My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category Aging

Milestones and Memories: Charting a Life from Girl to Grandmother

by on ·Aging, Politics, Racism, School Days, The Way I See It

Part I

A few weeks ago, my cousin Cameron attended a rally for the Democratic presidential hopeful, Vice President Kamala Harris, during her appearance in Greenville, North Carolina. (If you missed reading Cameron’s enthusiastic commentary, scroll down to the previous post, dated October 20.)

Last Tuesday evening, former prosecutor Harris held court on the ellipse. A few short years ago, I would have gotten together with some of my buddies, and faster than you could say, “grassroots activists,” we’d have been there front and center, waving signs and hollering support till our voices gave out. But my bum knee kept me away.

My body, once as sturdy as an oak, now picks and chooses which joint wants to cry foul on any given day. Usually, it’s a knee. So, I was stuck at home while history was being made just a stone’s throw away. Of course, I watched the rally on TV, but it wasn’t the same as being there.

It’s a peculiar thing, this aging business. Sometimes, while humming Helen Ready’s hit, “I am Woman, hear me roar,” I dare myself to jog to the corner store.

Enthusiastic civic engagement and social activism moments have marked the past decades of my life. On a crisp Saturday in January 2017, my girlfriends and I joined thousands of other women participating in the Women’s March on Washington, a powerful demonstration of solidarity and advocacy for women’s rights. Just four years prior, in 2013, I was among passionate protesters decrying the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed Black teenager. That same year, I joined countless other crusaders commemorating the 50th anniversary of the historic March on Washington, reflecting on the progress made and the work still ahead in the ongoing struggle for civil rights and equality. During the 1980s, I believe it was ’83, I was participating in an anti-KKK rally and jeering as the hate group brazenly marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in the Nation’s Capital.

The question “What advice would you give your seven-year-old self?” is a common thought experiment many encounter. Although I’ve never been asked this directly, I’ve often contemplated my response.

If given the chance, I would reassure my younger self, that timid, skinny little girl, not to worry about the future. I would tell her, “I understand that right now you feel misunderstood, shy, and apprehensive about the world around you. But rest assured, this won’t always be the case. As you grow older, you’ll develop a strong sense of self-confidence. You’ll learn to balance your inherent kindness with assertiveness; life’s experiences will help you build resilience. I’d reassure her that there’s nothing inherently wrong with being kind. The world could benefit from more kindness. However, there is also truth in the adage that people often mistake kindness for weakness, so serve your kindheartedness with a dose of caution.

As a young student, you sought refuge in the back of the classroom, a silent sentinel hoping to blend into the shadows. The mere thought of the teacher’s gaze falling upon you sent shivers down your spine, for attention was an unwelcome spotlight on your fragile self-esteem. You yearned for invisibility during those long school days, wishing you could disappear into the worn pages of your textbooks. Even when knowledge danced on the tip of your tongue, you refused to raise your hand, unwilling to risk giving the wrong answer.

But listen closely, Little One, for the future holds a beautiful metamorphosis. That timid caterpillar will emerge as a vibrant butterfly, spreading wings of confidence and strength. The shy girl of yesterday will blossom into a self-assured elder, her voice clear and unwavering.

In the years following high school, you’ll shed your timidity like an old skin. As you enter college, you’ll find yourself brimming with newfound confidence. Gone will be the days of seeking refuge in the back of the classroom or silently rejoicing over your alphabetically advantageous surname. Instead, you’ll stride into each lecture hall with purpose, claiming your spot in the front row without hesitation. Your hand will shoot up eagerly whenever a question is posed, fueled by a genuine desire to engage rather than a fear of being wrong. The sting of an incorrect answer will no longer wound your pride; you’ll shrug it off as a learning opportunity and press forward. This resilience will become your new norm, replacing the crushing self-doubt of your younger years with a robust sense of self-assurance and intellectual curiosity.

Part II

Through life’s journey, you’ll experience the joys of marriage and motherhood, welcoming two beautiful children into the world. Though your marriage will eventually end in divorce, you’ll find yourself fortified by the resilience passed down through generations of strong women in your family.

