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

Mother’s (Birth) Day and other Special Occasions

by on ·Family, Holidays, Nostalgia, Parenting and Grandparenting, Religion

Had my mother lived she would have turned 91 years old on her forthcoming birthday, October 22nd. Instead, she slipped into eternity early on a warm summer morning four years ago.

I’ve seen where many people wish Happy Birthday, Happy Anniversary or post other heartfelt greetings to their deceased loved ones on social media; and if that works for them, that’s fine. But I can’t help but wonder – why?

When my mother’s birthday arrives in three weeks, I won’t wish her Happy Birthday on Facebook nor will I post it in any other public place. Because if the Bible is to be believed – that the dead know nothing (Ecclesiastes 9:5) – then mother won’t know that I wish her a Happy Birthday anyway. And as much as she expressed her disdain for social media when she was alive – by the off-chance that there is Facebook in the hereafter, she surely would have nothing to do with it.

My mother’s chosen religion forbids their members from acknowledging birthdays and other so-called pagan holidays; so when she was alive wishing her happiness on such an occasion often led to a repetitive interchange between us.

Mother would say, “You know I don’t celebrate (whatever the holiday in question).” And I would protest, “But I do.”  The conversation usually ended there, until the next time. Yet, to my pleasure, she never refused to accept the cards or gifts that I gave her on those days. And she always (perhaps begrudgingly, although she didn’t show it) acknowledged the gesture with a polite, “Thank you.”

I regretted the fact that mother would not allow me to take her out to dinner, to a stage play, or someplace special on her birthday, but it bothered me more on Mother’s Day. Even before I became a mother, I relished Mother’s Day and considered the day to be a special occasion for honoring and showing reverence to all mothers and especially good mothers like mine.

Since my siblings and I were adults when mother decided to convert her faith, I have wonderful memories to cherish of earlier times of family get-togethers at my parent’s home on holidays like the Fourth of July (Can you say crab fest?), Thanksgiving, and Christmas. And for a few years, even after my siblings and I married and had families of our own, we’d all bring our kids to the grandparents home on festive occasions. Unfortunately, those happy get-togethers dwindled and eventually stopped; too soon.

In three weeks when mother’s birthday arrives, I won’t publicize it on social media. I will acknowledge it privately. And before the day is over, I know I will smile with tear-filled eyes as I remember a recurring dialog that she and I shared many times in the years before she died.

“You know I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

“But I do.”

 

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Me Too: Why Women Hesitate to Speak Up

by on ·Opinion, Politics, The Way I See It

Watching the Kavanaugh hearing this morning is difficult for me, as was the Clarence Thomas vs. Anita Hill testimonies. It is resurrecting memories from an evening in the 1970s when I had an unfortunate encounter with a person in an authoritative position who I once thought was a friend. As I tussled with him and told him numerous times to stop, I interjected what I thought would jog him to his senses, “I will report you to the police.” “Go ahead,” he sneered. “Do you think they will believe you or me?” The only thing I know that stopped the attempted rape was my silent prayers to God, because for no other reason that I can think of my perpetrator suddenly released me and left. I never talked to or saw him again after that. But if he is ever a candidate for a prominent position and I have the opportunity I would indeed speak up about his character as I remember it that evening.

Until this day, the only person I ever told about that incident was my best friend. I didn’t even tell my mother. Sadly, my confidant died a few years ago. I will always remember and appreciate when I telephoned him, in tears, and told him what had happened how supportive he was. “Report him to the police. Right now. I will go with you.” He said. I was a young, divorced mother of two, and as Dr. Ford said, “terrified” so I never reported the attempted sexual assault.

Because I didn’t report it, doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. So for the holier-than-thou women and men who might be judging Dr. Ford (and other women in the me-too movement), I say this. Women do not forget things like that. Not in days, weeks, years, or decades. The terror of such an encounter never leaves you. So, if you are a woman or man standing in judgment, I pray that you are never a victim of an assault of any kind.

Whenever I hear about women, who have been assaulted and remained silent because they felt that they would not be believed I feel like crying.

Decades ago, one of my cousins was raped in her junior high school. My mother told me about the attack, and I’ve never forgotten that conversation. I was shocked that such a thing could happen inside a public school and more surprised that it could happen to someone I knew. At that time you didn’t hear about things like that occurring inside a school. Although my cousin and I are occasionally in touch, I have never mentioned it to her, but I do not doubt that she is still dealing with it. I will not name her here. If she chooses to tell about the incident, it is her story to tell, and I will leave that to her.

As Former Prosecutor, Cynthia Alksne said on MSNBC this morning, during a break in the hearing, “When you are the victim you remember the trauma.”

 

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Gimme a Head with Hair:  My Own

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture, Opinion, Styles and Fads

I think every woman should have a daughter. Take my daughter, for instance. Some might say that when she was a tot, she was a mini-me. But as children do when they grow older, she came into her own. And now the tables have turned. Wherein I used to advise her about fashions and hairstyles, now she encourages me to become more contemporary. That’s difficult to do when you are comfortable being old-school and not much for fakery.

