The blacker the berry….

African human skin mask opposite (Photo credit: LaggedOnUser)

 

There is an old saying, the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. That saying came to mind when I viewed a picture of one of my Facebook friends. The woman, her mother and her daughter are lovely and dark brown. The color of your favorite chocolate. So I thought of complimenting her about this but since I don’t know her all that well I was not certain how she would respond.

 

My mother is also a wonderful dark-complexioned woman Skin color can be a touchy subject in our community. I noticed that one of the supervisors at work has tanned a little and it looks good on her. For every person who has grown to accept his or her skin color there are others who wish that their color and the features that came with it were very different.

 

I saw a Marlon Riggs documentary about skin color in the African-American community and found it very enlightening. This despite the fact I was not a very young man when I saw it. I had read about the black and white dolls experiment that uncovered a preference for white dolls among the children subjected to racist inferior education. This experiment was referenced in the famous Brown  decision leading to school desegregation.

 

The black atheist Facebook groups I belong to regularly feature discussions about whether black women who use weaves in their hair have low self-esteem. This is not to mention those who add red, yellow or other colors to their hair. By going against the way our parents made us, we are somehow becoming self-haters. Even First Lady Michele Obama is not immune from these accusations. When she spoke recently at an important public meeting, a lot of people took to twitter to comment about her bangs. In 2013, a woman is being judged not by the content of her character, but by the content of her hair.

 

How can we truly demonstrate to others how much we value or ancestry? Is it through buying exclusively from African-American stores? Is it through dating people of our skin color? Is it through wearing African clothing and referring to ourselves as Africans? Notice that I have not referred to athletes and entertainers whose wealth exempts them from many of the rules that govern the rest of black America. I am talking about the accountant at your agency. The teacher at your school. And the woman who bags your groceries. These women and men you may encounter for brief moments while silently judging them. Do you feel that they are black enough for you and on what basis do you decide this? How will we know what black is and what black aint, to reference Marlon Riggs once more.

 

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My sister used the L word on me

I called home a few minutes ago to talk with my older sister and mother about Father’s Day. Our mother was for the most part a single parent. And a pretty good one. A lot of the positive elements of my character came from them and I appreciate that more than I thought I would when I was learning them. Today I talked about my success in paying bills and being grateful that they were the constant in my life.

Because of the time difference (I am an hour behind them) it was time for them to have dinner, so it was a quick call. My mother shared with me her struggles in keeping up with credit cards and how the companies used to call her first thing in the morning to pester her for their money until she paid them off and cut them up. From my sister I learned about metal beds, which are less expensive than wooden ones, which were the only kind that I thought existed.  When she was hanging up my sister caught me off guard saying “we love you as bunch back here.”

As families go we have never been the type to use that word. It’s easier for us to give advice than to use that four letter sometimes. So tonight I have that warm memory of their voices from my cell phone. I did talk about the spirituality discussion I had with my group of consumers but that was secondary. They are feeling good about me and that’s all that matters. Match.com is busy trying to find the right match for me but the most important match was with those two women back home.

Calling to tell your sister about the raise: priceless

After yesterday’s meeting, the Program Director stopped me in front of the copier to have me sign a paper. It was for my new pay raise. I was so surprised I couldn’t say anything. Except thank you, of course. I had recently signed up for health insurance and the Simple IRA. So it’s been a busy couple of weeks with company paperwork. On my old job none of these thing every crossed my mind. We didn’t even have direct deposit. Because of this, I was periodically calling home for help. But those calls have stopped. I fell silent for a little while However now I am keeping in touch a little more often.

Good news is very pleasant to hear. I try to call not during dinner and not during their hockey game. This is the birth order part of our relationship. I’m the once who is still working so I have to be aware of their habits. That’s considerate, which is something I have worked on over the years. Yesterday I had some intestinal problems that kept me away from the introductory yoga group. That will be a great thing to start doing.

There are so many signs of wellness: calling your sister with good news, doing well on the job, accomplishing a log-sought after goal, and others. Let’s start on them one at a time. That can be my bucket list.