Your commitment to social justice will flourish as you engage in various civic activities, such as attending anti-homelessness rallies, walking for charitable causes, and volunteering to support political campaigns. While you may never achieve the same level of recognition as iconic civil rights figures, you’ll take pride in your role as a dedicated community advocate.

As the years unfold, you’ll have the privilege of crossing paths with notable figures from various fields, including the acclaimed playwright August Wilson and Award-winning photographer and filmmaker Gordon Parks. In another memorable moment, while volunteering to feed people experiencing homelessness at Mitch Snyder’s CCNV shelter on Thanksgiving Day, you’ll have the opportunity to shake hands with Martin Sheen, one of your favorite actors. He, too, will be there that day to feed the homeless.

Significant experiences and achievements in media, politics, and writing will also mark your journey. Saturday Magazine, an hour-long television program, will feature you and your children in a segment focusing on single-parent families. You’ll attend a taping of the influential Oprah Winfrey show. As your life unfolds, you’ll discover a passion for politics, steering your career toward a field where you’ll frequently interact with politicians. This path will culminate in a significant encounter with Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States. These experiences will weave together to create a life well-lived, marked by personal growth, community engagement, and meaningful encounters.

Throughout these experiences, your love for writing will continue to grow. Your talent and perseverance will pay off as several pieces find their way into prestigious publications such as The Washington Post and The Afro-American. Pursuing your dream of becoming a journalist, you’ll seize an opportunity to write for a local weekly paper, The Metro Chronicle, where you’ll spend three years honing your skills.

Your creative journey will take an unexpected turn as you delve into the world of genealogy. This newfound interest will inspire you to author and publish a book, adding “published author” to your list of accomplishments. Your life’s journey will be a series of interconnected experiences, each building upon the last, leading to your achievements in media, politics, and writing.

You will have obstacles along the way and try to erase the bad memories of times when you were disrespected or humiliated by at least two employers. You’ll feel you have no recourse but to tolerate their mental abuse because you need your job. Little girl, if you could tell those employers now how you felt then what would you say? “$%@!#.”

Sorry, that would require a content warning on this post. Try again. “I’d ask the fifty-something-year-old executive who playfully slapped me on my butt at work one day, ‘How would you like it if someone in your daughter’s workplace did that to her? Don’t ever put your hands on me again, you old geezer.” But you were young and naïve, and that occurred decades before the “Me too” movement.

A second episode occurred a few years later at another workplace. I sometimes fantasize about what I wish I had said to the arrogant office director; I’ll call her Dr. Karen, who accused me of stealing a three-hole puncher, even though I told her that her assistant (who had already left for the day) told me she was borrowing it and taking it home to use over the weekend. I’d say to Karen, “You bigoted diva. Racism is in your DNA. You could have phoned your assistant and asked her if she had the hole puncher, but you didn’t because you were too eager to accuse the only black girl in the office of stealing it. And then, after I protested, you said that we – meaning black people – (I read very well between the lines) always want to play the victim. I wasn’t playing a victim, darn you. Without any cause or reason, you accused me of being a thief. When your assistant returned to work and produced the hole puncher, you thought it was beneath you to apologize because you never did. I should forgive and forget that incident, but acrimony remains.

Navigating life’s journey might be considerably smoother for all if we could peer into the future during our youth rather than reflect on our past experiences as elders.

But back to the present. While I couldn’t be at the ellipse in person last Tuesday, reveling and waving a sign, you can bet your bottom dollar I was there in spirit. Because self-pride and activism aren’t just about showing up physically – it’s about keeping that flame of change burning bright, no matter where you are or how creaky your joints might be. And let me tell you, my fire and desire for activism is still blazing like a bonfire on a summer night, and it probably will until it is finally extinguished.

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My Circle of Friends is Shrinking

by on ·Aging, Friends and Lovers, Friendships

A friend is one who overlooks your broken fence and admires the flowers in your garden. – Anonymous

 

My circle of friends is shrinking. I know I’m not alone. The same thing is happening to other folks in my age group. Nevertheless, I miss my friends.

