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| 9/30-10/2 issue of USA WEEKEND |
To find a hard copy of the article, check your local newspaper.
Friday, September 30, 2011
What he said
To find a hard copy of the article, check your local newspaper.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Lessons from Mr. Brown's 8th grade history class, Part 1
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| Mr. Brown, a few years later |
Mr. Brown required everyone to read one non-fiction book every six weeks and give an oral book report. For those of us who weren't ready, we always begged Chris H. to go first because he could spin a yarn about his book for at least half the class time. You didn't dare try to fake your way through the book report. It was better to tell Mr. Brown you lacked 100 pages than get caught lying about finishing. Rich learned that one the hard way when Mr. Brown backed him into a corner about why the Nazis only surrounded Dunkirk on three sides during the battle there. The tongue lashing that followed was brutal, but fair, and no one ever attempted that again. By the way, the Nazis couldn't surround Dunkirk on the fourth side "because the Nazis couldn't walk on water!" Turns out Dunkirk was a river town, which Rich would have realized if he'd read the book.
None of us really wanted to read non-fiction, and I didn't want to read anything. I was always a slow reader, so the idea of finishing anything more than a short story terrified me. I explained this to Mr. Brown, and he gave me a book he knew I'd love that was several hundred pages long. He had me read 200 pages per six weeks until I finished it. Subsequently, I lost my fear of pages and found my love of reading.
The late eighties were rife with movies about Vietnam. At least once a decade the sixties come back in style, and we were all intrigued. (That's pretty excited for teenagers.) Mr. Brown wouldn't be teaching us about Vietnam era American history. Since in 1988 was less than 20 years from the end of the war, he said it wasn't history yet. We did talk a bit about that era though, and Mr. Brown introduced us all to Jimi Hendrix. He brought in a record of Star Spangled Banner from Woodstock, and we were mesmerized. We'd never heard anything like it before. I was in love -- again, thanks to Mr. Brown.
We often did experiments in class. They'd be the product of some tangent we'd start. Once he wanted to show that personal space is relative to gender, as well as the individual and the relationship between the two people in each others' space. He started with the boys by taking two guys who were good friends, then he repeated the set up with myself and my best friend. We got progressively closer to each other side to side, back to back, then face to face. The girls had very little personal space and were not uncomfortable being in close proximity to each other. The guys were a little more distant. It was interesting.
Sometimes, our experiments were to make a point. For instance, Mr. Brown once had several of us take turns doing this endurance test. Your back is against the wall with your hips and knees bent at 90 degree angles like you're sitting very straight in a chair. It's only the strength of your legs that keeps you in that position. Then he had us put our arms straight out in front of us, palms up supporting our history book. This is not a comfortable position. He had some random people in class see how long they could go, and then, asked us who we thought could hold out the longest. One of the captains of the football team was in our class, and of course, we all picked him. Then, he asked which girl we thought could hold out the longest, and they picked me. I ended up holding on longer than the captain of the football team. It was only about three and a half minutes, but it was the longest three and a half minutes of my life, thus far. His point? You'll find the greatest strength in the places you don't expect, and endurance is as much mental as it is muscle. How does that relate to history? The projection of strength is often enough to keep others at bay, and never underestimate the little guy with something to fight for.
We were each asked to write an essay on which side we'd have taken in the Revolutionary War. Mr. Brown had been assigning this to students for years, and students were usually split 50/50 on their choices. I was the first person to ever declare themselves Switzerland though. I could see both sides and was convinced there had to be a more diplomatic way to solve the problem. In the end, Mr. Brown explained that by not choosing a side I was the enemy to both sides. It was my first lesson in "if you're not with us, you're against us." Sometimes, you have to pick a side.
I was lucky to have had a number of fantastic teachers who positively impacted my life. Mr. Brown has remained one of my favorites, and the lessons he taught have remained relevant even in my adult life.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Women, read this!
At her invitation, I've stolen @WhyMommy's post. The more women who see this the better. Please check out her blog as well.
Inflammatory breast cancer
We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.
Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.
Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.
There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.
Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.
P.S. Feel free to steal this post too. I’d be happy for anyone
in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions
asked. Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place
barefoot. I don’t care. But I want the word to get out. I don’t want
another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare
at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis? Is it a
rash? Am I overreacting? This cancer moves FAST, and early detection
and treatment is critical for survival.Thank you.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
His name was Herschel
Growing up, I spent a lot of time in Ball Hollow with my MaMau and Granddaddy. My aunt Kathy and uncle Roy lived "next door" -- a half mile down the road. My playmates were my sister, Lyndsey, and cousins. Our playgrounds were rolling hillsides and hay fields and pastures and barns. Being outside from sun up to sun down was our goal, and the dirtier we were when we came home, the more fun we'd had.
Granddaddy got up before dawn every morning, and MaMau made breakfast. During the week, he worked as a supervisor at the rock crusher. In the evenings he tended to his cows and on weekends he worked on the farm. My older cousins, both boys, worked with Grandddaddy on the weekends. Lyndsey and I, nor my younger cousin Brad, had to work, but we stayed busy. Probably a bit busier than anyone would have preferred. Other than my cousins and uncle, there was one other man who helped Granddaddy. His name was Herschel.
