tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68380443961544043702024-03-05T14:13:50.222-05:00My Eight EyesEightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-7029912004195685272013-04-06T14:52:00.001-04:002013-04-06T15:06:37.406-04:00The Opera<!--[if !mso]>
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Today is a rare non-scheduled,
quiet Saturday morning. Only one set of My Eyes are home, so <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am enjoying the rare opportunity to
languish in bed at 8am versus my normal Saturday mornings of searching for a
missing sock, cleat, helmet, etc. As I use my phone to check up on all that has
happened in the world while I slept, I received a notification that someone sent me a personal inbox message via Facebook. It’s my high school
teacher/advisor turned good friend, B.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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In the message she states that she
was out with another teacher of mine, Mr. Sinclair, and he told her a story about me. Although her message was framed in
such a way that it seemed as if she was asking me if I remembered the story, in my interpretation, it appeared as if she was really asking for details
so that I can prove that the story was actually true. See, Mr. Sinclair is an
extraordinary man with an incredible gift of story-telling. The type of oratory
skills which can oft times leave the listener wondering if embellishments were
added for flavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this case, it
had not been. </div>
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It was my senior year at Murry
Bergtraum. Mr. Sinclair was my favorite teacher, although I was never his
formal student. Honestly, I have no idea how I fell under his tutelage. I’m
trying to remember, but nothing is coming to me. Anyway, if Sinclair said that
he “thought it would be a good idea if…” then I followed the “if” with all my
energy. Mr. Sinclair said he thought it would be a good idea if I started a
drama club. So I did. Raisin in the Sun premiered at Bergtraum for one night in
1988. Mr. Sinclair said he thought it would be a good idea if I entered a
contest hosted by the English Speaking Union as Lady Macbeth. So I did. We won
our division and came in second place in the New York City finals. (Funny side
bar, the first place winner from Springfield High School, who I didn’t know at the time, ended up being one
of the my closest friends in college.) Mr. Sinclair said he thought it would be
a good idea if I attended The Opera. So I did, with one of the twenty free
tickets some sponsoring agency gave to our school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The Opera? What did I, a 17-year-old
girl from Bed-Stuy being raised by a young mother and West Indian immigrant
grandparents, know about The Opera? Well, I knew two things. One, on stage the
performers looked like this:</div>
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Two, off stage the attendees
looked like this: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvLRP94k1tNQvy-xeRpqjHTZjSH_Zn_XNoeQKAsqsahGIVw-o3xlv7ULdUzI2UKN7vmuwNlWQtA1bDYLrfYj6CEkXPM_9JPb2t5Qhxk5uecNWa7_SJ15R_jE0wOmPPUWeacgvgjkFPhE/s1600/url-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvLRP94k1tNQvy-xeRpqjHTZjSH_Zn_XNoeQKAsqsahGIVw-o3xlv7ULdUzI2UKN7vmuwNlWQtA1bDYLrfYj6CEkXPM_9JPb2t5Qhxk5uecNWa7_SJ15R_jE0wOmPPUWeacgvgjkFPhE/s320/url-1.jpeg" width="230" /></a></div>
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So, by calculation, I had one
week to transform my wardrobe and style that emulated this....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMnRyUmZZeM9DpPlzScbasPyVCf_Eq87WGjiEcP0L6_3yENcpNJgCMyWVKYZNhFSUtAUOXVabvoSKPGTKG9GW4YVt8KQaIl8OzcXuaSN2xbuUi9-rGwSqr_HS1m1NIJPxgnOlV37hwtQ/s1600/url.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMnRyUmZZeM9DpPlzScbasPyVCf_Eq87WGjiEcP0L6_3yENcpNJgCMyWVKYZNhFSUtAUOXVabvoSKPGTKG9GW4YVt8KQaIl8OzcXuaSN2xbuUi9-rGwSqr_HS1m1NIJPxgnOlV37hwtQ/s320/url.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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into that which was worthy of The
Opera. Free tickets or not, I had all intentions of looking like I belonged. My
plan was to walk in there and let it appear as if going to The Opera was
customary in the life of a teenaged girl that worked two jobs and couldn’t name
an Opera singer if you paid me. I didn’t even know who Marian Anderson was at
that stage of my journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I had seven days and roughly $30
to make it happen. First stop, the cosmetology school downtown Brooklyn. At the
school, I had fake nails glued to my fingertips and polished a deep red. I had
my hair washed, cut, blown dry and styled. All of the services were free, as
long as I didn’t mind being a guinea pig to the “not-yet licensed/Boy, I hope I
pass this class/Hey, I have to learn on somebody’s head” students. I was a
regular there!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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What was I going to wear? That
was my biggest challenge. My typical attire included mock turtle necks and
vintage satin pajamas pants from Canal Jeans where I worked, or jeans with so
many holes in them that I had to wear tights underneath them to limit the
amount of flesh exposed and of course, my favorite tweed blazer, straight out of my Grandfather’s
closet. I marched myself to Bridge St, to the one block stretch of fabric
stores. My favorite fabric store was owned by a Jewish family and there too, I
was a regular. The mother worked the register and the sons kept the window
filled with $1 a yard fabric. That’s usually the only part of the store I ever
purchased from. But! This was The Opera! So I ventured passed the window
display. There it was. Gold lace!! $7.99 a yard. I broke my budget and purchased
one yard! Down the block, another fabric store had black taffeta priced within
my regular budget of $1 a yard! I grabbed the Mc Call’s book and went straight
to the $.99 pattern area and found a gown! I was going to make a gown for The
Opera.</div>
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My mother could sew. She was
great at the craft but horrible at teaching the craft. I learned nothing from
my mother about sewing other than to run for my life when I saw her with pins
in her mouth and a scissor in her hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My grandfather had a sewing machine that he purchased for my mother when
she was in high school. A little oil here and there and a lot of sweet talk and
the baby worked most of the time. And most of the time was just enough time
needed to sew a black taffeta and gold lace ball gown. Oh, it was gorgeous to
me. The bottom was full length and huge. I had concocted a way to create a
crinoline and tulle skirt to go underneath from left over fabric from the
school’s fashion show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The top was
a sweetheart neckline. I sewed the dress according to the pattern with the
black taffeta and then re-cut the top part of the pattern again in the gold
lace so it could overlay the black taffeta. It even had a big 1980s bow in the
back. That was a personal touch!</div>
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The day of The Opera, I took off
from work and rushed home after school to get ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put on the brightest red lipstick from my impressive Wet n
Wild collection and eased into my ball gown. The Opera, I am ready for you.
Well, first I had to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wish you could have seen me trying to fit that damn dress on the B38 bus during
rush hour. Once I got to Jay Street, I had to march my self and that gown down
the subway stairs and push my crinoline bottom onto the uptown train. Ask me if
I cared? I was regal and Opera bound. I was going to be the first in my family
to attend The Opera and I was going to do it with pride! </div>
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I remember walking into the
building and seeing Mr. Sinclair. Bless his heart. I remember his two words
clearly, as he saw me in my gown. He said “Oh my!” As for the other nineteen
students who were also at The Opera with their free ticket in hand, well, they
were all beautifully dressed in their Murray Bergtraum obligatory business attire.
But as far as I was concerned, they were all underdressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Opera was “high culture”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Opera was not suited for business
attire. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew </i>better. I saw it on
TV. Only gowns and tuxedos were appropriate for The Opera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only the bodegas in Bed-Stuy sold those binoculars attached to a stick, I would have gotten those
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sashayed myself into The
Opera. If only I had known who Leontyne Price was at the time, I would have
done it in her honor. The only visual that comes to mind today, will expose my
guilty pleasure of watching reality television…Darling, I was Gone With The
Wind Fabulous. Twirl! Twirl!</div>
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My dear Mr. Sinclair. Not for one
moment did he let on how ridiculous I must have looked. There was not another
gown in the entire opera hall, on stage or off. Oh this speaks volumes to Mr.
Sinclair’s character. To this day as he retells this story he has yet to mock my
efforts or me. He kindly opts to frame the story as one that reflects my
teenage love of fashion and sense of ambition at the time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My week long efforts to attend The Opera
in “proper attire” was fueled by Mr. Sinclair’s insistence that I was good
enough for anything and everything. I owed him my best effort that night, as
reciprocity for exposing me to a world well beyond what my neighborhood
offered. I owe him my best efforts now, as an educator myself, to continue his legacy
of inspiring students to be limitless. I miss that young girl that was full of
zeal and lived life blind to boundaries. I have no idea if I will every meet
her again, but I know, thanks to teachers like Mr. Sinclair, she was once alive
and well and draped in gold lace and taffeta! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdaKGOxj0vwOjIMeJwnYBGTITLzcK9zMIbwaoJxrpH_z-dcs5CacojJAs9guMqD0dDs0oduhqcxFN7c8YVOIYFCixdydFXBV4w4E5s1DY06NNmG3gYDRaO0Y987xR8f0jwCWIk-uoeGo/s1600/4344_103452294487_5275743_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdaKGOxj0vwOjIMeJwnYBGTITLzcK9zMIbwaoJxrpH_z-dcs5CacojJAs9guMqD0dDs0oduhqcxFN7c8YVOIYFCixdydFXBV4w4E5s1DY06NNmG3gYDRaO0Y987xR8f0jwCWIk-uoeGo/s320/4344_103452294487_5275743_n.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-1942081503036313372012-05-10T10:03:00.002-04:002013-05-13T09:14:32.207-04:00The Top 10 Reasons Why Stevie Wonder is a Genius: Stevie Wonder Made God My Homeboy<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">I was raised in a
Brooklyn brownstone with my mother and her parents, younger brother and sister. For my first eight years on Earth, I was raised Catholic. On the first two floors of the brownstone, where
my grandparents and my aunt and uncle lived, Jesus was White. One the third
floor of the brownstone, where my mother and I lived, Jesus was Black. In my
Grandmother’s parish, Jesus was White. In my mother’s parish, Jesus was Black.
In my Grandmother’s parish, you sang from the pews with a hymnbook in your
hand. In my mother’s parish, you sang from the pews with a tambourine in your
hand. The one thing that was common in both communities however was that Sunday
belonged to God. Monday thru Friday, God was present at meals and before you
went to bed, but musically God had an exclusive engagement at church on Sundays
only. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Stevie Wonder
extended God into Monday. He wrote songs with the words “Jesus” and “God” in them
that I could play any day of the week. Jesus songs weren’t reserved for the sanctuary when it came to Stevie. Until
Stevie came into my life, I thought songs with the words “Jesus” and “God” could
only be located on the same albums with other songs about “Jesus” and “God”.