Despite being extremely shy and introverted when I was a child, I was fortunate enough to acquire a few lifelong friends. My bond with former playmates and teenage pals persisted throughout our school years, after graduation, in early adulthood, into middle age, and in some instances, continues in our senior years. In those early days, we played together, partied together, and occasionally some of us worshiped together at the same church. Of course, sometimes it isn’t easy to maintain a friendship without frequent contact or interaction, but true friendships stand the test of time.

As we mature and our lifestyles and priorities change, we become more selective about who we consider our friends. Two decades ago, sites like Facebook, Friendster, and Twitter, came on the scene and expanded the word’s meaning; now, nearly anyone who lands on our social media page is called a friend. Despite the superficiality, I have formed some genuine friendships on social media.

I read where researchers say that we make nearly 400 friendships in a lifetime, but only about half a dozen will last. However, another study states that if a friendship lasts longer than seven years, it will likely last a lifetime. While I still feel blessed to have some lifelong friends, I’ve lost some of them through one circumstance or another.

Sometimes when I am relaxing in my recliner, I think about some of my longtime friends.

There was that warm Saturday afternoon in the summer of ’77 when Marcie and I were sitting on my living room sofa sipping beer (yes, I dabbled a bit back then). Forty-fives were spinning on the stereo, and I was consoling my despondent friend over the pending breakup of her marriage. (My own marriage had gone kaput five years earlier.) When Melba Moore began singing her hit Lean on Me, we pumped up the volume, oblivious to the neighbors. Near the end of that song, just before Melba belts out, “I’m gonna … make it, make it, make it, make it if you lean on me,” Marcie jumps up from her seat, throws her head and arms back, and mimicking Melba hits and holds that unforgettable high note that lasts for over 20 seconds. Marcie could sing as well as any professional songstress. It has been over ten years since my contact with Marcie, but that day when she and Melba brought down my house, so to speak, remains embedded in my memory.

In recent years, I’ve become more discerning in my choice of friends. I weed out drama queens and kings, egotists, arrogant jerks, and users – folks who only get in touch when they want something. Furthermore, as for making new friends, my attitude is iffy. At this stage of my life – if I do, I do, and if I don’t, I won’t fret over it. It’s not that I am not open to making friends; I just don’t go out of my way to do it.

Everybody knows that friendships sometimes turn into loving relationships, whether or not that was the intent. That’s what happened with me and LB back in the sixties. Soon after our accidental meeting, we bonded and established our favorite hangout places and songs, including The Marvelettes’ “When You’re Young and In Love” and The Blackbyrds, “Rock Creek Park.”

Sometimes on weekends or in the evenings after work, we would enjoy long rides cruising through the streets in his Ford Mustang while listening to Smooth Jazz or The Quiet Storm on the radio. Occasionally, he would arrive at my job on a warm day during my lunch break. I’d climb on the back of his motorcycle, put on the extra helmet, and hug his waist as he zig-zagged through downtown traffic, heading to our preferred fast-food place where he would buy our favorite gyro sandwiches. Then we’d find someplace to chow down and chat. Afterward, he’d whisk me back to my job and head back to his.

Initially, we were in a monogamous relationship, and then over the years, we each drifted to someone else. Nevertheless, our friendship persisted for 32 years. Those cherished memories of our times together live in my head and heart, like one day in the early days of our union when he took me past his mom’s house. She was preparing a delicious smelling, mouthwatering meal for her and LB’s father, her husband’s dinner. The aroma nearly lifted me off my feet. Our visit was short but as we were preparing to leave, LB went into the kitchen with his mom while I waited by the front door. They came out together and she handed me a dish of paella wrapped in foil. Later that evening when I was eating it alone at home, it was so tasty I wanted to lick the bowl. Whenever she prepared paella after that, she would occasionally send me a plate by LB. “Can’t come in right now,” he’d say, “but mama sent this for you.” He would hand it to me, and off he’d go. If there is such a thing as soulmates, he and I were that.

