doing with white men and I said that to her. And did that mean her father thought he was better than me? I recalled a conversation I had had with her father a few years before when I went off to college.

While she and I had been friends for years, she had been the one who got pregnant when we were teenagers. She had been the rebellious one who had started drinking and sleeping around with various men. Not me. I had gotten a job and had stayed with it for over 10 years. She had been unemployed just as much as she had been employed. And I went back to college and got my degree. She had dropped out of high school.

He smiled at me one night and said, “There must have been a mistake when you were born.”

I asked what he meant.

“YOU should have been my daughter,” he said.

All this was leading up to the moment when my Mom and I finally brought it out in the open. We were arguing over something and she brought up my only dating white men. She couldn’t see it at all. She grew up in the Jim Crow south and she had had a hard time at the hands of white people. While she had raised my brothers and me to be tolerant, she didn’t like the idea of us dating or marrying outside our race.

I told her I could do whatever I wanted to do.

She said, “No white man is going to marry you. They will sleep with you but they won’t take you home to their parents.”

“Maybe I don’t want to meet their parents. And maybe they won’t care. Everybody isn’t a bigot,” I said.

“They just want to use you,” she persisted. “They will never love you. It will only be sex. You will get hurt and I don’t want that for you. You deserve t be loved. You are loving and sweet and you need a man who will love and cherish you.”

I could have made some comment about how her first husband beat her till she left him and my father cheated on her constantly. I didn’t. Not yet anyway.

But then she said, “Don’t you ever bring me some peckerwood and tell me you are going to marry him. Don’t bring me some zebra kids either.”

I didn’t want to fight anymore so I said, “Fine. When I do get married, I will keep my husband away from you and my little zebra children too. I don’t want any of them infected with your hatred.”

She went to my father in a huff and told him what I had said. He got very angry with her and came to me and said, “Don’t you think for a moment that you can’t come home no matter who you marry. You are my child and I will always accept your choices. Your mother is wrong.”

She grudgingly accepted the fact that if I did get married, it would certainly be to a white man. We never argued over it again.

Years later, I overheard her talking to a family member. One of my cousins was dating a white guy and nobody in the family liked him. He was unemployed and lived in her apartment and was so broke he was wearing her clothes.

My mother said, with some measure of pride in her voice, “My Brenda dates white men but she has never dated any trashy ones. I know I will never have to be ashamed of any man she chooses. She has good taste and she is very classy and I trust her to not embarrass us all like your daughter has.”

Ouch.

Mom took a trip to Scandinavia with some of her friends and she came home telling me about the gorgeous men she had seen there and that I should go there because I’d be sure to find a husband there.

By then she was hinting almost daily that she wanted me to get married and have a granddaughter for her. My brothers had had only boys so far and it was my job to give her that precious little girl she wanted so badly.

“Mama, you trying to set me up with a Viking?”

She grinned and said, “Why not? I need a son in law kind of bad. A Viking will do. Some of those guys are so big and gorgeous! I showed a few of them your picture and they wanted to meet you.”

My Mom, the Matchmaker. 

I Didn't Go to Woodstock

I didn’t. I should have and I could have but I didn’t. Here is the sad tale.

I had been living in Chicago for a year and I had made some new friends. We had been running around having fun all that time and hadn’t thought things were going to change but they did. The reason I was in Chicago in the first place is because I was supposed to be going to college. I wasn’t. I was “out in the streets” with my friends.

I started out right. I was going to class every day and doing what I was supposed to do. But once I made new friends and started hanging out with them, my days consisted of working at a part time job for a little money and hanging around Old Town every free moment I had. That was where all the cool people and the hippies hung out.

One of the new friends was an Asian girl named Lori and she and I got to be very close. As soon as I got out of school and she got out of work, we would meet and walk up to Old Town and we’d look in the head shops, the record stores, the boutiques and the bars. I don’t know how we did all the walking we did, but we did it every day and night for months.

We started planning to travel and we had a few trips in mind. I had started cutting classes to work more and get more money. Lori and I decided we wanted to go to London for Christmas and so we saved and we got student passes that allowed us to get stand-by tickets on the airlines for half the price.

Mom didn’t want me to go to London, but I was grown and I could do what I wanted, or so I thought. I went to London against her wishes and I had the best time I’d ever had. Of course, it was my first vacation on my own away from family. We found a cheap hotel with no elevator and we had a blast. This trip was so much fun, we decided we had to take another one and we planned a trip to New York in August.

My parents finally realized I wasn’t attending class and that I was just running wild in the city. I had a job and I was working, but they decided it was time for me to come back home. They came to get me in July and we sat together in a bar and watched the men walk on the moon and then they took me home to Galesburg.