Who knew that Jesus and God could co-exist on vinyl with a reggae woman who
boogied? Shoot, Stevie even had the words “God” and “hell”
placed in the same song! A love song, at that! He even had “Jesus” and “junkies” in the same song and I
wouldn’t get in trouble if I got caught listening to it. I had no idea that I
could sing about Jesus and God outside of church and it not be considered
blasphemous. All of a sudden, Jesus and God could be heard in my living room on
a Thursday or a Tuesday or a Saturday and I didn’t have to stop and pay traditional reverence. I could keep playing with my toys and even dance if I wanted to with
Jesus and God present. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Stevie Wonder took
God out of the church, out of religion and painted God as a personal friend. He
took God out the sky and put God in me. Talk to God? Whoa! I talked to my
friends. I prayed to God. Surely, no one would find it acceptable for me to
pray to my friends, so why on Earth would it be acceptable for me to talk to
God? “When you feel your life's
too hard </span><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">just go have a
talk with God.” Word? It was that
easy? I could talk to God. No middle man needed? No Priest needed to delivery
my message? This was a revolutionary concept to a little Catholic School girl.
I had no idea. Stevie let me know that I could </span><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">“talk to him anytime” and that “he's always around.” Not only could I
talk to God, but Stevie said that God would talk back! “He loves us all, that's what my God
tells me.” So, a conversation with
God was truly possible. Stevie
Wonder made God my homeboy.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span></span>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-43783011147936830322012-05-09T21:55:00.002-04:002012-05-10T06:54:05.442-04:00The Top 10 Reasons Why Stevie Wonder is a Genius (In No Particular Order)<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Reason Number One: Stevie Wonder Restored My Faith in My Mother.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">When I was three
years old, I received a blue and white record player that could only play 45s
and looked like a mini-suitcase. You had to tape a coin to the top of the
needle to keep it from skipping, but in my world it was my most cherished item.
My record collection consisted of two 45s. One was The Stylistics “Tell Me Have
You Seen Her” and the other was Gladys Knight & The Pips “Midnight Train To
Georgia”. That’s all I had and as far as I was concerned, that was all I
needed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">My
record player looked something like this except this is missing the nickel
taped to the needle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOHe9nFSbyQuD8ME0LxaB8NaTLGAKFXcnzegaL4n72g5HtQ9KXGriQE02AWThBncReTz7AnbFKRaljkIs1GVhOf3k329DYVInap-tW__lKcgMyYjMhiriZJjZI39obZJ9bJnmL9iEgow/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOHe9nFSbyQuD8ME0LxaB8NaTLGAKFXcnzegaL4n72g5HtQ9KXGriQE02AWThBncReTz7AnbFKRaljkIs1GVhOf3k329DYVInap-tW__lKcgMyYjMhiriZJjZI39obZJ9bJnmL9iEgow/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Many moons later,
my mother came home with a beautiful album in hues of brown, sienna and burnt
orange. When you opened it, it unfolded into a full piece of art that looked
like a visual echo. I thought the
best part was the book insert. It was a black and white version of the album
covered with each and every lyric written inside. I would read it over and
over, even the words I couldn’t pronounce or understand. I thought that book
insert was the best thing about the album, until my mother handed me the bonus
45. It was like the prize inside your favorite cereal box. Of course, each
morsel of the cereal was sweet and delicious, but it was the prize at the
bottom that made the whole experience memorable. Well, that was my little 45. It had two songs on it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturn</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes.</i> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">As I played the
45, listening to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes</i>, my
mother came in and said “Stevie Wonder wrote that song for you.” Well, at
approximately 4 or 5 years old, my mother’s word was bond. Stevie Wonder knew <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> and wrote a song about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> and I had a copy of it! I played that
song non-stop. Stevie knew that this little girl from Bed Stuy was “born and
raised on ghetto streets.” He knew I loved music and had “a rhythm that [was]
made of love.” And most importantly he thought this only child, this little
girl, the daughter of a teenage-aged, single, little girl was beautiful. Stevie
said I was “a devastating beauty, a pretty girl with ebony eyes”…so it had to
be true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Ebony Eyes</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;"> was attached to
me. It was mine. Just like every time Shaft entered the room, “he’s a bad
mother…shut your mouth” played in the internal radio located in my head, I
expected the world to sing, “She’s a Miss Beautiful Supreme” with each beat of
my stride. I too had a theme song,
thanks to Stevie Wonder and my mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">I can remember
probing my mother for more information. “When did Stevie meet me?” “Can I call
him and say Thank You?” And just as vividly, I can remember my mother
dismissing me. “Girl, I’m on the
phone.” “Not now, Cazzie, I’m watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mary
Hartman, Mary Hartman</i>.” I didn’t really care that she didn’t answer my
questions. I had the proof that I was Stevie Wonder’s Ebony Eyes! I had the 45!
My 45! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes</i> was not one of
those songs that my friends considered a household favorite like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sir Duke</i> nor was it in heavy radio
rotation like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Wish</i>. No one cared
that I knew every word to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes</i>
or even knew what song I was singing half of the time. That was fine with me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes</i> was my gift from Stevie. I
didn’t need the world to know my special place in it. This was strictly between
Stevie and I. Aisha may have had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isn’t She Lovely</i>, since she’s his first-born
child and everything, but I had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony
Eyes</i> and it was its own separate little 45 that fitted perfectly on my blue
suitcase record player. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Well, I care not
to share how old I was when I finally realized that my mother was a liar.
Stevie Wonder never met me. Stevie Wonder didn’t write no daggone song about
me. Yeah, I was a little ghetto girl, but so was every other double-dutch
jumping, Ring Ding eating, female child in my neighborhood and neighborhoods
like mine across the county. The
45 came with everyone’s copy of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Songs In
The Key of Life. </b>It wasn’t my
special gift. It was generic and public. What a fall from grace! Oh well. It
was still a great song and I wasn’t willing to abandon the soundtrack of my
youth. But I’ll tell you this much, I vowed never to lie to my children and
create a fantasy world only to bomb it to smithereens later! As a parent, I
never allowed my children to believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the
Easter Bunny or that a musical genius who wrote anthems for them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Fast forward to
January 13, 2001. At the time I lived in Atlanta and attended way too many
balls and charity events for my non-social self. My husband had tickets for us
to attend the Salute To Greatness Awards Dinner from The Martin Luther King,
Jr. Center For Nonviolent Social Change, Inc. As a woman with a degree in African American Studies,
finally he picked an event I was excited to attend. However, ol’ boy failed to
tell me who the recipients for the night were and he also knew that I wasn’t
going to ask. Believing that sometimes the devil is in the details, I tend to
skip over them. Well, to my complete surprise and joy, Stevie Wonder was the
recipient. I was in a same room, a typical Atlanta hotel ballroom, with Stevie
Wonder. Up until that point, I had seen Stevie in concert once in 1995 in
Chicago. At that time, I was a broke graduate student with nose-bleed seats located
about seven miles from the stage. But on January 13, I would get the chance to
speak to the man who wrote my personal theme song.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">I approached the
dais and there he was. He held my hand and leaned forward. Well, actually, I grabbed
his hand and wouldn’t let go, but that’s neither here nor there. I said to my
idol, “Funny story. As a child my mother used to tell me that you wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes</i> just for me and I spent many
years, probably way too many, believing her.” With perfect white teeth illuminating
his smile he said to me “But I did write it just for you, my dear.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face'; font-size: 14pt;">Yes! It was true.
I am that “girl that others wish that they could be.” Stevie said it himself.