Mind you; I’ve worn my hair in a short afro for what seems like a hundred years; except for a few weeks last year when I deviated from my natural and decided to try something different. Recently, I stepped out of my zone again and accompanied my daughter to her favorite weave salon. After we left there, she jokingly told me that I would probably not be allowed back in that shop, because of the way I “coached” the hairdresser working on my head.

“No, that’s too much hair.” “Uh-uh. That’s too long, cut it down.” “Twist it more to the left.” “I need a style with a bang to cover my high brow.” And those were just some of my well-meaning directives.

Undoubtedly, the thought of grabbing some clippers, shearing off every strand on my head and then saying, “How do you like it now?” occurred to the stylist more than once. But, during the two hours that I sat in her chair while she cornrowed and weaved until I was satisfied (or so she thought), she was professional and patient. And I’m sure the tip I handed her afterward made enduring my complaining worth it.

Need I say that I finally yielded to the suggestion of the stylist and left the shop with a style that I believed had me looking more like Whoopi Goldberg than myself? I had no problem with the cornrows in the back. That’s what I asked for. However, the stylist could not get the front of my hair to look the way it did in a photo that I showed her. In fairness, she tried, but whenever she thought she was done and said, “Nice.” I shook my head and replied, “Ugh. Not so.”

Finally, after growing tired of her snipping and clipping, I relented. The stylist seemed pleased (or relieved). My daughter said it was a nice do. And I felt … well, let’s say that the hairdo is not me. To add insult to injury, my daughter snapped a photo of Whoopi-Me while we were on the way home.

Afterthought:  Years ago, after I left the workforce, I freed myself from being a slave to facial makeup. Just like my daily commute, the every morning application of face paint has become another thing gladly left in my past. Now, I only wear makeup on rare occasions. However, while sitting at my dining room table grumbling over dissatisfaction with my hairdo, even with it swept to one side, and contemplating what to do with it, I had a lightbulb moment.

I decided to see if makeup would make me feel better about my hairstyle, so I applied some. Low and behold, as it often does for most women, the makeup transformed me from I hate it – to – I can live with it. As you can see from the before photos (Numbers 1 and 2) and the three subsequent photos, I look like I feel better about the hairdo. And I do. Nevertheless, I am certain that sometime sooner more so than later, I will wake up one morning and decide that I’ve had enough. I’ll want the real me back, and my ultra ego will stop humming the song from the musical Hair. “Darlin’, give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair.”

 

 

 

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Reflections from the Other Side of the Hill

by on ·Baby Boomers, General, Lifestyle and Culture, Opinion, Retirement, The Way I See It

With retirement and advancing age comes the blessing of no longer having to play the games. What games? You ask. There are many. Some of them are easily eliminated when you are, as people like to refer to it, “over the hill.” But I will reflect on a couple.

Let’s start with working outside the home. When the opportunity to take an early retirement presented itself, I took it, albeit with some reluctance and much apprehension. Now, nearly ten years later, I consider myself blessed to have experienced an early retirement. Unfortunately, some people don’t live to see those carefree days.

Unless I fall-down on my luck, I can kiss-off job interviews, the workforce, and PITA (pain in the ass) bosses. Clarification is required here. Not all bosses are PITA. During my years spent in corporate America, I had some wonderful managers. I can honestly say that I loved at least one of them like a father. I worked for that man for ten years until he retired after which I found myself back in the labor pool swimming with the sharks and the backstabbers. Don’t get me wrong, I mingled with many good-hearted and wonderful people, too, and made some life-long friends.

Some of my worse memories are of being in a subordinate position to a couple of obviously unqualified managers whose negative character traits including racism and sexism were as evident as dog poop on the sidewalk. My job history and years of watching the gamers play taught me that just because someone has a prominent job title does not mean that he or she is qualified, proficient or principled. Intelligence is not always a requirement for a high position either. Anyone with the right backing and a base, no matter how unstable, can land the job. You could even become president.  Males are not always the culprits in the workforce either. Some women with authority can be more vicious than men.

I entered the workforce as a volunteer candy-striper at the long ago demolished Freedman’s Hospital, and I remained in the labor force for nearly 50 years. During the time before my escape to retirement freedom, I had some dream jobs and some duds. Now, I have no more demanding bosses, annoying co-workers, performance reviews, office politics, and boring staff meetings. And I have the opportunity to work from home when I want to.

While retirement brings some challenges – such is life – I find that the advantages outweigh the disadvantages and as with everything maintaining a positive attitude is key.

Another game that I am happy to be out of is the dating game. Regardless, of the present-day dangers, the dating game is fun, exciting, and deemed essential for Gen Xers and Millennials. But for many mature adults with whom I have discussed the subject and who are old enough to remember when it was safer to wade into the dating pool, courting now is more hassle than it is worth. Even if my near 20-year relationship should end for whatever reason, (some things like death and taxes are beyond our control), then I am done with dating. If I have learned nothing else in all of my years, it is that I can be quite content by myself, doing my own thing.