A month later, Lori and I flew to New York. We had a friend who had an apartment on the Lower East Side and that is where we stayed. When we got there, she told us about this big concert that was happening about 60 miles north of New York in this place called Woodstock. The Who were playing and so was Jimi Hendrix, Santana and Sly and the Family Stone. It sounded good till I realized it was going to be outside and that the concert would last 3 days. What the hell?

Look, I admit it. I’m prissy. I don’t like being dirty and I never have. When I was a child, if I was outside playing and my hands got dirty, I had to run in the house and wash them. My Mom was trying to put us out so she could have some peace and there I was coming back in every 5 minutes. I guess it irritated her endlessly.

But anyway, I was going to have to sit on a blanket for 3 days and nights?? Use a port-a-let? What would we eat? Sleep? What if it rained? I said no.

Lori said, “Brenda, it’s the Who. Roger and the fringe. Keith Moon and those eyes. You remember.”

Yes I did. We had seen them just a few months before at the Kinetic and we fell even more in love with them than we had been just listening to their music. And we had gone to the hotel afterwards and talked to them more. Yeah, I remembered.

But did I want to sit outside on a farm in the dirt with ducks and crazy people smoking God knows what and walking around naked and ….well, you know. And no, I didn’t.

Another of our friends agreed with me. She wasn’t enthused about an outdoor concert either. I didn’t mind if it was a concert that was over in one day. I could take that. But three days? The tickets were kind of high for us young chicks to swing especially since we’d just flown to New York and wanted to have some fun there. We could go hang out in clubs in the city and dance and meet cute guys and not have to sit in the dirt.

We talked about it all day long. A friend came over who had a car and he was going. He had room for us if we wanted to go. We looked at each other and asked again. Should we go to Woodstock? Did we want to see Sha Na Na? Did we want to see Canned Heat? How about Ten Years After? We did want to see the newest supergroup, Crosby Stills and Nash. But did we want to see them bad enough to sit in the dirt for 3 days?

No.

Our friend left with two girls and the rest of us stayed in New York. We dressed up and went out that night and had a blast. Later the next day, we heard that thousands of people had shown up at the festival. They were coming from everywhere. The freeway was closed and the concert was free because so many people were knocking the fences down and climbing in. It was all over the news.

Lori said to me, “Maybe we should have gone.” I was beginning to realize I’d been wrong. We should have gone. We thought about hitchhiking up there. Yeah, we did that. It was safer back then than now. But our friend reminded us that the roads were blocked with traffic and that we’d never get there.

And then it rained. It rained and rained all night long. We didn’t go out that night.  We ate pizza and sat around listening to music and talking. We thought about what it must have been like to be sitting out there with a howling driving storm like that and once again, we were glad we hadn’t gone.

When our friends came back, yes, they were dirty, but they were lit with a happiness I hadn’t seen in years. They said it was the greatest moment of their lives. They couldn’t describe it, but it had been life changing and though they had been uncomfortable for a short while, the love they felt from everyone, the way they all helped each other and the amazing music they heard made it worth a little dirt.  It was one of the biggest events of our generation and we missed it because I didn’t want to get dirty. I was ready to kick myself.

When the movie came out, we went to see it and we must have seen it 4 times in a row. I was ready to cry. I felt the peace and love just watching the movie. I saw the happy faces and I was angry with myself all over again. We just couldn’t believe that we had been so close and had missed that concert. We loved every moment of that movie and I am sure that we all have seen it at least over a hundred times in our lifetime.

Lori was a good friend. She never once said, “Brenda, we really messed up.” She didn’t blame me although I blamed myself and I still do. If I hadn’t been so prissy and worried about getting dirty, we could have been right there at the greatest concert ever like thousands of other people my age had been.

We could have seen Crosby Stills and Nash perform for the first time in front of people. We could have seen Janis Joplin late that night and Grace Slick early in the morning. We could have seen Jimi play the National Anthem. We could have been there for it all. We had no inkling that hot weekend in New York that it was going to be one of those moments that would change everyone’s lives whether they had been there or not. We didn’t know it was the end of an era. We just didn’t know.

Eventually though, I did go to Woodstock. Years later, when I was married, my husband and I visited a friend in Monticello, We were driving around and she took us to this little shop that was a kind of Woodstock museum. The real one hadn’t been built yet and they were seeking donations to make it come true. I bought some posters and post cards and prints and then we drove over to the sight where the concert took place.