Herschel didn't drive, so Granddaddy would go get him right after breakfast. I remember at the time thinking Herschel must have been ancient, but then again, I thought my grandfather was ancient, too. Herschel was probably only a bit older than my grandfather, but his years had been harder than Granddaddy's. Granddaddy may have had to leave school after the 8th grade, fight in WWII in Germany and do manual labor his whole life, but Herschel was a black man born and raised in the South. More specifically, he lived in Pulaski, TN, the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan.
I don't know the details of Herschel's personal struggle. I was too young really to grasp what life must have been like for him, but here's what I remember about Herschel. I don't remember the chronology of these stories, but they were all when we were in grade school. I was two years older than Lyndsey and Brad, and I couldn't have been more than eight years old.
Herschel was a hard worker. He could dig post holes so deep, so fast, and he could toss bales of hay into the back of a truck as if they weighed nothing. He was always quiet, but he'd hum while he worked. He's also the only person to ever live who is more afraid of snakes than me. We thought Herschel hung the moon, and he's light up, smiling whenever we came running, yelling his name.
For my grandfather, everything had a place and was supposed to be just so. He kept the barn cleaner than some keep their house, and his garden never had any weeds -- although he couldn't plant in a straight row to save his life. His cows were well taken care of. But what I remember most when it comes to Granddaddy were his fences. He couldn't stand to have a fence sagging or in the case of the front yard, fading. Their house was halfway up a hill, and the front yard was the size of a football field. A three-plank fence went all the way around, and once a year, it got painted, always a brick red color.
Granddaddy would have his truck in the yard, and as they checked all the cross pieces and then painted them, they'd move the truck down the fence with them with all the tools, paint and cold drinking water. Now, Granddaddy didn't want us kids painting. He figured, probably correctly, that we'd have more paint on ourselves than the fence. But that didn't mean we weren't right there and into everything. We climbed all over the truck, inside and out, and finally, we wanted to see what the underside of it looked like -- while it was moving.
We knew to be careful, so as not to get run over, so we laid down in the very middle of the wheel base and stayed very still the next time Granddaddy got ready to move the truck. I can still remember what it looked like as the truck very slowly inched down the next section of fence, parts moving, mud everywhere. When our feet started to come out the back end, Herschel saw us, and yelled so loud that Granddaddy stalled out the truck. "Mr. Dude, them kids!!!" MaMau had been watching out the kitchen window, and ran out to the front yard just as Granddaddy and Herschel were pulling us feet first out from under the truck. They were shaking, and when we realized how much trouble we were in, we started shaking, too.
Granddaddy never laid a finger on us in our whole lives, and the maddest any of us ever saw him was when we'd worried or scared him. MaMau on the other hand was not above blistering our backsides, and here she was coming. Granddaddy was yelling half at us, half at God about how we could have been killed. Herschel just sat down shaking his head. Needless to say, that was the last we were allowed around them while they painted, and the last time any of us sat comfortably for the rest of the day. MaMau wouldn't let us out of her sight.
I remember another occasion when we were playing around the truck while they were digging post holes on the hill behind the house. It was a hot summer day, and Granddaddy was always telling us to be careful and watch where we played. Some nasty creatures come out in Tennessee hollows in summer. Out of no where, Herschel grabbed all three of us in his arms and tossed us tumbling into the back of the truck on top of tools and anything else that happened to be back there. We thought Herschel had lost his mind. Granddaddy heard us screaming, and turned as we all came up looking out of the truck bed to see Herschel grab a snake out of the grass and snap it like a whip, killing it with his bare hands.
Granddaddy made sure we were OK and then made Herschel sit down in the truck. He later told MaMau it was the whitest he'd ever seen a black man. Every bit of color drained out of Herschel's face and he nearly fainted when he realized he'd just grabbed a snake. We were so worried about Herschel and kept trying to check on him. Granddaddy took us all back to the house, and MaMau made us go inside. They looked at the snake and found it was a copperhead -- an incredibly poisonous and aggressive snake. It would have bitten us without provocation. We'd been playing three feet from it when Herschel grabbed us.
It wasn't until later that Granddaddy told us Herschel was fine and he'd only been scared to death because he was so afraid of snakes. If we'd thought Herschel was cool before he was something close to a god after that. We thanked him over and over, as did my grandparents. For Herschel's part, he just nodded and said he'd never let anything happened to them kids. He also wanted to go home. He'd had enough for one day.
Every afternoon when Granddaddy and the "men" came in for lunch, MaMau would fix Herschel a plate and take it to him on the back porch. She managed the cafeteria at one of the local schools, so she'd brought trays home for Herschel's lunch. Of course, we thought Herschel hung the moon, so we wanted to eat with him, so MaMau brought trays home for us, too. We'd sit on the back porch and eat, and when we were done, Herschel would pull out a pack of gum -- Wrigley's Spearmint -- and give us each a piece. It never failed; Herschel always had gum.