Oh, he put the joy inside my tears! (Pun intended) It was confirmed. I AM his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony Eyes </i>and my mother is not a liar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-23435090352481125132012-03-23T12:43:00.009-04:002012-03-25T11:53:01.120-04:00There is No Order: My Random Thoughts on Trayvon Martin.<div class="MsoNormal">So much of my time has been flooded with thoughts of Trayvon Martin. I considered putting my thoughts into one concise piece, but it’s too overwhelming because there are so many factors.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let me first share this. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The day the 911 tapes were made public, my son listened. About two hours after he heard the tapes, there was a shooting in front of his school. We left the building about 45minutes before a girl (not a student) was shot. Earlier that same morning a car hit his friend. The culmination of these tragic events caused my son to have a panic attack. In his fury and rage, amidst screams of sheer terror, I heard profound questions and statements for a child that is yet a teenager: “He was almost home.” “He just wanted a snack.” “What if I had after-school (activities) and Mommy got shot? I’d have no parents.” “I’m never going back to school.” “I’m never going back to Florida.” “Why does everyone have to die?” “He (Zimmerman) even said he (Martin) was heading towards the entrance. An entrance is also an exit! He was trying to get away. I heard him (Zimmerman) say that.” It took three of us to subdue him. Yes, he had to be physically subdued. As a collapsed crumbled ball on my mudroom floor, my son wept. His one brother wept with him. His other brother just held him silently. His other brother was furious, cause he felt what I felt…helplessness. So while I am struggling to comprehend all the dynamics in the Trayvon Martin murder, I acknowledge that my son’s struggle with understanding his place in the world right now is greater than mine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I am physically and emotionally not in a place to package my thoughts neatly. Instead, I am simply gathering snippets that I wrote in emails with friends or my Facebook statuses from March 9<sup>th</sup> till today. There is no order…well, because clearly, there IS no order. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">FACEBOOK<br />
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-Update: George Zimmerman has yet to be charged in the murder of Trayvon Martin. It is fair to say that I am slowly becoming obsessed with this case. Self defense? He called the police because he was aware of a "suspicious person". He was told not to confront the person and a patrol car was being dispatched. Yet he LEFT the safety of his vehicle with a weapon to confront the unarmed teen and killed him. How is that self-defense? Zimmerman had a gun. Martin had $22, Skittles and an Arizona Ice Tea with no intent or display of aggression/malice to the community in which he belonged. The only notions of aggression or malice attached to his actions are laced in the racial social construction of what it means to be a black young man. The "image" of Martin, the beliefs attached to his black body, are SO dangerous that it warrants self-defense for an armed White man with a history of violence? And the police co-sign? If Zimmerman wants to plead self-defense, let a jury decide! Arrest him already. I HATE this story.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">- My thoughts in route to work; Pres Obama, I heard you when Skip Gates was profiled. Pres Obama, I even heard you when Kanye West interrupted the Grammy's. Pres Obama, I need to hear you now. I need more than condolences to The Martin family. Before your remarkable achieved status, is your ascribed status; that of a black male. You, Sir, were once Trayvon Martin. This citizen needs to hear you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Post script: My attorney friends explain why President Obama could not make a comment and if he did, that he could potentially be damaging an open investigation. Additionally, President Obama did answer press questions about Trayvon Martin today. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">- My thoughts in route from work: My students today repeatedly made the commentary "If Trayvon Martin were White, this wouldn't of happen." Do I agree? Yes. Haunting my heart, however, is the question "If George Zimmerman were Black, would the nation be up in arms?" Let's bare our souls, family, and be honest. We have come to accept Black on Black violence, Black boys killing Black boys as just another day's events. It is not until "The Other" slaughters a young, Black male do we begin to speak of the preciousness of their lives. I saw a post from a Black female friend overseas that asked "My son is 17 in America, is he safe?" No, he is not...but he never was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">-A Message To My Friend Bill</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bill,</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am a reader. I don't like being read to. I don't watch the videos when I see a new article on the Internet. I need to read each word and run my fingers over certain words to truly understand. However, I made the "mistake" of going on line and hitting the arrow in the middle of the screen that played the audio of the 911 calls in Sandford, Fl. Bill, I've spent the last hour trying to come back from the dark place it took me. I've been following this case diligently for the past three weeks, but it wasn't till today that I cried. To hear the wails of Trayvon Martin screaming for help is causing my soul to burn. I weep when I realize that his mother and father have had to hear the sounds of their son dying. The world can listen to the sounds of their son dying, yet no one, no institution has come to their aid and arrested this man. Arrest George Zimmerman. Arrest the responding officers. With each cry Trayvon made for his life, I felt my life long personal politics and spiritual stance on the death penalty begin to escape out my body and that scares me. To know that Zimmerman can feel the sun on his face, can inhale the smells of the living and can also hear the cries of the manchild he slaughtered makes me confused by a cornucopia of emotions I am overwhelmed with, in a way I didn't know I was capable of feeling. How many more seconds must this mother endure the torture of having her son's murderer be held unaccountable for his death? Our living is not to be in vain. Damn, Bill. Damn.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">-Response to a Facebook status:</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div>As the mother of four sons, yes, it could have been any of our sons...but I pray that is not the only reason our heartaches over this story. Globally, whether you have been the vehicle to allow a black boy to enter this earth or not, we should be outraged that an unarmed child was slaughtered by an adult. The child was hunted. The child begged for help, yet his life was taken. Globally, we should be outraged that a local police officer/s acted as judge and jury and did not arrest Zimmerman. Globally, we should be outraged that the sounds of a child screaming for his life have been recorded for his parents to have to hear...for the world to hear...yet justice has yet to been served. Yes, I too can personally connect to being a mother of two Black teenaged boys...but as humans, we must counter the attack on our black boys. That the "image" of his black body in this predominately white neighborhood was grounds to consider him suspicious is problematic. I cannot bring myself to cast judgment of those who called the police versus going outside. My pray is that some of that audio footage, although horrific, will help bring justice for Trayvon Martin. My continued prayers for all.<br />
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TEXT MESSAGE</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
A text message conversation with my friend’s 12 year old daughter:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: Did you hear about Trayvon Martin?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Yes, baby. I’ve been following the case since the beginning. Have you spoken to your Mom or Dad about it? (I then called her parents to ask if they wanted me to continue this conversation with their daughter. They agreed.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: Yea, it’s so sad. I wish I could do something but I can’t really.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Oh no! That is not true, young lady. You can 1) Stay in prayer for him and his family. 2) You can write a letter to the Sandford Mayor and/or the police department 3) You can send a card to his family. We can ALWAYS do something, baby girl.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: I think I’ll write a letter. And also, in a recording, they said the killer’s number.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Yes, but you shouldn’t call him. Let the authorities worry about him. We should write letters to those who need us the most. Trayvon’s family and those with the power to arrest Zimmerman. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: Yea, but the authorities let him go scott-free (Scotch-free) which is what makes me mad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Yes, baby, they did. There is a law in Florida called “Standing your ground” that came out in 2005. It is under that law, why they are saying they let him go. It is a terrible injustice. You have the right to be mad. I am very mad and upset myself. It’s been three weeks now and it hurts my heart deeply. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: Can’t they change the law?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me. Well, that’s part of the things that we can do as citizens. We can write letters to Gov. Bush asking to rethink/repeal the law. That’s why you should never feel helpless. You have a voice in this world. You can always us it to help someone and make it a better place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: Ok</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Big hug, sweetie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12yrs: Awwww</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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REFLECTIONS<br />
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- I know it seems small, but my blood boils when I hear the term "The Trayvon Martin Case" on the news and in writings. We did the same thing to Rodney King..."The Rodney King Case." Trayvon Martin is guilty of nothing. Trayvon Martin does not have a "case". Trayvon Martin will never had a "case". Trayvon Martin is not on trial. Shit, at this point, George Zimmerman doesn't even have a "case"! Let's work on making that happen and leave the term associated with criminal activity AWAY from Trayvon Martin's name.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">- "I am Trayvon Martin" has been the FB status of many with photos of themselves in hoodies. I understand. I understand 100%. I don't challenge it. I don't question the movement or the stance. In fact, my FB profile picture is that of all four of my sons with hoodies on. I must confess, however, that I am not ready to see Trayvon's face replaced yet. I have yet to fully learn and appreciate who he was as a person. Ergo, I am definitely not ready for him to become a symbol. I want to know who this 17 year old boy was in his lifetime. I want to celebrate what he made happy, what brought him joy. I want to know everything I can, some tangible information that can keep him human and alive for as long as possible. He was his mother's son. He was his father's son. He was a sibling. A cousin. A classmate. A teammate. He was a manchild. He was not a hoodie. I never met him but I'm not ready to let "him" go. </div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-74083040994892311802012-03-16T17:46:00.015-04:002012-03-18T11:21:24.257-04:00Everything Must Change: My Journey as a Bergtraumnite<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I think as conscious beings, at some point, we all stop and wonder what life would be like if we were born in a different time or a different place. I was born in 1970 and raised in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, NY. My childhood included <i>The Electric Company, Good Times, Sigmund the Sea-monster</i>, Fun Dip, hot peas & butter, Lottos, hard-pressed Lee’s, getting in the house before the street lights came on, neighbors sitting on the stoop or looking out the window who would tell your parents if you “showed out”, three finger name rings, Kangols, government block cheese, Guardian Angels with red berets on the A train, Pop-rocks and double dutch with wire cords. My childhood also included chain snatchings, muggings, Decepticons, rows of burnt out houses, open lots with stray dogs and the birth of crack. If I could have control over when or where I was born, I would change nothing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Evidence of the beauty of the haphazard mystery that placed me on this earth when and where it did is deeply rooted in the years 1984-1988 of my youth. I spent 1984 -1988 as a high school student at Murry Bergtraum High School for Business Careers. The same Murry Bergtraum High School that was dubbed “The Worst School in NY” earlier this week. Yes, I am in education, but I’m not about to blog about education. This isn’t a piece about failing schools, over-crowded classrooms, out of control students, dis-connected parents, ineffective teaching methodologies, poor leadership, low expectations, teaching to the test or educational policy. Are these all worthy topics? Of course they are! However, today, I refuse in this blog to search for the blame or for the answer to what has happened to my beloved Bergtraum. All I want to do is reflect upon is my journey from 1984-1988 at Bergtraum. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I came from a Catholic elementary school in Brooklyn. For the most part, two types of families sent their children to Catholic schools at that time. The first type of family were the ones that worked hard to pay tuition to provide their children with an education that they believed surpassed that of whatever the local public school in our neighborhood provided. The second type of family that sent their children to Catholic elementary school were, well, Catholics. I came from both types. At the end of the eight-grade, my Grandparents were not happy to learn that I had chosen to go to a public high school. Though my mother was no longer a practicing Catholic by the time I graduated elementary school, my Grandparents maintained that their granddaughter belonged at all girl’s Catholic school, just like the one my mother and aunt attended. My going to a public high school was surely a step backwards in the progression towards success for two Caribbean immigrants who founded our family unit.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I was actually waited listed at Bergtraum. I don’t remember when I came off the list, but I remember being devastated when they didn’t accept me at the first go round. I remember preparing my self to attend a fairly new school called Manhattan Center for Science and Mathematics. Nevertheless, I came off the list and my Bergtraum journey began. I lived in Bed-Stuy and Bergtraum is located in lower Manhattan. The distance by the train is 30 minutes door to door, including a stop at the bodega for a pack on Funyuns. However, I was my Grandparents only grandchild and a girl. At 13 years old, I wasn’t allowed to catch the train at my local stop of Bedford & Nostrand. I had to take the #38 bus from the corner of Tompkins and DeKalb, across from Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church, which was the former St. Ambrose Catholic Church where my family attended and I was christened, all the way to Jay St to catch the A train two stops to Broadway and Nassau. What should have been 30 minutes was 60 minutes for me, each way. The bus ride wasn’t bad, though. Most mornings the bus was too packed for me to get a seat, but by the time those Brooklyn Tech kids got off at Ft. Green Park, I had enough time to finish my math problems for Mr. Seba.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Up until that point in my life, I only had one friend outside of Brooklyn. Her name was Michele, we met at camp and she lived on the Upper Westside. It was at Bergtraum where I made my first friends from The Boogie Down, the LES, Washington Heights, Cambria Heights and the most remote part of NYC known to mankind, Staten Island from a place called Park Hill. I had Asian friends that would bring me pork dumplings that weren’t even available at the Chinese spot around my way. My love for pulpo salad was born thanks to a Bergtraum classmate. Under the roof of that triangle building were children of every shade of brown, black, beige, yellow and shades of pink imaginable. Bergtraum was a melting pot. On Facebook today, I posted a news article about MBHS written by a long time teacher. A dear classmate responded to that post and wrote, “It was definitely a way out of the neighborhood, to a whole diverse perspective on life and my city!” Yes it was! Up until September 1984, I knew Bed-Stuy, I knew Clinton Hills and I knew downtown Brooklyn like the back of my hand, but I knew NOTHING about New York City. Bergtraum brought all five boroughs to me each and everyday. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At Bergtraum, I learned that I could not type to save my life. At Bergtraum, I learned that I was good at math because I had a teacher who said I was. At Bergtraum, I discovered my love for Shakespeare and attended my first Opera, because the most eloquent, refined and intelligent man I had ever met made sure I was exposed to the Arts. At Bergtraum, I fell in love with fashion and the runway. At Bergtraum, I became the best girl’s volleyball fan ever, cause Lord knows I was born without the athletic gene. At Bergtraum, I covered a year long battle with alopecia with an array of hats, head wraps made from any cloth I could put my hands on, long bangs that not only covered my lost hair line and bald spots but also my right eye, yet no one ever judged me. At Bergtraum, I had an advisor who knew I was too prideful to ever discuss any challenges in my life, but also knew that a locker located outside of The Guidance Office that was filled to the brim with clothing, shoes and toiletries was surely not going to go unnoticed for long and moved my locker into her office. At Bergtraum, I disliked by Guidance Counselor because she discouraged my college choices. At Bergtraum, I met a new English teacher who enter my senior year, requested that I take her AP English class (the first time MBHS offered an Advanced Placement class) and contradicted everything my Guidance Counselor said. She knew that at 17 years old, I was working two jobs after schools and was solely responsible for the financing of my college career. She said “I want you to apply to SUNY Binghamton” and I did what I was told. Although not a universal truth, at Bergtraum we planned on living the life of Whitley and Dwayne and attending a college that was just like what we saw on television. If college wasn’t in our plans, well, that was okay too. We were graduating from Murry Bergtraum High School for Business Careers and surely had a great gig linked up in the corporate world that was far more prestigious than the work our parents did. We made our parents proud. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Bergtraum was fun. Bergtraum was safe. Bergtraum was my home. I knew it then and I know it now. But, what I didn’t know then, that I do know now is that the bonds created during 1984-1988 would grow greater and stronger over the years. Fast forward to the birth of Facebook. Well, maybe not the birth of Facebook, but the introduction of Facebook to the over 30 crowd. By 2008, Facebook was one big, virtual Bergtraum yearbook. I reconnected with close friends from school and connected with classmates that I only slightly remembered but have since grown close to. Since 2008, the MBHS Facebook community has functioned as a family. We “speak” daily. We pray for each other. We cheer for each other. We work together. We visit each other. We share our children's antics (I’m extremely guilty of this one). We post the visual snapshots of the years we missed as well as our daily living photos. But it’s more than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Two of our sister-classmates were diagnosed with cancer. We held a conference call prayer meeting. We sent each an Ipod filled with dozens and dozens of songs, dedicated to each of them from their classmates near and far. Each classmate picked a song/s, wrote sentiments of support and we sent them to our sister with hopes that they would both feel our love transmitted through the music. When their battle ended, we grieved together. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When our sister-classmate gave birth to a baby girl with a rare heart disease, we sent baby clothes and items and raised funds for the cause. We’ve participated in major charitable walks in the name of our beloved classmates to help eradicate that that challenges them. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We are at the age where burying our parents is becoming more familiar. We sent donations and flowers during our time of sorrow. We are in the midst of an economic downturn that resulted in lost jobs. We sent support and dug deep into our professional networks for employment leads. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We board airplanes to celebrate each other’s birthdays, graduations, children’s baptisms and family reunions. I’m sure there are a tons of other examples that I am forgetting and tons more that I am unaware of. We don’t always agree, but we always respect. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A few years ago I started a small annual scholarship at MBHS grad. It’s not a lot amount, probably just enough to buy one semester’s worth of books for the recipient. I named it The Reciprocity Scholarship. I knew that I had to give back to the table that fed me so well. Each year, I read over the applications. I am not looking for the best scholar with the highest grads. I’m looking for the student with drive, resiliency and desire to be helpful in their community. Each year, the stories get more and more heart wrenching. The adversity that these students face is mind boggling, yet they continue to navigate a path toward college, independence and productive citizenship. I’ve been blessed to keep in touch with not only my 1984-1988 MBHS family, but my scholarship recipients as well. There is one I consider my daughter. She lives with me now. Each day I become more and more proud of her and her accomplishments. She is working her way though college and is a member of The National Guard. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have no idea what the future hold for Murry Bergtraum High School for Business Career, but I know there was a time when I planned my future within the comforts of Murry Bergtraum. Murry Bergtraum took care of me and I've tried my darnest to return the favor. I am thankful for my experience. I would change nothing…not even those mustard and ketchup gym uniforms. In 1988, an extremely talented singer-classmate who I love more today than I did then sang our graduation song. For the bottom of her heart with each note perfectly executed, she sang George Benson’s “Everything Must Change.” Who knew how right she would be? </div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-85917505129020854532012-02-23T22:23:00.004-05:002012-03-17T18:09:04.744-04:00The Beauty of My Silence<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Late Sunday night, I decided to check Boy 3's homework. In his folder was an assignment that consisted of a simple and direct two part question. The question read: If you could ask anyone one question, who would you ask and what?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Boy 3's answer was also simple and direct: If I could ask anyone one question, I would ask my Dad what he thinks of me. I would ask him this because he is not present with me and I want to know if he is proud of me.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">So, my boy wants to know if his Dad is proud of him. It's been a few years now since his Dad's death. I, of course, can see the ridiculous smile that would take over his father's entire face when any of boys made him proud. However, Boy 3 is too young to bring forth those visual memories like I can. Heck, I'm not even sure how many visual memories he has of his father. It's a hard pill to swallow, but </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Boy 3 has no earthly way of knowing if he Dad is proud of him. Or so I thought. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; line-height: 18px;">I posted his homework question and homework answer as my Facebook status. I didn't add any additional thoughts or commentary. I just copied the question and Boy 3's answer. My post was meet with a flood of comments directed to my Boy 3. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; line-height: 18px;">Some from those who knew his father loosely:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - among a slew of other things, that question alone would make him proud...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - Tell Boy 3 that I only briefly met his dad, but I know as a father myself his dad would be proud of him for having the sense of presence to ask such a profound question.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; line-height: 14px;">Some from those who didn't know his father at all:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - No doubt he is proud of you honey! Look at you Boy 3! Look at your family! You are awesome! So many people are proud of you and some of them don't even know you! That alone says a whole lot!!!!!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - He is very proud of all of you!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Some from those who knew his father extremely well:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - OMG, he is so proud of all the boys... Tell him not only his dad but many of your family and friends are so proud of him, I know I am!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - From people who knew his dad tell him his dad would be more than proud. He would be walking tall because of those boys.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - As one who knew his dad well enough to admit him to college, let them all know he is indeed proud, more than proud, as are we all who invest one generation and are humbled to see that faith manifest in the next. Awesome.</span><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">Some of the responses were not about his Dad at all. There were expressions of wonder, shared common </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">loss, and words of support.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - Children have such a beautiful mixture of innocence and wisdom... wow</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - Having lost my mom at an early age I have often wanted to ask that question also. Please tell your boys that dad is truly proud of them and that all the angels gang up to make sure we are always protected. Not just one angel looking out for us but all of them.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> - The conversations we have with those that have past are perhaps the most profound and telling of our true character.... I ask my father a similar question everyday.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">See, sometimes, no matter what I say or do, I am <i>just</i> Ma/Mommy/Mom/Mama. No matter how much truth I try to speak about their Dad's love for the boys or the passion in which I express it, I get caught in an abyss of motherhood, which reduces anything I say to my children as an obligatory expression of supportive rhetoric..."Mommy-talk". As far as the boys are concerned, I <i>have</i> to say good things. I <i>have</i> to paint a rose-colored picture. My authenticity is diminished by virtue of being their mother. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">Hearing others speak of his father's pride added a perspective that I could never provide. Boy 3 wanted to know how each person knew his Dad. When did they meet? Had they ever seen Boy 3 with his Dad? He wanted to see pictures of the people who said they knew his Dad. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">The pictures of their faces gave life to his Dad for few minutes. For Boy 3, he could see that his Dad had friends and that the person looking back at him on a computer screen off of their Facebook page was evidence of such.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"> He needed see the people behind the comments to make sure they were real. He found comfort in knowing that I hadn't asked for their thoughts or commentary. They simply had expressions that they wanted to share with him. This wasn't something Mommy <i>made</i> happen for his sake. People responded because people wanted to respond. Words said in a voice other than my own is what my child needed. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">Please understand, I was formally taught Leadership, Resiliency and Social Change theory that is deeply rooted in the belief that you never let anyone else speak for you or tell your story. Yes, that is a political ideology, but the personal is political where I come from. I was taught by some of the most brilliant theorist the power behind claiming your own voice. Sharing your personal and political story is a revolutionary stance that we each owe ourselves and the world. Surely, no one else could show <i>my </i>children how much they are loved by their father but <i>me. We </i>created those boys and <i>I</i> am all that is left of <i>we</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">. This was <i>my</i> story to tell and convey to my son. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">My Boy 3 and all those who responded taught me the beauty of my silence. By saying nothing, I unknowingly opened a door for others to fill my Boy's void. By saying nothing, my son heard everything he needed to hear. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Postscript:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Thank you to all of you who replied to my status. I am much obliged. </span></span><br />