 

 

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Middle child syndrome not so much

Apparently there is something called middle child syndrome and issues of birth order that were supposed to have affected me and my siblings. Oldest siblings are supposed to be bossy, which mine is; many US presidents and other famous people like actor Julia Roberts were middle children; the last born is indulged and spoiled.

However I thought that certain other factors such gender, the era and the city in which we were born played far more important roles in our lives. We were part of the baby boom generation in Buffalo which was deeply segregated. But here is where gender steps in because both of my sisters have lupus, an auto-immune deficiency in which their bodies began attacking them when they should have been in the prime of their lives. My older sister had married her high school sweetheart and had two children.She was very active in skiing and work until the lupus  forced her to apply for disability. Although the disease has not killed her, it is very expensive, requiring many different medications. Her success in her later years has come through guiding her sons into manhood and becoming a grandmother.

Gender was very important for me and my younger brother as we were the facing the draft and the Vietnam War. As the older of the two, I had an advantage in that I had a gift for writing and when I applied myself, I was a good student. I also was in an era when college was relatively inexpensive. So even though I had setbacks while struggling with mental illness I was able to survive the military, finish school and start a professional career. It was necessary to leave Buffalo when I did in 1980 as the city began a long and painful economic decline. Many of my friends also left.

My writing has helped me enter several different careers including my present one as a peer support specialist. I have seen a few generations of actual and pretend nephews. And I have satisfaction from seeing them struggle with many of the same things that I experienced.

My younger brother was not as fortunate. He had a learning disability that was undiagnosed. We discovered much too late that he could barely read or write, a gift of the school system that simply passed him along. His mental illness was too powerful to overcome combined with the effects of drug use. He was struggling at a time when I was also at risk. Ultimately I had to save myself. Our mother told him to go into the military which was the natural place for saving young black men or killing them. Just before his scheduled enlistment he drowned under mysterious circumstances.

My younger sister was the baby and has 3 children of her own. One of her children, a son, has lupus. She was thew only one of us to move south. While my older sister and I have always been able to count on Mom, our younger sister has always struggled with her. As a result she was cut off several year ago. She drives a school bus. It’s very likely that her mental illness is an underlying factor.

So, to me, life has not been any crystal staircase. We have all been affected by race, mental illness, segregation and the era in which we grew up. Our mother’s ability to provide for us was a strong protective factor. She passed along a strong work ethic. I’m glad that we were spaced a number of years apart but I honestly don’t think that being the second of four was that important.

At this stage my ability to communicate, my writing, my interest in people and my good health are the most important factors. But I would be interested in hearing from others about how they feel birth order affected them.

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Having a good holiday

I have enjoyed a year  of paid holidays and you know I could really get used to this idea. I started working as a certified peer specialist in the first week of June 2012. That was shortly after the Memorial Day holiday. Later that week I was at the company retreat. Thus I did not enjoy my first paid holiday until several weeks later with the 4th of July.  I still did not have a vehicle so my mobility was quite limited. And there were uncertainties about my living situation. I concerned that the honeymoon was ending with my landlord and things were about to spiral downward.

That’s not a good way to have a holiday. This year, I was able to call my family and learn that my mother was recuperating from minor surgery. I took a friend out to dinner Saturday. I bought a six-pack of Fat Tire beer, which is a locally produced Belgium ale, very delicious. And I enjoyed shopping for and eating delicious food. These are things that belong in a good holiday.

I reviewed the prospectus for my new IRA and listened to National Public Radio. One of the highlights of my day was during a trip to the grocery store. I spotted a very striking looking older African-American man  sharply dressed and looking like he was in his early 60s. Later on, I found myself in line right behind him at the checkout line and started up a conversation. I learned that he was 75 years old and was very conscious about his style of clothing. “I may be old but that doesn’t mean I have to look old.”