There are numerous other rules of the game that can be tossed aside in retirement. I don’t have to worry about the routine of going to bed early or setting an alarm clock to get up in the morning. Barring unforeseen circumstances, I can get up when I want, go where I want to go, do what I want to do. I don’t have to put on work clothes every day, and I don’t have to deal with a daily commute and rush-hour traffic.

Above all, I have time to pursue the things that I enjoy, like learning new things, furthering my education, exercising, reading and writing.

My bucket list is rather short. It is not a copy of someone else’s objectives:  travel the world, ride a hot air balloon, participate in running with the bulls in Spain, or hike the Appalachian Trail. Topping my list is (1) remain spiritual, (2) maintain a positive attitude and (3) avoid letting negative people ruin my day. You see, what I mean? My list is uncomplicated and original, just like me.

More to come on the games of life in future posts.

 

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Sleepless — When the Sandman Does Not Cometh

by on ·General, Health

Who hasn’t had one of those nights when you either could not get to sleep or could not stay asleep? This occasional insomniac recently had one of those evenings, and I recorded my troubles in my diary.

Dear Diary,

It is now 4:12 am Thursday. I went to bed at 11:30 last night. Before I closed my eyes, I glanced at the clock. It showed 12:15 am. I must have dozed because when I next looked at the clock, I was surprised and perturbed to see that it was 1 am. After that, I was sleepless – only not in Seattle. No matter how I tried, with thoughts racing through my mind like a runaway train, I could not turn off my brain, relax and slide back to slumberland. When the futility of tossing and turning for the next few hours produced no palpable results, I decided to get up.

Although this sleep disruption occurs infrequently, I am getting too old to be pulling all-nighters. When I was younger, I could stay up until the crack of dawn and then go to work the next day, no problem. As long as I had a cup of coffee on my desk, I was good. But, alas, being caffeinated doesn’t do it for me anymore as far as staying awake. I can drink a cup – or two – of the strongest brew and still crawl into bed and sleep through the night. I didn’t even drink coffee on Wednesday.

When I am trying not to think about anything except sleep my thoughts are all over the place. I ponder the chaotic state of the country and how race relations seem to have reverted to the way it was before the civil rights movement. I worry about how Godless and mean-spirited people are and the lack of civility in society. I think about events from my past and wonder about things that might occur in the future. I think about people whom I’ve known and loved who are no longer alive. An idle mind may be the devil’s workshop, but a sleepy head is a garage full of disorderly thoughts.

Dragging myself out of bed, I walk to the dining room, open my laptop on the table near the window, and here I am. It’s you and me, Diary. Back in the day journaling with paper and pen was the way to go. Now keeping an electronic diary is much more convenient and easily secured with a password. So while the rest of the world is sleeping, I am typing away.

My inanimate companion, here are some of the things that I’ve done or thought about doing during my sleepless state this evening.

I ate a banana. I read somewhere that bananas help promote sleep. We shall see.

I considered cleaning the bathroom. Changed my mind. Moving the scrubbing pail around and splashing water might wake the sleeping dead. Not a good idea in the middle of the night.

Turned on the TV. Low volume. A slasher movie is on. For about 15 seconds, I stare wide-eyed at a blood and guts scene. That’s more conducive to a nightmare than restful sleep. After channel surfing through a few infomercials, I turn off the set.

Listening to an audiobook usually lulls me to sleep, so I try it. After a few chapters, I start to feel drowsy and return to bed. Immediately, upon hitting the sheets, I began fighting with my pillow. Finally, I land a punch that puts the cushion into a comfortable position. I rest my head on it, close my eyes and began to drift off. Just as I am crossing the threshold to dreamland, my mate starts snoring like an ATV bike on a dirt road. Are you kidding me!

I grow tired of shaking him, only to have him obligingly roll over before the snoring resumes. I’m out of there.

So here I sit. As usual, the air conditioner in the unit of my upstairs neighbor is running and dripping water that sounds like huge raindrops splashing onto my AC directly beneath it. I love this place to have lived here for 42 years, but expecting complete contentment in a tenement is a pipe dream, even when you are part owner of the property.

The microwave clock shows 5:45. How did 90 minutes pass so fast? Leaving my elbows on the table, I raise my hands to my face, interlock my fingers and rest my chin on my hands. With my eyes closed, the only thing I am aware of is the drip, drip, drip of the water splashing on my AC.

And then, a thought hits me. Log in to Facebook. Surely, I will see the little green light indicating that some of my friends are also online and I’ll inbox someone so we can chat. Wouldn’t you know it, only one green light on and that person is someone I don’t know well enough to begin chatting in the middle of the night.

It’s almost 6 am. In another hour or so I would have been getting up anyway; that is if I had slept. What’s the use in hitting the sack now? I’ll be a mess tomorrow, I mean today. Whatever. My yesterday came straight into today with no rest in between. I’m sure that around noon I’ll feel the repercussions of a sleepless night. Or I will still be sitting here, typing. My eyes will grow heavy as sleep creeps up on me. My head will slowly bow causing my upper body to continue leaning forward until suddenly my face falls flat on the keyboard and I will … zzzzzzzzzzz.

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