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</span></span>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-27692626826895160182012-02-19T10:38:00.000-05:002012-02-19T10:38:10.778-05:00When Good Goes Bad.Boy 2 and Boy 3 attend a school that is pretty strict and doesn't have a lot of tolerance for their boy energy. The also have an extended school day from 7:50 to 4pm., so by the time I pick them up from school they are about to combust. I get it. It doesn't bother me or maybe I've just become immune to it. I just need to try to visualize how hyper and rowdy they can be after school and then hold that imagine, while I continue the story.<br />
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Nevertheless, I am driving them home from school with another teenage classmate and Boy 4, who is <i>always</i> ready to combust... but that's a different story. We live in an older well established neighborhood. The houses average, I'd say roughly 90 years old with trees that are equally as old. We also have a good number of elderly empty nesters in our neighborhood, as well. As I drive down the block parallel to mine, Boy 3 says "Mommy, we should help her." I didn't see whatever it is he saw, so I asked "Help who?" "That old lady in the yard." I glance behind me and I see an elderly lady picking up tree debris from her yard, a fairly significant amount of broken branch pieces. This is a no-brainer. I put the car in reverse. I stop in front of her house and I say to the boys "Go handle that." Random acts of kindness in its simplest form. Four able body boys doing what for them is easy labor, so one elderly home owner would not have to do what appeared to be difficult labor for her. AND it was Boy 3's idea! He saw it and he wanted to help. What a nice simple story of raising compassionate boys, right? WRONG!!<br />
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My boys jumped out the truck ran onto her yard with all their "boy energy", began picking up a bunch of broken sticks, headed towards the woman to put them in her bag and damn near gave that poor women a heartache. She clutched herself so tight and started running backyards, all the while say "No. No. No. No." That poor lady. She was petrified.<br />
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Have you seen these new post of Facebook where the photo has a professional title centered and underneath it shows pictures of what people think they do for a living versus what they really do?<br />
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Here's an example:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfVeK-GWzDKiETbcHFk0aOoqpwSSBxO9bcnMOFUcEVtlaC1Hz94JQX-fsU1uQekf3gkWRmF6aN4x5vX7jeEGPcJOPZfOLS1SHT70AOME0aZnzKEXmFglvqL4ZS0EHpbHLKqj1tIY1EUi0/s1600/409388_10151294016070370_644725369_23155436_1529406565_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfVeK-GWzDKiETbcHFk0aOoqpwSSBxO9bcnMOFUcEVtlaC1Hz94JQX-fsU1uQekf3gkWRmF6aN4x5vX7jeEGPcJOPZfOLS1SHT70AOME0aZnzKEXmFglvqL4ZS0EHpbHLKqj1tIY1EUi0/s320/409388_10151294016070370_644725369_23155436_1529406565_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Well, I am going make one for our attempt at a Random Act of Kindness. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">"What we think we do"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNBp4WKCCnpNVVwKQZUjCzL-VmzqyqePzxsRsvzevhuRWSgldUsMDDf0DpJfG_m5Ur6pqlM7gzZXyOb6fAXucNx12GX3NVerv5LirwNPEPRHeaTMSyuM632ZEKQIt7n7MyKodlZ0gjV4/s1600/Mother-Teresa-kindness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNBp4WKCCnpNVVwKQZUjCzL-VmzqyqePzxsRsvzevhuRWSgldUsMDDf0DpJfG_m5Ur6pqlM7gzZXyOb6fAXucNx12GX3NVerv5LirwNPEPRHeaTMSyuM632ZEKQIt7n7MyKodlZ0gjV4/s320/Mother-Teresa-kindness.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> "What our poor elderly neighbor thought we were going to do"</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLyhmgJb1KdO-XdDSDR9WHlaXERHgrjCnj0sh5l0GonHBzC_RLBN3KI3DerYIS_Dzil2SCHlvl-LRvnwmmUxPWSRNyvnknjupz87en7z3cWRJWDEuqMILtki_KC-HPXeeCYr-xIVxhHLc/s1600/grand-theft-auto-san-andreas-20041029021925154_1099100734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLyhmgJb1KdO-XdDSDR9WHlaXERHgrjCnj0sh5l0GonHBzC_RLBN3KI3DerYIS_Dzil2SCHlvl-LRvnwmmUxPWSRNyvnknjupz87en7z3cWRJWDEuqMILtki_KC-HPXeeCYr-xIVxhHLc/s320/grand-theft-auto-san-andreas-20041029021925154_1099100734.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I felt terrible. I really wasn't trying to kill my neighbor. I swear, I was trying to be helpful. So, I rolled down the window and tried to calm her down. "No worries, Ma'am. I just sent my boys to pick up the branches, so you wouldn't have to. They can take care of it." She wasn't feeling me, either. She wanted all of us the hell up off her property. So we retreated.<br />
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I will take responsibility for this chapter of When Good Goes Bad. At the heart of this, is a lesson I need to learn about being so daggone abrasive. It just never occurred to me that the sight of three teenage boys and one minion jumping out of truck, grabbing sticks and heading towards you could <i>actually </i>be frightening to an elderly woman alone on her yard. I'm an idiot. End of story.EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-72618622700624183312012-02-14T10:33:00.002-05:002012-02-14T10:40:50.362-05:00A Silly Love Song<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am a music lover. I am not a musician. I am not a singer. I am just a woman who appreciates "good" music. "Good" being defined solely by me. My sons were raised in a house filled with "good" music. I have proudly raised music lovers. (Well, except for one. Boy 3, could careless if there is a radio, CD player, Ipod, jukebox or an eight-track cassette player, for that matter, in his life.) For the first decade of their lives, the Boys listened to what I listened to. After that, they began to develop their own likes and taste in music. Ok, in all fairness, maybe they developed it prior to the age of 10 and I just forced them to suppress it because I refused to listen to anything other than what I deemed "good". That should only cost them one session of therapy when they become adults and complain about their controlling mother. That's not so bad. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nevertheless, today is Valentine's Day. "What your favorite love song?" I decided to do an extremely unscientific empirical analysis of my Boys based on their choice of song. Does their favorite love song correlate to their personality? If in fact, Marianne Williamson is correct when she wrote, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth. To be consciously aware of it, to experience love in ourselves and others, is the meaning of life" then surely I should be able to extrapolate some analysis about who my sons are based on their choice of love songs. I made it very clear that this had no scientific merit, didn't I? Moving forward, let's see how this unfolds. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Boy 1</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Oh, Boy 1, "What your favorite love song?" I just sent him a text message. He is away at school. Insert Jeopardy music. He replied, "What?" I don't know that song. Did he just reply to my question with a question? Major pet peeve, but I digress. Let's try again. "Can you just answer the question?" Insert Jeopardy music. "Cupid. Why?" Ha! I could have guessed that one and I don't have to explain anything to a non-income generator, so I won't be responding to his "Why?" </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><i>Cupid </i>by 112</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><i>Cupid.</i> A very straight forward, no frills, non complicated love song. It's well put together and the type of song that is easy on listen to. I enjoy it in my ears. It has a certain appeal. When I hear it, I sway gently, I sing along gently and I'm happy to have had the listening experience. It's not complex or overbearingly intense. It's simply pleasing. It makes you happy. It's the type of song that is hard not to like. Yep, just like Boy 1. So far I am an empirical genius!! </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Boy 2.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"What your favorite love song?" </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"You know that answer to that question." As he walks away looking like the Black teenaged version of Lurch from the Addam's Family. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6J5FyA2WIsSUiMxu4R-Tulxo2-qSG-gnVC8ZWJzg1RM_Gj0dyl3eGCLTcLkNPhvxhVXWkdEFHHMQsq4VN9GZiDcLDYHhQ-c6cVhqXrR2TWVkeyfKjgqiF_KJ2mbFaFpjAhlRRj5UQjg/s1600/Lurch-addams-family-5531118-400-300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6J5FyA2WIsSUiMxu4R-Tulxo2-qSG-gnVC8ZWJzg1RM_Gj0dyl3eGCLTcLkNPhvxhVXWkdEFHHMQsq4VN9GZiDcLDYHhQ-c6cVhqXrR2TWVkeyfKjgqiF_KJ2mbFaFpjAhlRRj5UQjg/s320/Lurch-addams-family-5531118-400-300.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Boy 2, every morning before school.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Well, he is right. I do know that answer to the question. The WHOLE house knows the answer to this question. See, Boy 2 is the music lover and singer in the family. He has been obsessed with this song since forever. Literally, his forever. The song is older that he is and I've never known him not to sing it. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><i>Kiss From A Rose </i>by Seal</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/x-Q3Pc1RwoM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Ok, what's the point of this study again? Oh, yes, to see if my children's favorite love song reflects who they are. (For all of you who actually know Boy 2, all the Aunties and Uncles out there, you can stop laughing now for the obvious reason.)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Ok, make no mistake, this is a beautiful song. It is masterfully arranged and sung to perfection. This is a "stop what you're doing and turn up the volume" type of song. It is impossible not to get caught in it's rapture. It is captivating. It's a two time Grammy winner. This is no obscure B-side song. This is legitimately a power house of a song. However, w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">hat the hell is Seal talking about? A</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> tower. Snow. Kissing flowers with thorns. Addiction. Power. Pleasure. Pain. And what the heck does "on the grey" mean? No, I'm not going to google it. In general, I guess, I get it. I mean, it is a song about love, right? Surely there has to be a simpler way of stating it. What's the need to be so complex? Oh $&%*! This really IS about my son!! That's totally him. I am LOVING this experiment. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Boy 3.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Oh boy...I already know how this is going to turn out. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"Boy, what's your favorite love song?"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">Silence.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"Helllllllo! What's your favorite love song?"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"I don't like music like that."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"Seriously? Can you just answer the question?"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"Stevie Wonder. The dolphin song."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">(And just so you know, his eyes were closed during this entire conversation.)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">So, for all you Stevie Wonder fan's out there, you will immediate note that Stevie never recorded anything called "The Dolphin Song." Because he belongs to me, I happen to speak Boy 3. What my child is referring to is a particular lyric. The song that my child is refer to is titled <i>As</i>. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><i>As</i> by Stevie Wonder</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/KWhMyOs0pCQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;">"I'll be loving you always...until dolphins fly and parrots live at sea" If you need the reference.