When it was cold out, Herschel would take the steps from the carport and go eat in the basement to stay warm. My grandparents' house had a wood furnace, and sitting next to it was so warm and had this lovely smell of burning wood. Occasionally, MaMau would run us out of the basement to give Herschel some peace and quiet. He never complained or scolded any of us, but thinking back, I have to think he appreciated MaMau's intervention some times.
When we got further along into grade school, I started questioning why Herschel never came in the house. I thought it was Granddaddy who wouldn't let him come in. Lord knows I'd grown up around enough people who freely used the "N" word or were otherwise racist in their speech or actions. Hell, the Klan still marched around the square in Pulaski every year when I was a kid -- a day none of us were allowed to go to town. I couldn't imagine why else Herschel wouldn't come in. I got really mad at Granddaddy one day and told him he should be ashamed of Herschel eating outside. Granddaddy didn't say a thing and walked out of the house.
Later Momma and MaMau sat us down and explained.
It wasn't Granddaddy that kept Herschel out of the house. To the contrary, Herschel wouldn't come inside. He said his Momma would "roll over in her grave if he ever caught him in a white man's house." Granddaddy loved Herschel and welcomed him any time into his home. Turns out he enclosed the back porch and put fans out there, so Herschel would have a cool place to have his lunch in the summer. And it had only been MaMau's begging that talked him into taking the back steps into the basement in winter. He'd have never given in to Granddaddy, but he couldn't tell Mrs. Willa Mae "no" for long.
We couldn't even begin to wrap our minds around what they were telling us. Why wouldn't Herschel's momma let him in Granddaddy's house? Why did it matter if he was white? Keep in mind, this was the 80's and we had no real perspective on race. We were in our own little world, and our only real interaction with black people was with Herschel. My sister and I went to a K-12 school that only had one black boy in the whole school. What the hell did we know? Looking back, it may have been the first time I became aware of race at all.
My dad died when I was two years old, but we still had a strong male figure in our lives in Granddaddy. He was like John Wayne to me. When I was a senior in high school, Granddaddy had a series of strokes and ended up in a nursing home for several months before he died. By then, I was a freshman at the University of Tennessee. I went home for Granddaddy's funeral, and the outpouring of sympathy for my family and respect for my grandfather was immense. It was cold and rainy at the cemetery, and Mom pointed out someone peeking out from behind a truck parked on the road by the cemetery. It was Herschel.
Whispers flew between us, and MaMau asked for us to bring Herschel over. I hopped up and ran over to him feeling like I was 8 years old again. I gave him a hug with my sister and Brad right behind me. Of course, Herschel pulled out a pack of gum. We told him to come sit with us, but Herschel demurred and said he would stay where he was in the back. We told him MaMau wanted to see him, so he came over. My mom hugged him and told him Granddaddy had loved him. MaMau made everyone scoot down, and Herschel sat beside her, with her holding his hand, while they buried Granddaddy. He was as much a part of our family as anyone else, and he belonged with us under that tent.
That was the last time I saw Herschel. A few Christmases ago, I heard my older cousins talking about "that old N*****, Herschel," asking to borrow $5 or $20 every once in a while. They of course obliged and were convinced he never really needed it or spent it. He always insisted on paying them back exactly when he said he would and never missed. As pleased as I was that they'd helped Herschel, I was appalled at their use of that word, especially in reference to Herschel. This was a man Granddaddy had loved and respected, a man who was kind to our family and dear. I berated them both for their use of that word, saying if they were too ignorant to know better than to use that word they should at least know better than to say it in reference to Herschel. My Granddaddy rolled over in his grave that night.
I'm more educated than most of my family. I've seen more things and have a broader world view than most of them as well. I say none of these things as a knock on them or to pat myself of the back. I say them to show the difference in our perspectives. I do not suggest it's an excuse for their ignorance in the use of that word. In fact, it only underlines for me the long distances we have to go in this country when it comes to race. All of us having known Herschel most of our lives, my cousins used an ugly, racist, ignorant term to describe him based solely on the color of his skin, knowing him to be a good and honorable man. How does that still happen?
It's never excusable, but people often use derogatory words to describe someone of low morals or bad character, someone who's wronged them, but none of these things applied to Herschel. They had no reason in the world to use any derogatory term to describe him, much less that one. How then was is so acceptable in their minds that it rolled off their tongues as if they'd called him blond or funny? How are there places that still breed such hate? Why does it still shock me?
I asked my cousins why they thought Herschel asked to borrow money he didn't really need, and he said Herschel once gave him back the same exact $20 bill he'd given him two days earlier. He thought maybe it made him feel good that he could borrow the money if he needed. Maybe it made him feel trusted or respected. Who knows really. Part of me thinks he wanted a connection to the family again. After Granddaddy died, MaMau moved into town, and Herschel couldn't drive, so we didn't see him often. Maybe he missed my grandfather, a man who treated him as an equal as much as Herschel would let him.
For my part, I choose to learn compassion, respect and kindness from my Granddaddy. I choose to remember Herschel for his hard work, courage and packs of gum. And I will always remember a lesson neither may have realized he taught: No matter how scared you are or how different you are, there are somethings that matter more than fear or differences. Like three little kids who played too close to a snake or two men who worked together with mutual respect and love.