When LB came to visit me on April 28, 2001, for about 90 minutes, we laughed, talked, and reminisced about our old times together over lemonade. Then, four days later, at 53, my BFF suddenly died. Whenever I replay that last day in my mind, I don’t think it was happenstance. Instead, I believe that it was God’s plan for us to spend that time together because unbeknown to us, when we hugged, kissed, and said goodbye as we always did when parting, it was the last time. His final haunting words to me were, “I’ll call you on Monday.”

My circle of friends took a heartbreaking hit.

 

 

 

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Extolling the Joy of Friendship

by on ·Aging, Friendship, School Days

Last night I received a wonderful surprise. I could have done a happy dance, but my bad knee wasn’t having it. The surprise was a phone call from my long-time best friend, Loretta. We are septuagenarians now, but we’ve known each other since we were young teenagers. Yeah, that long ago.

We have the same first name, although she nicknamed me Retsie when we were in high school. Nevertheless,  we called each other Sis back then, and still do. In our yesteryears, I knew her family members, and she knew mine. We have shared memories from our high school years, like the time when she and I got called to the principal’s office for circulating a petition demanding that students be allowed to wear sneakers to school (or tennis shoes as they were frequently called back then). That’s right, as shy as I was, that was my initial baby step toward social activism.

Loretta and I had a third “sister” in our clique while in high school, Valerie. I knew Valerie years before I met Loretta. Our friendship went back to grade school. It was through Valerie that I met another life-long friend, Phillip. Phil, as we call him, was a real-life friend before he became one of my Facebook friends.

Sadly, Valerie died in 2004. Anyone who has lost a close friend will know what I mean when I say it is like losing a family member. Over time, our losses may get easier. We learn to live with them, but the space a dear person held in our heart remains forever vacant.

After graduating from high school, time, distance, and life-stage transitions separated our trio, but Loretta, Valeria, and I remained in touch through phone calls and Christmas cards. On at least one or two occasions, I babysat Loretta’s children before having children of my own.

Valerie and I lost contact for a few years but reconnected in 2001. During that time, she persuaded me to attend our 35th high school reunion. I was happy that we spent that time together. Sadly, Valerie died of breast cancer the week before Christmas, 2004.

The last time that Loretta and I saw each other was at Valerie’s funeral. We vowed then to maintain closer contact, but our life journeys intervened again. About ten years ago, I misplaced Loretta’s phone number and lost touch with her. Still, I thought of her often and prayed that she was well and that we would reconnect.

When cell phones became popular, I wasn’t one of those people who gave up my landline and I kept the same number for over 40 years. Fortunately, Loretta, kept that number, too, and the answer to my prayer came when she called me last night. Reunited, we reminisced, laughed, and carried on like high schoolers. We also plan to get together in the near future.

Anyone who has a lifelong best friend understands the joy of growing together over the years with someone who knows you almost as well as you know yourself. What beats having a close friend who knows your early history? High School. Dating and boyfriends. Marriages. Children. Divorces. Some friendships are short-lived; others last a lifetime. But, there is nothing like having a lifelong best friend and confidant with whom you can have candid conversations and who knows your thoughts on most issues even before you express them. A friend who understands your moods, who shares your low spells and the high points. A friend who knows your flaws and accepts your imperfections without being judgmental. A friend who, after a disagreement, has no problem saying, “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.” A friend who moves on without carrying grudges. I have and have had friends like that.

Unfortunately, like most people my age, I mourn the loss of many dear friends – male and female – who have preceded me in death, and I appreciate every day that I can spend time with those friends who are still around.

As author Edna Buchanon says, “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.”

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Aging Like Fine Wine

by on ·Aging, Birthdays, Gratitude, Nostalgia

I see it. There, on the horizon. Another birthday approaching in a couple of days.

God rest your soul, B.B.King, but this septuagenarian won’t need to play your upbeat Happy Birthday Blues song to lift my spirits. I’m good. My plan for B-Day is to express my gratitude to God for the blessing of seeing another birthday and then I’ll take a moment to reflect on my birthday’s past.