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"> If we have ever met, you know that I am a Stevie Wonder fanatic. Given that Boy 3 could care less about music, I will argue that this may be the only song that he needs to have in his life anyway! Pure genius. An incredible piece of brilliance with powerful lyrics about unconditional, everlasting love. It speaks of individual love, spiritual love and the love for all humanity. It is a celebration of love, as well as a demand for us to spread love. It's a get up and move your ass love song. <i>As</i> is about loyalty. <i>As</i> is about eternity, a love that continues beyond our time on earth. <i>As </i>is a cornucopia of intensity, power, tenderness and sincerity. Hot Damn! I done did it again! That is Boy 3. He, too, is a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">cornucopia of intensity, power, tenderness and sincerity.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Caveat: Boy 3 would have given the same answer if I asked him "What's your favorite pre-football game hype song?" He really doesn't listen to music and this really is the ONLY song he likes. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Boy 4.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Hey, Little Bit, what's your favorite love song?"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And this is where my entire experiment blew up in my face. I refuse to offer an analysis. I am walking away from the data in shame. I am an absolute failure as an empirical scientist and I dare say, even as a parent. I will not skew the data. I will present my findings. However, please note that I am deeply troubled and I questioning where did I go wrong. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I asked Boy 4, my sweet, youngest child, what was his favorite love song and with a big, wide grin and energy at Level 10, this is how he responded.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Gold Digger </i> by Kanye West and Jamie Fox. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/6vwNcNOTVzY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-3716284328505104452012-02-10T08:56:00.000-05:002012-02-10T08:56:44.786-05:00The White Boy Pass<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Ok, I am a fan of words and I have no problem using them as weapons when faced with conflict. Boy 1 is the exact opposite. Boy 1’s toolbox in which to argue/debate is damn near empty. He has two responses to any form of confrontation. The first level response is "yeah, iiight.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That translates into "Yeah. Alright" for those of us who don't speak 15 year old boy. You also have to throw your head slightly back to make it authentic. If "yeah, iiight" does not suffice and his opponent continues the attack, the next and final level of response is "Ayo, Ima punch you in your face.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Which he quickly follows up. He is a bit of a Neanderthal, but he is mine!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, he tells me that there is this thing at his school called "The White Boy Pass".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The White Boy Pass is when a Black kid gives a White kid permission, a pass, to use the N-word. As the story goes, a White kid called another White kid the N-word in front of Boy 1. Boy 1 immediately looked at the kid but exchanged no words, of course. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Remember whom we are working with here. That's when the White kids explained The White Boy Pass. Boy 1 responded "Yeah iiight. Nah.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That extra "nah" is very important. "Nah" translates into "try that @#$% with me and see what happens."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s an elevated form of his first level response that let’s you know that the second level response will not come with a warning. Fortunately, these boys speak 15-year-old Boy too and understood the message. From there it became known on their small campus that Boy 1 does not condone The White Boy Pass and one should not use the N-word in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Additionally, Boy 1 “confronted” the distributor of The White Boy Pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Ayo, The White Boy Pass? Nah, son” is what Boy 1 said to the Black kid who was the authorized dealer of The White Boy Pass. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That translates to “I can’t believe you have created something called The White Boy Pass, thus condoning racist rhetoric amongst our teammates. You are dishonoring our past and our present. You are willing to be belittled for acceptance amongst these kids. I am ashamed of you. You will no longer grant<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The White Boy Pass. Do we understand each other?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was spared all the details, but apparently a White teammate assumed that his close knit sports-based relationship with Boy 1 would supersede my son’s stance on The White Boy pass. In the locker room, this child decided to refer to the opposing team as a collective group of N-words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In Boy 1’s world, he had already used his first level response for confrontation and did not feel it necessary to repeat himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, he had used the elevated form of his first level response and included the “Nah.” Therefore, there was no need for the verbal “Ayo, Ima punch you in your face” and he immediately clocked the kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It didn’t escalate into a locker room brawl or a race riot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, it wasn’t a “big deal” at all in Boy 1’s world. As far as all parties were concerned, “Yeah, iiight. Nah” was a full dissertation on Boy 1’s stance on the N-word and all he did was keep his word. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, how did I come to learn of this story? Remember, Boy 1 is not a talker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was dropping Boy 1 off on campus. As we enter his hallway, I see a young man look at Boy 1 and immediately go in his room and shut the door. I noticed this odd reaction, but I didn’t question it. I think all teenage boys are odd. Boy 1 realizes that he forgot his key to the storage area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He went to knock on the door of the hall-mate that had just shut his door moments earlier. As he walks toward the young man’s room he says to me “Watch this, Ma”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Boy 1 knocks on the door. The voice from the other side says, “I’m not letting you in”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Boy 1 says, “Yeah, iiight. I just need the storage key.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The voice from the other side says,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“I’m not letting you in. You’re gonna hit me. Go ask somebody else.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am completely bewildered. Boy 1 is cracking up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Boy 1 says, “Ayo, my mother is right HERE. I’m not gonna do anything to you. Just lend me the key.” The voice from the other side says nothing and slides the key under the door. I need an immediate explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And that is how I learned of The White Boy Pass. The voice on the other side was the teammate that tested Boy 1’s stance on the N-word. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, there is no moral to the story. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I will not be providing a summary or a final analysis as a mother or as a Sociologist. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There will be no opinions expressed on violence, non-violence, racial pride, communication, assimilation, entitlement or anything else. This is just a glimpse of a page in the daily life of me. Till the next episode, walk good, iiight. </p> <!--EndFragment-->EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-45980387256478245582011-10-13T21:56:00.002-04:002011-10-14T00:03:05.543-04:00From "40" to "INTO MY 40s"I've been doing this 40 thing for 11 months now. If wisdom is truly represented by gray hairs than I am slowly becoming quite the sage. Allow me to share 40 pieces of my wisdom. Agh, the caveat, I am a Scorpio...most of the wisdom shared will be purely introspective and relative to MY 40 year journey and not a universal truth. In no particular order and no editing. Let's go:<br />
<br />
1. Natural childbirth is for the birds.<br />
2. Never smell clothes left on the floor of your son's room to see if they are clean or dirty. In the best interest of your nasal cavity and lungs, just assume it's dirty.<br />
3. It all boils down to Love or Anger. I feel all emotions deeply. However, I am only capable of expressing two emotions comfortably: Love and Anger. All other emotions must be transformed into one of those two in order for me to express them. Prime and actual example: My best friend is rushed to the emergency room. As soon as I am able to speak to him, I am on a tirade of expletives scolding him for getting sick. My toolbox is not equip to properly show fear, frustration, disappointment, blah, blah, blah. Love or Anger. Period. (Yeah, yeah...I'm working on that. Catch me at 50 years old and I'll let you know if I made progress.)<br />
4. If you ask Mr. Softy to put sprinkles in the bottom of the cone before he adds the ice-cream as well as on top...you'll never run out of them.<br />
5. Being lied to deeply offends me.<br />
6. When I get to the point when I am about to explode if I don't express what's on my mind, is the same exact moment that I need to stay quiet.<br />
7. Summer is made for dresses.<br />
8. Every woman with freckles deserves to have each one kissed and counted.<br />
9. I am a concrete child, but at least once a year, I must be near sea and sand outside of my local area.<br />
10. If I love a book, I will hate the movie. Never fails. As dear friend explained it this way: When I read the book, I am the producer. When I watch the movie, someone else is the producer. I am left to witness their interpretation and they never get the damn thing right!<br />
11. Beautiful penmanship is artistry and plain ol' sexy.<br />
12. I love deeply.<br />
13. Never hold an infant while your son scores a touchdown.<br />
14. Don't confuse a compliment for flirting. They are two different things.<br />
15. Worse things have happened to better people. Be thankful. Trust me, there is something in the midst of the madness to be thankful for.<br />
16. If you can afford to spend a portion of your career at home with your children and can only do it once, do it when they are pre/teens. As infants, we need to be around them more than they need to be around us. Let's face it, my sons have no recollection of who feed them, sang to them or rocked them. As teenagers, it's us versus friends and pop-culture. We need to be there to answer questions, provide clarity, show examples, and listen! It's one of our last chances to make an everyday meaningful impact before they are off on their own.<br />
17. Regardless of team or group affiliation, grown men should never wear red pants.<br />
18. In all relationships, know your non-negotiables and protect them.<br />
19. Judgment based giving is an insult to the Creator.<br />
20. Thread count matters.<br />
21. Practice makes perfect is a damn lie.<br />
22. If you teach your sons that mixed-matched socks are a sign of creativity, you will drastically cut the time you spend doing laundry.<br />
23. Have a family motto, a family song and a secret code.<br />
24. No matter how many times God tries to tell me something through his/her beautiful whispers or gently nudges, I don't get it till she/he hits me over the head with a brick. The good news, The Creator will never stop delivering the message. How long we wait to receive it is up to us.<br />
25. Nutella from Paris is the best in the world.<br />
26. Make your home your sanctuary.<br />
27. Have an intimate private relationship with the arts. I need to be surrounded by visual art, live music and the theatre.<br />
28. Cancer sucks.<br />
29. Children singing, expressions of love and the witnessing of goals achieved make me cry.<br />
30. I love me some Aquarius, but they are so bad for me. I'm addicted to Cancer men, yet Cancer women are way too much for me to bare. I understand Pisces but their vanity/insecurity issues irk me. Libras frustrate me, but boy are they fun to be around. I can spend all my days and nights with a Sag and they make up the bulk of my ride-or-die girlfriends. I admire the strength and integrity of Capricorns, Aries and Taureans. Geminis are the worst drivers. I think I need a Leo in my life.<br />
31. Never lie to your children. Betrayal by a parent is a vicious hurt and I believe, the hardest pain to recover from.<br />
32. Vacationing by myself is a necessary for my well-being.<br />
33. Critical thinking is critical.<br />
34. Have a theme song.<br />
35. Everything ain't for everybody.<br />
36. Have a source of wisdom and inspiration in someone older and someone younger.<br />
37. Apologize, mean it and never do it again.<br />
38. Be spontaneous. Some of my greatest adventures came without planning or notice: skydiving and cliff diving, as example. Oh and for the record, hot air ballooning is not an adrenaline rush. Floating in the sky in a wicker basket with flames shooting out the middle was not the thrill I was looking for.<br />
39. Have a least one hobby.<br />