Granddaddy got up before dawn every morning, and MaMau made breakfast. During the week, he worked as a supervisor at the rock crusher. In the evenings he tended to his cows and on weekends he worked on the farm. My older cousins, both boys, worked with Grandddaddy on the weekends. Lyndsey and I, nor my younger cousin Brad, had to work, but we stayed busy. Probably a bit busier than anyone would have preferred. Other than my cousins and uncle, there was one other man who helped Granddaddy. His name was Herschel.
Herschel didn't drive, so Granddaddy would go get him right after breakfast. I remember at the time thinking Herschel must have been ancient, but then again, I thought my grandfather was ancient, too. Herschel was probably only a bit older than my grandfather, but his years had been harder than Granddaddy's. Granddaddy may have had to leave school after the 8th grade, fight in WWII in Germany and do manual labor his whole life, but Herschel was a black man born and raised in the South. More specifically, he lived in Pulaski, TN, the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan.
I don't know the details of Herschel's personal struggle. I was too young really to grasp what life must have been like for him, but here's what I remember about Herschel. I don't remember the chronology of these stories, but they were all when we were in grade school. I was two years older than Lyndsey and Brad, and I couldn't have been more than eight years old.
Herschel was a hard worker. He could dig post holes so deep, so fast, and he could toss bales of hay into the back of a truck as if they weighed nothing. He was always quiet, but he'd hum while he worked. He's also the only person to ever live who is more afraid of snakes than me. We thought Herschel hung the moon, and he's light up, smiling whenever we came running, yelling his name.
For my grandfather, everything had a place and was supposed to be just so. He kept the barn cleaner than some keep their house, and his garden never had any weeds -- although he couldn't plant in a straight row to save his life. His cows were well taken care of. But what I remember most when it comes to Granddaddy were his fences. He couldn't stand to have a fence sagging or in the case of the front yard, fading. Their house was halfway up a hill, and the front yard was the size of a football field. A three-plank fence went all the way around, and once a year, it got painted, always a brick red color.
Granddaddy would have his truck in the yard, and as they checked all the cross pieces and then painted them, they'd move the truck down the fence with them with all the tools, paint and cold drinking water. Now, Granddaddy didn't want us kids painting. He figured, probably correctly, that we'd have more paint on ourselves than the fence. But that didn't mean we weren't right there and into everything. We climbed all over the truck, inside and out, and finally, we wanted to see what the underside of it looked like -- while it was moving.
We knew to be careful, so as not to get run over, so we laid down in the very middle of the wheel base and stayed very still the next time Granddaddy got ready to move the truck. I can still remember what it looked like as the truck very slowly inched down the next section of fence, parts moving, mud everywhere. When our feet started to come out the back end, Herschel saw us, and yelled so loud that Granddaddy stalled out the truck. "Mr. Dude, them kids!!!" MaMau had been watching out the kitchen window, and ran out to the front yard just as Granddaddy and Herschel were pulling us feet first out from under the truck. They were shaking, and when we realized how much trouble we were in, we started shaking, too.
Granddaddy never laid a finger on us in our whole lives, and the maddest any of us ever saw him was when we'd worried or scared him. MaMau on the other hand was not above blistering our backsides, and here she was coming. Granddaddy was yelling half at us, half at God about how we could have been killed. Herschel just sat down shaking his head. Needless to say, that was the last we were allowed around them while they painted, and the last time any of us sat comfortably for the rest of the day. MaMau wouldn't let us out of her sight.
I remember another occasion when we were playing around the truck while they were digging post holes on the hill behind the house. It was a hot summer day, and Granddaddy was always telling us to be careful and watch where we played. Some nasty creatures come out in Tennessee hollows in summer. Out of no where, Herschel grabbed all three of us in his arms and tossed us tumbling into the back of the truck on top of tools and anything else that happened to be back there. We thought Herschel had lost his mind. Granddaddy heard us screaming, and turned as we all came up looking out of the truck bed to see Herschel grab a snake out of the grass and snap it like a whip, killing it with his bare hands.
Granddaddy made sure we were OK and then made Herschel sit down in the truck. He later told MaMau it was the whitest he'd ever seen a black man. Every bit of color drained out of Herschel's face and he nearly fainted when he realized he'd just grabbed a snake. We were so worried about Herschel and kept trying to check on him. Granddaddy took us all back to the house, and MaMau made us go inside. They looked at the snake and found it was a copperhead -- an incredibly poisonous and aggressive snake. It would have bitten us without provocation. We'd been playing three feet from it when Herschel grabbed us.
It wasn't until later that Granddaddy told us Herschel was fine and he'd only been scared to death because he was so afraid of snakes. If we'd thought Herschel was cool before he was something close to a god after that. We thanked him over and over, as did my grandparents. For Herschel's part, he just nodded and said he'd never let anything happened to them kids. He also wanted to go home. He'd had enough for one day.
Every afternoon when Granddaddy and the "men" came in for lunch, MaMau would fix Herschel a plate and take it to him on the back porch. She managed the cafeteria at one of the local schools, so she'd brought trays home for Herschel's lunch. Of course, we thought Herschel hung the moon, so we wanted to eat with him, so MaMau brought trays home for us, too. We'd sit on the back porch and eat, and when we were done, Herschel would pull out a pack of gum -- Wrigley's Spearmint -- and give us each a piece. It never failed; Herschel always had gum.