There is a huge marker there with the names of everyone that played and I sat there looking at them and closed my eyes and thought about what had happened there all those years ago. This was hallowed ground now. You could still feel the love and peace that had been there. There was no one there but us and I just sat with my thoughts and realized I really HAD made it to Woodstock after all. Many years later, but I had been there.  I took pictures of the marker, wiped away my tears and left.

I do wish I had gone with Lori. She died last year and I felt even worse that it had been my fault we missed Woodstock.

I think about something Graham Nash said; if everyone who said they’d been to Woodstock really had been there, the Earth would have tilted on its axis. Well, I’m not one of them. I wasn’t there.

I didn’t go to Woodstock. 

And Now What?

One night a few years ago, I noticed an ad on the Internet asking “Could You Have Lupus?” I took the quiz and answered the questions and the results were, talk to your doctor, you may have lupus. No, I said. I’m just stressed and tired and I put it out of my mind.

A few months later, my right hand and arm suddenly swelled up and I could not bend my fingers. If I tried to move my fingers, it hurt. I went to the doctor after nothing seemed to relieve the swelling and I began a battery of tests to determine what the problem was. Was there a blockage to my lymph glands? No. Was it linked to the shoulder surgery I had had a few years prior? No. Were my nerves working properly? Yes. I had an MRI, x-rays, and the whole 9 yards. No answers. I went to a “hand” specialist. Eventually, my doctor suspected rheumatoid arthritis and sent me to a rheumatologist.

All this time, the joint paint had increased to a dull pain level that never stopped. I was born with Beta-Thalassemia, so I was used to some level of pain and I kept going even though I was having more pain and I was getting more and more exhausted from the simplest things.

I could not stand on my feet and lecture my students for longer than 10 minutes before I got dizzy and felt like I had run 50 miles. I was getting more and more cranky and ill tempered since exhaustion and constant pain were becoming a steady part of my life as were the persistent rashes.

I had inexplicably begun to have rashes on my chest and I thought it was from wearing silver necklaces and I had stopped. But I broke out no matter what kind of necklace I wore and soon, even if I wasn’t wearing a necklace!

After two visits to the rheumatologist, she said to me very matter of factly, “You have lupus. It’s a low level right now, but it’s there and you have it,” and she moved on to another subject like it was nothing.

I felt like I had been slammed in the face. I couldn’t think. I just heard those three words, “You have lupus,” and I froze. I thought of people I knew that had lupus that had died. Was this a death sentence? Much later, I realized that I had not stopped her and asked questions.

I went to the Internet again and began to look up all the information I could find. Did this have anything to do with all that I had been through? The problem with my hand, the rashes, coughing, heart racing and the pain? Was it why my hair grew so slowly and was suddenly so thin?

I found this information: “Lupus is an autoimmune disease where the body's immune system becomes hyperactive and attacks normal, healthy tissue. This results in symptoms such as inflammation, swelling, and damage to joints, skin, kidneys, blood, the heart, and lungs.

Under normal function, the immune system makes proteins called antibodies in order to protect and fight against antigens such as viruses and bacteria. Lupus makes the immune system unable to differentiate between antigens and healthy tissue. This leads the immune system to direct antibodies against the healthy tissue - not just antigens - causing swelling, pain, and tissue damage. (* An antigen is a substance capable of inducing a specific immune response.)” (Medical News Today)

Sometimes I think it‘s just a cruel joke and that it’s not real. Then I reach to pick something up and that biting pain in my arm is REAL. I wake up feeling like someone took a baseball bat to my whole body and it takes me a while to get going. Or I go for a walk on a good day and I get halfway home and the fatigue hits me like a sledgehammer and I wonder how I will make it home.

A visit to the doctor drains me so completely that I have to force my legs to keep going and to ignore the pain and the fatigue and somehow I make it home and up the stairs to my bedroom and I fall into bed just barely able to breathe. I ask myself again: Now what?

Lupus is incurable. Because it has so many symptoms, it can be difficult to diagnose and it is hard to treat. More women than men suffer from lupus and African-American women more than white women. This makes the fact that the first drug released for lupus works better for white women than black women baffling. Shouldn’t they have worked to help those who suffer the most?

Since there are different strains of lupus, there are different drugs that we are often given to alleviate the pain, the swelling and other symptoms of the disease. But many of us suffer because some of the drugs have awful side effects or really don’t help that much. And lupus is one of those diseases that does not alter the way you look so you may be in horrible pain and still look pretty good. Try telling someone how you feel when you look good. They often think you are either a hypochondriac or just plain crazy.

Living with lupus is difficult but we keep in mind the alternative and we  remember that having lupus used to be a death sentence. We find a way to go on and have a good life. We have no choice.