40. Never treat crazy like it's sane.EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-1647921359734273962011-04-11T11:57:00.003-04:002012-01-27T17:42:32.022-05:00The Celebration Service of the Life Of Lubabat A. Scotland<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYz5ML3PMQVEMj5dIhTyzxhW1Z2LObzmMuHr6vm6Ks57vv5rDNYAYnL9EwHJCBsmnIbhsf0-sJxa4Q9m3lBPif1a-pQZeFaLFy6kbye58icS9145tMNz6G87rgnOymuwiJ8etK_FzP9QE/s1600/10328_1232799658691_1190143180_30706591_280538_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYz5ML3PMQVEMj5dIhTyzxhW1Z2LObzmMuHr6vm6Ks57vv5rDNYAYnL9EwHJCBsmnIbhsf0-sJxa4Q9m3lBPif1a-pQZeFaLFy6kbye58icS9145tMNz6G87rgnOymuwiJ8etK_FzP9QE/s320/10328_1232799658691_1190143180_30706591_280538_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I guess I feel a sense of obligation to bring back to my MBHS brothers and sisters the details of the Celebration Service of Lubabat Alabi Scotland’s life. I know you all wanted to be there in body and I can confirm that you were all their in spirit. Exhaling…no editing…just writing…here we go….typos and all…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked through the door and up the brief staircase to a regal man on my right greeting everyone as they walked in. I extended my hand and said, “How are you, Sir? I am Cazzie.” He took my hand and pulled me into a hug. He said “Oh, Cazzie. I’m Scotty.” Scotty, Lubabat’s husband. He said thanked me for coming. We had a brief conversation in which he said, “Lubabat always said that that 12<sup>th</sup> grade year was one of the best years of her life.” I don’t remember all else that was said, but I remember looking over his shoulder at a young man slightly taller than me with Lubabat’s cheeks. Sylvian, her son. He stood tall, quiet and strong. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gislene, my sister Gigi, and I went into the chapel and listened to Louie Armstrong playing in the background. The chapel was bright, sunny and filled with hues of peaches and cream. A visual metaphor that, indeed, everything would okay. At the center of the chapel was picture of Lubabat in her wedding gown. What a beautiful bride! That Lubabat smile that showcased those Lubabat cheeks invoked a sense of comfort but also a sense of longing to want to see them again in person. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The video screen had a beautiful picture of Lubabat in a blue dress with that great smile, again. As the service was set to begin, the music began. The first note of Angela Winbush’s “Your Smile” started and so did my tears. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When in your eyes shine pictures of a time for us</i>. Lubabat’s mother, Deloris entered the room. I still haven’t managed not to get angry when I think of a mother losing her child. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I melt with love When your lips kiss, silent words Move the earth and shake my world.</i> Scotty and Sylvian walked down the center aisle. The strength in each of their steps was amazing to behold. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But nothin' means as much (Your smile) Nothin' seems to touch (Your smile) Your smile (Your smile) Oh, if anything I miss (Your smile) Never could resist (Your smile) Your smile. </i>Lip biting tears that left no track marks thanks to the brilliance of water-proof mascara.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Director of the funeral home was the first to speak. He welcomed us and assured us that this was going to be a celebration. He instructed us to be happy in our thoughts and to hold back our tears. Already I had failed to follow instructions. Thankfully, Scotty began to guide the celebration and gave us all permission to cry, as long as they were tears of joy. I cannot honestly say that each tear was a tear of joy, but I was relieved to know that my tears were welcomed…as Gigi moved the box of tissue from her side of the bench to tiny space that separated us from each other. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Scotty. How do I even find the words to explain Cowinton Scotland aka Scotty? He led us through a beautiful tribute through the life of his wife, his love, our friend, Lubabat. He openly joked about how he would one day see Lubabat again and shake his fist at her for making him wear a suit. He laughed at how she will look down at him from heaven and call him “silly” if he got overwhelmed with emotion. He choked back tears and words as he tried to describe his wife’s love for their son. The greatest comfort I found, was in Scotty’s love for Lubabat. It brought me great joy to know that in her lifetime, Lubabat, a woman so filled with love, was on the receiving end of a love as powerful and strong as her own. A love that she deserved. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He shared stories of how Lubabat would get him to hand out lollipops, stickers and treats to random people wherever they went. He spoke of this transformation from slight resistance to the point where he wouldn’t leave the house without a stash of Lubabat’s smiley faces to distribute throughout the day. Lubabat’s loving and giving heart was infectious. He spoke of how she would not leave Publix, their local grocery store, without placing quarters in each of the gumball machines so that a child could be granted a treat that would solicit a smile. He spoke of her dreams for making the world better and her actions that actually did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Scotty led us through a video tribute to Lubabat. It started with Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” I found myself relying on the lyrics to guide me through the visual. It was a display of wonderful pictures of Lubabat, at various stages of her life. As a picture of Lubabat appeared as a little girl playing with what looked like a pot about the size you use for spaghetti, I heard the agony of her mother’s cry and turned to see her folded over in tears. I watched Lubabat’s brother hug his mother and woman who looked a lot a like Lubabat walk forward and hug Delores Alabi. The next song was Stevie Wonder’s “Smile Please”. That was an immediate comfort for me as I had been playing it daily since hearing of Lubabat’s transition to the eternal world of peace. As various pictures appeared, Scotty would comment and make us laugh. He assured us that he received permission for Sylvian to show a picture of him as a baby walking around in diapers. He walked us through his various stages of weight gain during his 20 years as Lubabat’s love. Stevie Wonder’s “These Three Words” was next. I was pushed back into the upright 90 degree angle of my pew when the picture of what seems like a 2 foot diameter circle with a 1 foot height of the most beautiful mound of dreadlocks and hair piled on the floor. Lubabat choose not to wait for or agonize over the inevitable hair loss that would come with chemotherapy. She removed all her hair. The following picture was of Lubabat with no hair, holding a picture of a heart…smiling with those cheeks inviting you to do the same. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lubabat’s friend Audra spoke next. She shared a story that touched me deeply. Audra’s 8 week old daughter had passed away and Lubabat read about it in the newspaper. Without knowing Audra, Lubabat found a way to contact her via email and sent her a letter. In the correspondence, Lubabat offered to make memorial pins from photographs of the baby for the family to wear. Audra accepted the gift and forwarded pictures of her daughter to Lubabat, a stranger. Lubabat, made about a dozen assorted pins and left them on Audra’s doorstep on a Friday. The same Friday that Audra received the pins, she and her family proudly wore them to synagogue for service. After service, Audra and her family stopped at Publix to pick up cat food. As she was in the aisle, she heard and saw a boy pointing and yelling her way “Mommy, she’s wearing our pins. She’s wearing the pins we just made.” Sylvian had spotted the pins that his mother had made for Audra in honor of her daughter. They were strangers no more. Dear friends evermore. Divine intervention. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The last to speak was Jibrail, Lubabat’s older brother and MBHS graduate, Class of ’86. He walked us down his memory lane of being the protector of the little sister. The little sister that did what little sisters were created to do, get on their big brother’s nerves! He too brought joy to the ceremony. He spoke honorably of having to hand over the reigns of caring and protecting for his little sister to her husband Scotty. He called Scotty “his brother and a true man”. He said, “As we look through the window of humanity, we have the option of taking or serving. My sister was about service and serving humanity.” I can still hear and see him as he spoke those words in tribute to the woman Lubabat was while here on earth. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Scotty returned to the pulpit and informed us that it was extremely important to Lubabat to be respectful of each individual’s spiritual and religious beliefs. To honor her, Scotty called for a moment of silence, for each of us to call on our spiritual strength in the manner in which we were most comfortable. The service closed, with Scotty inviting us to listen to Lubabat’s favorite song by her favorite artist. Micheal Jackson’s rendition of Smile. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the end of the service, I had only 10 minutes left before I needed to head to the airport to return home. I went into the reception area to give my condolences to Lubabat’s mother. She spoke of the difficulty of having to start “my life without my daughter.” As I spoke to her, she asked me how did I know Lubabat. I told her that I graduated from Bergtraum with Lubabat and that my classmates all loved Lubabat and wished they could have been part of this celebration of her life. She looked a bit shocked and asked, “You came all the way here?” I said “Yes, Ma’am.” She immediately pulled me in and hugged me. She said “Thank you” three times straight in my right ear as she embraced me. Then, she something that sealed the fate that I would indeed leave the service with a smile, as per the mission of our sister Lubabat. She said to me “Do you know anything about that music thing they sent her. A whole bunch of them got together and dedicated songs to her. Oh she loved that music. That’s where we got the music for today from.” All I could do was smile and say “Yes, Ma’am. I know about it.” I hugged her once more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I jumped into the passenger side of Gigi’s truck and my sweet sister got me to the airport in the knick of time…only after she yelled at me and insisted that I switch my heels to flats so I could navigate through the airport in a hurry with ease. I made my flight and I smiled. I will continue to smile and find way to keep Lubabat’s legacy alive. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile, though your heart is aching</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile, even though it's breaking</div><div class="MsoNormal">When there are clouds in the sky</div><div class="MsoNormal">You'll get by...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you smile</div><div class="MsoNormal">With your fear and sorrow</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile and maybe tomorrow</div><div class="MsoNormal">You'll find that life is still worthwhile </div><div class="MsoNormal">If you just...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Light up your face with gladness</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hide every trace of sadness</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although a tear may be ever so near</div><div class="MsoNormal">That's the time you must keep on trying</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile, what's the use of crying</div><div class="MsoNormal">You'll find that life is still worthwhile</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you just...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile, though your heart is aching</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile, even though it's breaking</div><div class="MsoNormal">When there are clouds in the sky</div><div class="MsoNormal">You'll get by...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you smile</div><div class="MsoNormal">Through your fear and sorrow</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile and maybe tomorrow</div><div class="MsoNormal">You'll find that life is still worthwhile</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you just smile...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That's the time you must keep on trying</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smile, what's the use of crying</div><div class="MsoNormal">You'll find that life is still worthwhile</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you just smile </div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-25933181966820006562011-04-04T21:44:00.004-04:002011-04-04T21:47:08.945-04:00Day 7 of 29: Pardon the Interruption<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;">I was traveling Day 4-6 and had all plans of coming back on Sunday and simply filling in the gap. Well on Day 6, by 6:30am I was in tears reading the words Scotty wrote as he prepared for Lubabat's transition to eternal peace. I excused myself from those around me at that early hour, because I am a person of action and needed to process my helplessness alone. By 10am, I was filtering through my Facebook status updates and saw update after update that said "RIP Lubabat". I immediately got angry, because that's how I am wired. I said to myself "Scotty didn't say she passed. He said he was preparing! She is still with us." But then I kept scrolling and I saw the update from Scotty. I am a very self-reflective person. I know myself well. The good and the bad. The truth is, I only deal well with expressing two emotions: Love and Anger. I don't know how to process or express everything else in between. I don't know how, in this case, to express fear, disappointment, grief, surprise, or sadness. With those foreign emotions, I either deny their existence or I transform them into the only two emotions I am comfortable with: love and anger. I know that our sweet Lubabat would not endorse me being angry and would not want any thoughts, feelings or emotions regarding her life to be wrapped up in angry. I know this, but I am not there yet. I am working to change my internal pain over the loss of my inspiring friend to one of love. When I get there, I shall return. Wish me luck. Till then, walk good and smile.