When it was cold out, Herschel would take the steps from the carport and go eat in the basement to stay warm. My grandparents' house had a wood furnace, and sitting next to it was so warm and had this lovely smell of burning wood. Occasionally, MaMau would run us out of the basement to give Herschel some peace and quiet. He never complained or scolded any of us, but thinking back, I have to think he appreciated MaMau's intervention some times.
When we got further along into grade school, I started questioning why Herschel never came in the house. I thought it was Granddaddy who wouldn't let him come in. Lord knows I'd grown up around enough people who freely used the "N" word or were otherwise racist in their speech or actions. Hell, the Klan still marched around the square in Pulaski every year when I was a kid -- a day none of us were allowed to go to town. I couldn't imagine why else Herschel wouldn't come in. I got really mad at Granddaddy one day and told him he should be ashamed of Herschel eating outside. Granddaddy didn't say a thing and walked out of the house.
Later Momma and MaMau sat us down and explained.
It wasn't Granddaddy that kept Herschel out of the house. To the contrary, Herschel wouldn't come inside. He said his Momma would "roll over in her grave if he ever caught him in a white man's house." Granddaddy loved Herschel and welcomed him any time into his home. Turns out he enclosed the back porch and put fans out there, so Herschel would have a cool place to have his lunch in the summer. And it had only been MaMau's begging that talked him into taking the back steps into the basement in winter. He'd have never given in to Granddaddy, but he couldn't tell Mrs. Willa Mae "no" for long.
We couldn't even begin to wrap our minds around what they were telling us. Why wouldn't Herschel's momma let him in Granddaddy's house? Why did it matter if he was white? Keep in mind, this was the 80's and we had no real perspective on race. We were in our own little world, and our only real interaction with black people was with Herschel. My sister and I went to a K-12 school that only had one black boy in the whole school. What the hell did we know? Looking back, it may have been the first time I became aware of race at all.
My dad died when I was two years old, but we still had a strong male figure in our lives in Granddaddy. He was like John Wayne to me. When I was a senior in high school, Granddaddy had a series of strokes and ended up in a nursing home for several months before he died. By then, I was a freshman at the University of Tennessee. I went home for Granddaddy's funeral, and the outpouring of sympathy for my family and respect for my grandfather was immense. It was cold and rainy at the cemetery, and Mom pointed out someone peeking out from behind a truck parked on the road by the cemetery. It was Herschel.
Whispers flew between us, and MaMau asked for us to bring Herschel over. I hopped up and ran over to him feeling like I was 8 years old again. I gave him a hug with my sister and Brad right behind me. Of course, Herschel pulled out a pack of gum. We told him to come sit with us, but Herschel demurred and said he would stay where he was in the back. We told him MaMau wanted to see him, so he came over. My mom hugged him and told him Granddaddy had loved him. MaMau made everyone scoot down, and Herschel sat beside her, with her holding his hand, while they buried Granddaddy. He was as much a part of our family as anyone else, and he belonged with us under that tent.
That was the last time I saw Herschel. A few Christmases ago, I heard my older cousins talking about "that old N*****, Herschel," asking to borrow $5 or $20 every once in a while. They of course obliged and were convinced he never really needed it or spent it. He always insisted on paying them back exactly when he said he would and never missed. As pleased as I was that they'd helped Herschel, I was appalled at their use of that word, especially in reference to Herschel. This was a man Granddaddy had loved and respected, a man who was kind to our family and dear. I berated them both for their use of that word, saying if they were too ignorant to know better than to use that word they should at least know better than to say it in reference to Herschel. My Granddaddy rolled over in his grave that night.
I'm more educated than most of my family. I've seen more things and have a broader world view than most of them as well. I say none of these things as a knock on them or to pat myself of the back. I say them to show the difference in our perspectives. I do not suggest it's an excuse for their ignorance in the use of that word. In fact, it only underlines for me the long distances we have to go in this country when it comes to race. All of us having known Herschel most of our lives, my cousins used an ugly, racist, ignorant term to describe him based solely on the color of his skin, knowing him to be a good and honorable man. How does that still happen?
It's never excusable, but people often use derogatory words to describe someone of low morals or bad character, someone who's wronged them, but none of these things applied to Herschel. They had no reason in the world to use any derogatory term to describe him, much less that one. How then was is so acceptable in their minds that it rolled off their tongues as if they'd called him blond or funny? How are there places that still breed such hate? Why does it still shock me?
I asked my cousins why they thought Herschel asked to borrow money he didn't really need, and he said Herschel once gave him back the same exact $20 bill he'd given him two days earlier. He thought maybe it made him feel good that he could borrow the money if he needed. Maybe it made him feel trusted or respected. Who knows really. Part of me thinks he wanted a connection to the family again. After Granddaddy died, MaMau moved into town, and Herschel couldn't drive, so we didn't see him often. Maybe he missed my grandfather, a man who treated him as an equal as much as Herschel would let him.