I’ve had some ho-hum birthdays when I did nothing to acknowledge the occasion except maybe draw a smiley face on my daily flip calendar and then turn the page. I also had some memorable birthdays like when my beau at the time treated me to a concert, dinner, or some other memorable event. (Eugene, I don’t know if you are reading this or if you are even aware that I have an online journal, but if you are, I want you to know that I still remember when you took me to a small supper club. Unbeknownst to me at the time, you slipped the waitress a note to give to the club host. The host then announced from the stage that it was my birthday and pointed to our table. The clubgoers turned toward us and sang Happy Birthday to me. It was a beautiful gesture, and I don’t know why I felt embarrassed, but I did. I just wanted to dissolve into a heap of chocolate in my chair faster than the ice melting in our drinks. But as you see, your thoughtfulness left a lasting impression because I still remember that unforgettable birthday evening.)

My earliest memorable birthday was my 16th. That was the only time I ever had a birthday party. It wasn’t a budget-busting gala like some contemporary parents provide for their 16-year-old daughters. Mine was a small event. I remember the round cake bought from Posin’s Bakery. It had “Happy Birthday Sweet 16” written on top in pink and yellow icing, encircled by 16 candles.

Along with the cake, we enjoyed Neapolitan ice cream, potato chips, and a few other party snacks.  The several friends who I invited, my siblings, and I celebrated the event in the basement of our family home, while my parents courteously remained upstairs.

We danced beneath pre-strung crepe decorations to the stack of 45 RPMs, which I had prearranged next to my dad’s record player. The lineup included many of my favorite tunes:  How Sweet It Is by Marvin Gaye; Bettye Everett & Jerry Butler ‘s Let It Be Me; My Guy by Mary Wells; Baby Love by the Supremes; and You’ve Lost that Lovin Feelin by the blue-eyed soul duo, The Righteous Brothers. That was when music was music and not just a compilation of noise, grunts, and offensive language.

I, like other Boomers, grew up in The Vietnam War era when gas cost 30 cents per gallon, a loaf of bread was 21 cents, and a US Postage Stamp, 5 cents. The Beatles were taking the world and America by storm. I owned at least two of their singles; A Hard Days Night and She Loves You (yeah, yeah, yeah).

A talented young boxer by the name of Cassius Clay (he later changed his name to Muhammed Ali) won the boxing world heavyweight championship from Sonny Liston. The Civil Rights Act was signed into law, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr received the Nobel Peace Prize, but that didn’t stop creative artists like The Last Poets and Gil Scott Heron from rapping politically charged lyrics about revolution.

Most pertinent to this lifelong Washingtonian was when the District of Columbia residents gained the right to vote in a presidential election for the first time. I remember that my dad was so proud to cast his first ballot. I don’t think he ever missed voting during a single election after that.

So many birthdays, so much history.

Although listening to music was one of my favorite pastimes then (and it still is), when I could scrape together enough money, I enjoyed attending shows at The Howard Theater, usually with my best friend, Cookie. She and I laughed ourselves silly while witnessing the antics of rising star comedians like Flip Wilson, Moms Mabley, and Richard Pryor. Back then, theater seats were available on a first-come basis. Cookie and I would rush to get to the Howard an hour before the box office opened so that we would be the first patrons standing in line to buy tickets. After purchasing them, we would race to the front of the auditorium and grab seats on the front row. When the screening of the movie previews and a serial film was over it was showtime. We would scream and act-a-fool (as the old folks would say it) during live performances by musical entertainers like Chuck Jackson, The Temptations, The Four Tops, The Supremes, The Marvelettes and so many others.

Sometimes I spent Saturday afternoons at the Sylvan Theater. If I wasn’t with Cookie, I went along with my parents and siblings. We enjoyed films like Imitation of Life, Sounder, and A Fistful of Dollars. By the time Blaxploitation films emerged, I was a bonafide movieholic and going to other movie houses in the city. I squirmed through films like Melvin Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song and cried at the end of Cooley High. (The latter remains one of my favorite films.)

So many birthdays. So many memories.