And that’s exactly the point of aging gracefully and living life to the fullest. You have to work at creating a life worth living but the rewards can be very fulfilling. that’s what anyone, regardless of their age or physical or mental condition would want and it’s certainly what I’m striving to achieve.

 

 

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Sometimes, dating

I had resisted  a friend for several weeks when she asked me about going out together. I ignored her calls and text messages because I was pretty certain we were not compatible. Yesterday I decided one date couldn’t hurt so I took her to a Chinese buffet I had read about on Yelp.

Sometimes, dating reminds you of unpleasant experiences, seeing someone with whom you have nothing in common and while there are no disasters, it is clear the two of you should not be doing anything social together.

Sometimes dating reminds me why my sisters and I are all divorced. We all made bad romantic choices. Partly because like the little cookie that came from the factory, a little piece had broken off us. We remained certain that we could be just as sweet as a regular cookie. Well, we’re still waiting. It’s hard to find someone who appreciates our particular brand.

Sometime dating reminds me how glad I am that I did not make certain choices. I avoided getting involved with women before I was emotionally ready. I got away from drugs before they took over me and stayed away from them.

Sometimes dating makes me appreciate myself that much more. I worked hard to improve my life this past year.  I learned a lot of new skills and I am always being trained to do more. If I had remained where I was at this time last year I would have felt stagnant like a glass of water you shouldn’t drink. Ironically the woman I went out with yesterday showed me the wisdom of my choices.

Sometimes dating is a long process. It took many years before I was at a point where I felt I could marry a woman. Only to discover I had many unresolved issues that I needed to resolve.

Sometimes dating is more than the creaking of bed springs, sitting together in church, holding hands and kissing in the streets or a lot of other illusions I once saw. It is a period of learning to trust. One of my readers wrote about enjoying my column with a spouse. That was heartwarming and made me think there’s spouse out there for me.

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Happy Memorial Day or Why is his Skin So Smooth?

I’m hoping to throw off my 1 or 2 devoted readers by using these odd titles for my blog entries. Obviously nobody would write a blog combining Memorial Day with smooth skin. Except a local oddball. Hah. These oddballs are always getting involved in stuff.

I sent my sister a David Sanborn cd last week so I called and asked her whether she had received it.  Yes, it did arrive, and she has listened to it with our mother. However, the case was broken. I will add a little packing material with the next item I send her and mom. I told her that even though my hair is almost completely grey, many people believe I am much younger than my true age. This seems to be due to my very smooth skin. At times I go through periods where I am constantly using lotion but in reality the lotion just adds a lot of oil that I have to wipe away.

It appears that this is a family trait. I had trouble guessing my mother’s age because she always had the same smooth skin. I think this is a wonderful trait. I want to be as young as possible for as long as I can. There’s a woman at the First Unitarian Society who is as wrinkled as one can possibly be. When I saw her for the first time, I guessed she was well into her 80s.

I’m not sure what to make of this other than to enjoy being part of my family. We may have other issues but we’ve got good skin. BTW I also told my sister about my signing up for the company IRA, health insurance and life insurance. She was glad. When you get past the early romantic part of being in a family there are the practical issues of having savings, taking care of yourself, and being part of the whole that make your family bonds grow. They make you love your family all over again.

Some of my readers have wrinkles, others are probably in your 20s but all of us are from families. Within those families, it is almost certain there is a veteran within your generation or the previous. One of these days there is going to be a celebration of how veterans made war unnecessary. But until then there is Memorial Day. It is a time for Family, peace and hope. Celebrate as you see fit.

 

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Collecting on my inheritance

NAMI claims that mental illnesses are biological brain diseases. Just recently my mother said that my sister had inherited her mental illness from mom. Mom had also passed along lupus to her two daughters. Which leads me to speculate what I inherited and from whom. But there is the statement promulgated by the women’s movement that biology is not destiny.

1. I inherited my dark complexion.

2. I inherited my height.

3. I inherited my drinking although I did not become an alcoholic.

4. I probably inherited some of my intelligence.

5. I inherited my eyesight (all of us wear glasses.)

6. I inherited my looks.

The question is, what did I do with them and how did they become me?