For my part, I choose to learn compassion, respect and kindness from my Granddaddy. I choose to remember Herschel for his hard work, courage and packs of gum. And I will always remember a lesson neither may have realized he taught: No matter how scared you are or how different you are, there are somethings that matter more than fear or differences. Like three little kids who played too close to a snake or two men who worked together with mutual respect and love.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Dear, God, please kill all the mosquitoes.
After reading a recent article, I wrote this as a comment and thought I'd post it here as well. Someone should get something out of my suffering. Here is the original article.
I am a mosquito magnet. If I'm standing next to you, you can bet you will not get bitten. Since cloning isn't available, here are a few pearls of wisdom I've accumulated as I've waged war on the little blood suckers:
1.Do not spray yourself with anything that doesn't say it's "safe" to do so. Whoever was spraying down with RAID, might want to check that one out. Be careful what you spray on your pets, too. Some dogs are more prone to being bitten, but spraying the dog with something they will inevitably lick can make them sick. READ LABELS!
2. Skin So Soft works unless you're me. Pretty sure the mosquitoes just thought they'd found the spicy flavor of me that day. I put in the same category as this using a dryer sheet. My mother and Nana swear by both. Putting a dryer sheet in your pant waist, sock or wherever you can get it distracts the buggers. Again, neither of these work for me.
3. Citronella oil works if you get those big tiki torches and leave a big chunk of the wick out. I'm not sure how much of the repellent is the oil and how much is the smoke, but the combo works.
4. I love the OFF! lanterns. They work like a charm. Lighting the candle is a bit of a hassle, and you have to keep tabs on the pad to refill before it wears off. The effectiveness and reduced risk of burning down your house make the hassle worth it.
5. Yard sprays that attach to your hose (we've used the Cutter version for a couple of summers) have to be reapplied, especially if you get a rash of rain. They seemed to have some effect on reducing the mosquitoes in our yard, which normally has literal clouds of the vile little creatures. It did not eliminate them completely though. I've used the granules that you spring in standing water to prevent the eggs from hatching, and the combination worked better.
6.Speaking of standing water, don't forget down spouts, window wells, drainage channels, storm drains and check your surrounds neighbors' yards, too. We're convinced a neighbor behind us is breeding half the mosquitoes in northern Virginia because they have bad drainage and don't see to care.
7. A word of warning about bat and marlin houses. I was all for this, and in a big way, but I was advised by our vet that the bats and birds are going to defecate after the mosquito feast and their poop is poisonous to pets. I have enough trouble keeping my dog from eating his own poop, so the idea died there.
8.The clip on fans (the ones I tried were OFF!) are worthless. If there's any breeze or if you're walking, the scent can't build up enough to be effective. I was even wearing 2 of them, and I have a dozen bites to show for it. Went back inside and sprayed on old faithful ...
9. If cancer doesn't get me, malaria or west nile will, so I use Deep Woods OFF! I'm very brand loyal there because it's the only one I've used and not gotten a single bite.
We're hardscaping our backyard (it's small) in hopes we can better control the environment and reduce bugs that way. I'm researching plants that naturally repel the beasts and will be testing a few other lantern-type options, too.
I am a mosquito magnet. If I'm standing next to you, you can bet you will not get bitten. Since cloning isn't available, here are a few pearls of wisdom I've accumulated as I've waged war on the little blood suckers:
1.Do not spray yourself with anything that doesn't say it's "safe" to do so. Whoever was spraying down with RAID, might want to check that one out. Be careful what you spray on your pets, too. Some dogs are more prone to being bitten, but spraying the dog with something they will inevitably lick can make them sick. READ LABELS!
2. Skin So Soft works unless you're me. Pretty sure the mosquitoes just thought they'd found the spicy flavor of me that day. I put in the same category as this using a dryer sheet. My mother and Nana swear by both. Putting a dryer sheet in your pant waist, sock or wherever you can get it distracts the buggers. Again, neither of these work for me.
3. Citronella oil works if you get those big tiki torches and leave a big chunk of the wick out. I'm not sure how much of the repellent is the oil and how much is the smoke, but the combo works.
4. I love the OFF! lanterns. They work like a charm. Lighting the candle is a bit of a hassle, and you have to keep tabs on the pad to refill before it wears off. The effectiveness and reduced risk of burning down your house make the hassle worth it.
5. Yard sprays that attach to your hose (we've used the Cutter version for a couple of summers) have to be reapplied, especially if you get a rash of rain. They seemed to have some effect on reducing the mosquitoes in our yard, which normally has literal clouds of the vile little creatures. It did not eliminate them completely though. I've used the granules that you spring in standing water to prevent the eggs from hatching, and the combination worked better.
6.Speaking of standing water, don't forget down spouts, window wells, drainage channels, storm drains and check your surrounds neighbors' yards, too. We're convinced a neighbor behind us is breeding half the mosquitoes in northern Virginia because they have bad drainage and don't see to care.
7. A word of warning about bat and marlin houses. I was all for this, and in a big way, but I was advised by our vet that the bats and birds are going to defecate after the mosquito feast and their poop is poisonous to pets. I have enough trouble keeping my dog from eating his own poop, so the idea died there.