I’ve aged like fine wine. Over the years, the mature me has expanded my interests to include social activism and politics. Before writing these memories, I couldn’t resist digging up some birthday trivial and I found this. According to the MyBirthdayNinja site, in my previous life (for those who believe in such), I was a publisher and scribbler of ancient inscriptions. (Isn’t that interesting?)

No, you won’t hear me singing any birthday blues, because I see every birthday as a journey. Another landmark. I will treasure every year and enjoy every mile because on each B-Day that I am blessed to be above ground; I will be older than yesterday, but younger than tomorrow.

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Give Them Something to Talk About

by on ·Aging, The Way I See It

Steve Goodier says, “A sense of humor helps us to get through the dull times, cope with the difficult times, enjoy the good times and manage the scary times.”

Humor is not an antidote for everything, but like Goodier, I believe that doses of it help ward off physical and mental woes. Since I’ve been blessed, thus far, to age healthfully, I feel obligated to share with my geriatric peers some lighthearted tips for surviving happily ever after you’ve climbed the hill of life, rounded the top, and are repelling down the other side. Observing these 12 dos and don’ts will help the mature person waylay worries about aging and live life to the fullest.

  1. Don’t make a side-by-side comparison of your high school yearbook photo with the headshot you’ve recently taken at your grandchild’s wedding unless you want to hurt your feelings. No matter how your mirror and mind fool you into thinking that you look decades younger than you are, reality checks can be shocking.
  2. Do write on a notepad what you are going after in another room. Then, tear off the sheet and carry the note with you. If you forget to bring the note and can’t remember what you came into the room for, go back and get the note, if you can remember where you left it. If you can’t find the note, backtracking will often refresh your memory of what you went to get in the other room.
  3. Don’t store something important in a particular place in your home, thinking that you’ll remember where you put it. You won’t. Hide it in plain sight.
  4. Don’t fume over your arthritic knee or bursitis hip and then angrily shout, “What next?” As sure as you ask the universe that question, your next doctor’s visit will reveal gout, hypertension, cataracts or some other age-related ailments.
  5. Don’t pluck your gray hairs. Stop fighting them. After a while, it becomes a losing battle anyway. Just resolve to make hair color your new best friend.
  6. Don’t tempt fate by getting down on the floor to exercise, thinking that after you’ve finished you’ll jump right up. You won’t. If there is no one nearby who you can call to come and help you up, roll over on your side, get on your hands and knees, crawl to a chair or sturdy table and pull yourself up. A similar principle applies if you have been sitting for a long time and feel stiff when you rise from the chair. Sometimes this is embarrassing if you are in a room with other people. After standing, pretend that you are doing the robot dance until your joints feel limber enough to allow you to walk naturally.
  7. Don’t be embarrassed about taking a nap in the middle of the day. After spending over half your lifetime in gainful or unprofitable employment, you’ve earned the right to rest whenever you feel like it.
  8. If you are home alone and your favorite party song from back in the day comes on the radio, go ahead and dance like nobody’s watching. Just make sure you’re wearing your medical alert bracelet.
  9. When your architecture has gone from a brick house to a falling hut, stabilize it with appropriate props. And banish the cropped tops and spandex leggings from your wardrobe. Chose comfortable clothes over stylish ones. If you are tempted to dress like a juvenile, remember the Bonnie Raitt song “Give them something to talk about.” Don’t.
  10. Don’t curtail your love for books because you hate wearing reading glasses. Order books in large print.
  11. Don’t’ worry if your children gifted you with a smartphone, a smart TV, or a smart Fitbit watch, and you feel like an idiot because you can’t properly operate it. You have plenty of company.
  12. Don’t despair. Even as we age, in our minds, most of us remain essentially our younger selves. Aging isn’t just a number, it’s another challenge. The secret to aging gracefully is to remain young-in-heart and youthful in spirit. For as long as you can, continue doing the things that you enjoy even if others think that you look ridiculous. Eventually, you may lose your hair, your teeth, and your looks; just hold on to your faith and your sense of humor and you’ll be all right.
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