1. I probably inherited my hair from my father.

2. He might have been a drinker, according to mom.

Oops, I slipped back into the inheritance mode.

I believe that the time that I grew up and the things I saw my mother do going out to work often in hospital settings had a profound influence. I was not fated to be hospitalized but to be a helper for others.

My intelligence seems to be related to problem solving. When I was at my worst I could not sit down and think how I got into a problem and how I would be able to escape. The solutions that developed surprised me. I certainly had no idea about being a peer support specialist. The only mental health workers I knew about were social workers years ago.

My general health probably came from my mother, since I have lived far longer than my father.

But what did I do with those years? I don’t know where my writing originated. As a child, I wrote poetry, using pen and paper. Later I graduated to typewriters. But who would have thought I would be sharing my ideas over something called the Internet?

The scientists are hard at work trying to find the genes linked to various diseases, including mental illness. But I would not want to change even if I found out about the strange factors affecting my personality. I am better talking with people in the community than I was behind a library desk.

I am assured that every day will be different and the people I assist will respond in new ways. My co-workers will display new quirks. I will look at people’s strengths differently.  The next 30 years  and the last many years are all on me. Let’s see how good a poker player I can be. It’s not all in the genes.

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Our family cookies

It is hard to imagine waking up and knowing that my mother and older sister were gone. Deceased. I would rather think about the things they do that I appreciate. This comes after I talked with them yesterday, Mother’s Day. They are planning to bake me some cookies. In all the places I have lived they have always sent me some cookies. When I was in the military, when I was in New York after I was released, when I was living in my home, when I had retreated to a vets center and just a few months ago for Christmas there are their cookies.

For me I most enjoy oatmeal raisin. This set of cookies will be different because Grace, my great niece, will be at her grandmother’s side saying “I can do it.” I picture them in my mind’s eye aided by the photos I have of them in my office. Though relationships and even marriage had faltered and crashed, family has remained.

In a way it’s a little childish, getting cookies for the summer. Here I am well into my 90s and these women and this young girl want to fuss over me. How ridiculous! Apart from the cookie story my mother told me that one of her sisters had wanted to raise me for her own. Horrors. She lived in Cleveland. I might have grown up cheering for Jim Brown and some other sports figures from that dreadful city. Goodness knows what kind of cook she might have been, too. She should have just gone to the Sears store when she had a chance.

Well, things turned out for the best. And we will see what happens will these 3 generation cookies.

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Who am I and where do I belong?

I am at the NAMI Wisconsin annual conference in Madison and I decided to check out the business center because I am through with meetings and mental health for the day. I have heard some good information about the Veterans Administration, Supported Employment and Bipolar Disorder. I also literally ran away from a woman who was attempting to tell me about borderline personality disorder. Having been in a relationship with a woman who had that diagnosis, I was pretty much overdosed.

I met people at the conference from Milwaukee who I should have met back home. But as always my mind drifted back to a coulpe of questions it has been asking me for many years. The two questions in the title of this entry. It has been something I have learned in the negative, through uncomfrtable feelings of not belonging and wondering whether anyone else shared them and where they originated.

Quite often I defined myself through my occupation, so I was a librarian, a child care administrator, or a grant writer. Sometimes during periods of unemployment I lacked an identity. I was isolated and did not have a direction. Now there is the even greater temptation to say that I am a certified peer specialist. But is that all that I am? How am I performing in my other roles? Is this all that I am? I sometimes think when people are judging me that these people have no right to do so because they have no idea who I really am.

There was a period years ago when I said that my name meant He Who Perseveres. More recently I say that I am a local oddball without defining those terms.  I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

What is more true than ever is that I am learning to become the persn I was meant to be. I have been opening doors that lead to the secrets of those feelings and saying, yes I do belong. Each step of the way I get a little closer and I people saying thank goodness, Kenyatta is here. So I am learning to belong. What took me so long? How long did it take you?

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