8.The clip on fans (the ones I tried were OFF!) are worthless. If there's any breeze or if you're walking, the scent can't build up enough to be effective. I was even wearing 2 of them, and I have a dozen bites to show for it. Went back inside and sprayed on old faithful ...
9. If cancer doesn't get me, malaria or west nile will, so I use Deep Woods OFF! I'm very brand loyal there because it's the only one I've used and not gotten a single bite.
We're hardscaping our backyard (it's small) in hopes we can better control the environment and reduce bugs that way. I'm researching plants that naturally repel the beasts and will be testing a few other lantern-type options, too.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Tada!
OK, so sometimes I start something and it takes me a while to finish. I get around to it eventually. Anyway, last summer I started trying to knit a stuffed caterpillar. It was not easy seeing as I knitted the whole thing on 3.5" needles -- four of them. I wrote about it back then because I was having such a hard time before I got my "toothpicks" as hubby calls them.I played with the pattern of course, or at least the colors. Then, here and there I would come back to my little project. I Think it turned out pretty good. It looks like a caterpillar, antenna and all. I won't be making two of these, but I've got a pattern for a little zebra and a lion that I'll hopefully finish before all the kids I know graduate from high school.
The pattern I used is in the background
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Frog leg, anyone?
9.11.01. You know where you were. My youngest sister was only nine, and she remembers. In the days that followed, we grieved and looked for someone to blame, somewhere to direct out fear and anger. When we found out who was responsible, all of our energies were focused, and we rallied together with a common enemy.
In the months that followed, we wrapped ourselves in the flag, distracted ourselves with a war, gave up our civil rights and miraculously let the guy who declared war on us get pushed to the back burner. Calm didn't return. Instead we let numbness seep into our lives and adjusted to a new level of stress in our lives.
Let me ask you something. Ten years later are you less afraid? Think back to ten years ago, and ask yourself if you'd have so willingly walked into a body scanner before your flights. Would it bother you that someone rifled through your suitcase and looked in your purse?
The saying goes that if you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump right out. But if you put a frog in room temperature water and slowly turn up the heat, it will sit there and cook. Well, stick in a fork in us, we're done.
In the 2006 midterm elections, tides started to turn. 2008 brought change and hope. Back and forth, tension building, our country is more divided than ever. Every issue is made political; the extremes pushing the boundaries. We've been at war almost half of my youngest sister's life. Normal has been redefined over and over for not just the American people, but the world.
5.1.11. Barack Obama, having re-focused the war on terror back to Bin Laden, makes a late night announcement that at last he's been found -- and killed. Personally, I cried when I heard the words. I didn't know what else to do.
Was I happy, relieved or just jarred by the sudden change in my reality? Maybe I realized that for the first time since 9.11 I can't put a face to my fear and anger. I can't point a finger and know the name of the enemy. Oh, there are groups and generic labels, but I'm human. I want a face, a symbol, a name to put on my fear.
Further complicating my reaction to the news is ten years of wondering how in the ever-loving hell a 6'5" Arab on dialysis* could wander around, across borders nonetheless, making home videos and talking on a satellite phone without being found. The man had better reception than some AT&T customers and practically had his own YouTube channel. Really!?!
Americans do not take losing well, and in this extremely long game of hide and seek, we were getting our arses kicked. Of all the terrorists we'd managed to catch or kill, #1 kept eluding us.
Every human emotion built up over ten years came to a crescendo and then flooding out. When I saw the crowds gathering at the White House, I knew I had to go. I wasn't so much going to celebrate as to witness. I wanted to be there on this momentous occasion. What I saw was a group of jubilant revelers basking in their national pride, but I saw no malice. It was not a celebration of one man's death. It was more like a losing team finding their way back in the game.
It seems like adults who were actually adults on 9.11 -- at least those who weren't drunk from the Caps game -- were more there to witness a historical event. Perhaps we were still absorbing the news. Our collective nightmare of ten years wasn't necessarily over, but a chapter closed. Only on the edges of our mind were we allowing thoughts of the next chapter to percolate.
The younger crowd was doing the majority of the dancing and chanting. I was a bit shocked by their patriotism actually. This younger generation has been largely apathetic toward national interests, but they had flags aplenty. (Judging by the fancy golden eagle finials, they were stolen from university lecture halls around DC.) They danced and sang and chanted. But what were they celebrating?
Kids in college now are my youngest sister's age. Sure they're old enough to remember 9.11, but did they really understand? The majority of their lives has been under rainbow-colored threat alerts and in long security lines. Then again, maybe it isn't so much 9.11 as the ensuing war on terror and Iraq War that gives them reason to take joy in one battle's victory. It's their older siblings and their friends being killed overseas. Yeah, that's worth a little revelry.
To varying degrees, humans can process myriad emotions and bear great stress physically and mentally. The thing is there is always a breaking point. We've experienced the tech bubble, the housing bubble, and like anything else that's stretched to its limit, our national psyche snapped in another bubble. I won't give it a trite name, but it popped either way. It all resulted in a night of joy and, dare I say it, togetherness.
For the briefest window of time, and I do mean brief, we were Americans. One collective worry was gone. We were united again for the first time in a very long time. I honestly do not believe the majority of us were happy because a man died.
I know personally I can't rejoice in any death. (OK, except maybe a snake's, but I really hate snakes.) I don't think many people really can. But we can rejoice in justice, even if it's delivered in a more unfortunate form. I saw an almost innocent exhibit of relief at a chapter closing and a seized moment of unity in the name of justice. That's what I choose to take away from this.
Underneath all the postured sophistication and tough talk, we all still need to feel like a part of something bigger. We need unity. We need those moments to heave a collective sigh and put worry aside. Even if we only show it for a few hours in the middle of the night.
*It is still undetermined whether or not Bin Laden suffered from a disease that required dialysis. (Snopes.com)
In the months that followed, we wrapped ourselves in the flag, distracted ourselves with a war, gave up our civil rights and miraculously let the guy who declared war on us get pushed to the back burner. Calm didn't return. Instead we let numbness seep into our lives and adjusted to a new level of stress in our lives.
Let me ask you something. Ten years later are you less afraid? Think back to ten years ago, and ask yourself if you'd have so willingly walked into a body scanner before your flights. Would it bother you that someone rifled through your suitcase and looked in your purse?
The saying goes that if you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump right out. But if you put a frog in room temperature water and slowly turn up the heat, it will sit there and cook. Well, stick in a fork in us, we're done.
In the 2006 midterm elections, tides started to turn. 2008 brought change and hope. Back and forth, tension building, our country is more divided than ever. Every issue is made political; the extremes pushing the boundaries. We've been at war almost half of my youngest sister's life. Normal has been redefined over and over for not just the American people, but the world.
5.1.11. Barack Obama, having re-focused the war on terror back to Bin Laden, makes a late night announcement that at last he's been found -- and killed. Personally, I cried when I heard the words. I didn't know what else to do.
Was I happy, relieved or just jarred by the sudden change in my reality? Maybe I realized that for the first time since 9.11 I can't put a face to my fear and anger. I can't point a finger and know the name of the enemy. Oh, there are groups and generic labels, but I'm human. I want a face, a symbol, a name to put on my fear.
Further complicating my reaction to the news is ten years of wondering how in the ever-loving hell a 6'5" Arab on dialysis* could wander around, across borders nonetheless, making home videos and talking on a satellite phone without being found. The man had better reception than some AT&T customers and practically had his own YouTube channel. Really!?!
Americans do not take losing well, and in this extremely long game of hide and seek, we were getting our arses kicked. Of all the terrorists we'd managed to catch or kill, #1 kept eluding us.
Every human emotion built up over ten years came to a crescendo and then flooding out. When I saw the crowds gathering at the White House, I knew I had to go. I wasn't so much going to celebrate as to witness. I wanted to be there on this momentous occasion. What I saw was a group of jubilant revelers basking in their national pride, but I saw no malice. It was not a celebration of one man's death. It was more like a losing team finding their way back in the game.
It seems like adults who were actually adults on 9.11 -- at least those who weren't drunk from the Caps game -- were more there to witness a historical event. Perhaps we were still absorbing the news. Our collective nightmare of ten years wasn't necessarily over, but a chapter closed. Only on the edges of our mind were we allowing thoughts of the next chapter to percolate.
The younger crowd was doing the majority of the dancing and chanting. I was a bit shocked by their patriotism actually. This younger generation has been largely apathetic toward national interests, but they had flags aplenty. (Judging by the fancy golden eagle finials, they were stolen from university lecture halls around DC.) They danced and sang and chanted. But what were they celebrating?
Kids in college now are my youngest sister's age. Sure they're old enough to remember 9.11, but did they really understand? The majority of their lives has been under rainbow-colored threat alerts and in long security lines. Then again, maybe it isn't so much 9.11 as the ensuing war on terror and Iraq War that gives them reason to take joy in one battle's victory. It's their older siblings and their friends being killed overseas. Yeah, that's worth a little revelry.
To varying degrees, humans can process myriad emotions and bear great stress physically and mentally. The thing is there is always a breaking point. We've experienced the tech bubble, the housing bubble, and like anything else that's stretched to its limit, our national psyche snapped in another bubble. I won't give it a trite name, but it popped either way. It all resulted in a night of joy and, dare I say it, togetherness.
For the briefest window of time, and I do mean brief, we were Americans. One collective worry was gone. We were united again for the first time in a very long time. I honestly do not believe the majority of us were happy because a man died.
I know personally I can't rejoice in any death. (OK, except maybe a snake's, but I really hate snakes.) I don't think many people really can. But we can rejoice in justice, even if it's delivered in a more unfortunate form. I saw an almost innocent exhibit of relief at a chapter closing and a seized moment of unity in the name of justice. That's what I choose to take away from this.
Underneath all the postured sophistication and tough talk, we all still need to feel like a part of something bigger. We need unity. We need those moments to heave a collective sigh and put worry aside. Even if we only show it for a few hours in the middle of the night.
*It is still undetermined whether or not Bin Laden suffered from a disease that required dialysis. (Snopes.com)
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