</span></span></span></span>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-58563211475034889072011-04-01T02:26:00.000-04:002011-04-01T02:26:44.635-04:00Day 3 of 29<div class="postbody" style="clear: left; color: #522e1a; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.2em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.7em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-overflow: ellipsis;"><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">What I Gave: </span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I live in NJ. Despite being (in)famous for the Jersey Shore, Sopranos, and Jerseylicious...it is also one of the few states (I believe 1 out of 3) where gas stations are full service...no extra charge...all the time. Today was a rainy, cold night. "Fill it up regular, please". The young, probably college aged, gas attendant took my debit card, filled my tank, handed me back my card and began to walk back to the center island. I called for him out the window and gave him a tip. He looked at me like I was crazy and laughed. I laughed to. Nothing big...but fun and a surprise.</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">What I Received:</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Now these are better stories!! I received WAY more today than I think the total of all things I gave in a year's time. </span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">1) My 11:45am Facebook status:</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Cazzie Antoinette just saw the most beautiful thing. A man in roughly his 80s was walking down the street with a cane and a full brimmed rain hat. A young woman and her male companion were walking his way. As they neared him, he stopped, tipped his hat, smiled and said Good Day. HOW WONDERFUL! What a gift to see!</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">2) The picture is hard to see here. Sorry. I thought the notebook on the floor was another one of the typical messes made by a house full of boys. When I picked it up, it was a letter written by Boy 4, 8 years old. Here's what it said (I am not correcting any grammatical or spelling errors. To me, it's perfect as it is).</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Dear Ms. Lubabat,</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I heard you had cancur. I pray for you everyday I wish you as you are in the bed. I think about you. I love you and wish you the best. :) I will ask friends and aldults to try to donate to you. Made this picture for you.</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Love, Cazzie's son Jonah</span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">And he drew a picture of Lubabat in a bed. The word "Florida" was written above it. The words "You are the Best" were written below. Underneath that picture, was a picture of Jonah in his room. He drew a caption bubble which read "I wish her the best." Then he drew a smiley face with long hair and wrote the word "Smile" and drew an arrow pointing at the picture with the word "you". I will mail this to Lubabat in the morning. </span></div><div style="font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
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</ul>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-33420401911720445892011-03-30T23:50:00.003-04:002011-03-31T07:05:36.257-04:00Day 2 Of 29<div style="color: #522e1a; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;">What did I give:</span></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"> I gave Ms. Cazzie-time. Ms. Cazzie is what I am called by my students and friends of my four sons. Boy 1 (my oldest son) is currently playing AAU basketball. Today's game was at 8pm, over an hour drive away. By 4:30pm, two of his friends had sent me text messages asking I could take them to the game. I pulled out my driveway at 6:30pm to go to two different towns to pick up a total of four extra boys to take to the game. The car ride with five teenage boys discussing everything from the 2007 NFL draft to how best to comb their hair in the morning, was to say the least...interesting. In the end, my "boys" won 40-10.</span></span></div><div style="color: #522e1a; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;">What I received:</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"> I received confirmation that at least one person in the world appreciates my pony-tails. (That may not seem like a lot to you, but it made me smile and laugh till my eyes hurt!) Long live Ms. Cazzie's pony-tails!</span></span></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-37294021582356992812011-03-29T22:40:00.000-04:002011-03-29T22:40:15.215-04:00Day 1 of 29<div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">So I am on this 29 Days of Giving Challenge, as you know, to honor my friend Lubabat who has completed the challenge many times over. </span></div><div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">What did I give today? I gave a man carrying a sign that simply read "I am a father" on side of Route 280 the money I keep in my center console of my truck for occasions just like that. Let me share my thoughts on this. Indulge me, because I have had this debate with many. I live in a heavily populated urban area with a significant number of people who appear to be drug addicts asking for money along the highway. I always give. Period. I have been challenged on many occasions by friends who feel as if I am wasting my money, feeding an addiction, giving to the "unworthy", putting myself at risk, etc. etc. etc. I rebuke that. Giving is about the spirit in which a gift is offered. Quite frankly, I don't care what the receiver does with the gift and who I am to speculate what they will do with it, anyway. I don't give to be thanked. I don't give with strict stipulations on usage. I don't give to feel superior. I don't give so that I can pass judgement. I give so the Universe knows that I am thankful for what I have been given. The funny thing about this is that I wrote my college application essay on this very topic over 20 years ago and here I am thinking about the meaning of giving in my life because of high school friend. I offer to you the words of Khalil Gibran who help shape my thoughts on given back in '87. Enjoy!</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">For in truth it is life that gives unto life while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.</span></em></div><div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">What did I receive? I received an incredibly warm welcome to the 29 Days of Giving Challenge website by women who clearly love and admire Lubabat as much as I do.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I received a wonderful reception from my classmates to this invitation. At last count, 15 MBHS classmates were waiting for their approval to join the site.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I received a wonderful words of affirmation and insurance from a beloved that I am "beautiful" just as I am. </span></div><div style="color: #522e1a; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #522e1a; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0.4em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-9043258775401110592011-03-29T09:31:00.004-04:002011-10-13T19:12:28.605-04:00MBHS Family: A Call For Response<div class="uiHeader uiHeaderBottomBorder mbm" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(170, 170, 170); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 10px; padding-bottom: 0.5em;"><div class="clearfix uiHeaderTop" style="display: block; zoom: 1;"><div><h2 class="uiHeaderTitle" style="color: #1c2a47; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 16px;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>For reason's I will never understand, God allowed me to attend a NYC public high school with over 550 students in my graduating class who 20 years later are extremely united in efforts, causes, daily struggle and victories. At the end of 2010, we lost our sister Tarena Meaders to kidney cancer. We are currently watching our sister Lubabat battle breast cancer for just short of two years now. I wrote the follow letter to my classmates on Facebook and stated that I will also post my outcomes here on my personal blog. Even if you are not a member of the most amazing Class of 1988 or even attended MBHS, you are welcomed to join this cause. Thanks.</b></span></span></span></span></span></h2><h2 class="uiHeaderTitle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"> </span></span></span></span></span></h2><h2 class="uiHeaderTitle" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"> Our sister Lubabat has consistently been a warrior for peace, kindness and speaking the language of love in her daily life. Even while living with the challenges of Multiple Sclerosis and diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer in 2009, Lubabat never ceased her personal mission to bring a smile to someone’s face each and every day, especially through her Operation Smiley Face. (I proudly own a brown one she made for me in my favorite color.)</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"> One of the charitable movements that Lubabat is very active in is the 29 Day Giving Challenge. It’s an amazing movement. For 29 Days straight, you commit to giving something to someone. The gift of giving can come in the form of a material item, your time, advice, a listening ear, a random kind word, or anything from your heart. For 29 Days, you commit to journaling what you gave to the universe as well as chronicling what gift the universe gave to you that day. It is very simple. Just a sentence will do. </span></span></span></span></span></h2><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"></span></b></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"></span></b></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"></span></b></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"></span></b></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> As I reflect on Lubabat’s current struggle, I would love to honor her by giving to the causes that mattered most to her. I am asking each of you to sign up and join the 29 Day Giving Challenge as a show of support for our sister Lubabat. As a collective movement of givers, let’s flood the universe with the example of strength, unconditional love and pure-hearted kindness that Lubabat demonstrated in her everyday living. </b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> The link to the 29 day Giving Challenge is attached below. You can browse the site, learn more about the cause and read Lubabat’s incredible testimony of giving. There is no official start day. I will begin today, as I know the present is all that I am promised. I will make my journal available on the 29 Day Giving Challenge website, Facebook and my blog, for those who may simply want to witness for a while before joining. I am excited to follow Lubabat’s leadership and welcome you all join me.</b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>Additionally, please pass this on to all members of our family that I could not include on this limited number of tags. Walk good. </b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>In Struggle and Strength,</b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>Your Sister,</b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>Cazzie </b></span></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.29gifts.org/" rel="nofollow" style="cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>http://www.29gifts.org/</b></span></span></span></span></a></div><div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>Lubabat's Journal: </b></span></span></span></span><a href="http://givingchallenge.ning.com/profiles/blogs/a-new-round-amp-getting-back" rel="nofollow" style="cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><b>http://givingchallenge.ning.com/profiles/blogs/a-new-round-amp-getting-back</b></span></span></span></span></a></div></span></div></div></div><div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix" style="color: #333333; display: block; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; word-wrap: break-word; zoom: 1;"><div><div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> </span></div></div></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-31588138287860284932011-03-14T13:03:00.005-04:002011-03-14T13:50:00.685-04:0021 Words<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thousands of words are spoken or written to each of us everyday. Some may be brief casual words via a text message, a stranger saying "God Bless you" when you sneeze, an outpouring of demands by a crying toddler or a request for payment from the utility company. Whatever they may say from whatever source they may come words comprise most of our daily existence. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As for me, I have a strange love affair with words. I love to physically write. I love the art of handwriting (yet this blogging stuff doesn't allow for it). I love to manipulate words and play with the order and sound and work outside the boundaries of correct grammar and punctuation. I choose my words carefully, because I respect how powerful they are and I know that once expressed, forever they remain in the universe. I love to tell a story, which plays a huge role in how I teach. I have used my words in public forums, national television and in the comfort of my living room as a conduit for what God needs me to say to someone at a particular time. For the past fifteen years, anytime I am required to write and deliver a speech in front of a large crowd or required to use my studies to counsel another, my prayer is always the same. "Dear God, allow the words offered to be relevant." </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Conversely, however, I am extremely dismissive of most words that are offered to me. Not the everyday words. I respect conversation. I adore receiving and reading written personal letters. I even respond to requests for payment. I'm referring to those moments when someone is trying to enlightening me, reach me, advice me, offer an opinion. Those are the words that I have come to regard as highly irrelevant. Rarely do I come across a person who can use those types of spoken or written words to reach me beyond the surface. In fact, one of my dearest friends said it best "Very few people speak Cazzie." I'm not proud of that, but it's true. I don't know why it is, but there are very few people in my world whose words move me, inspire me, touch me, and quite frankly are even welcomed. Most times when I am in need of those words, I go to an outside of my world source. I will own the fact that this sounds (and may very well be) completely obnoxious. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With that full disclosure made, someone SPOKE to me. It was a beautiful, simple conversation. In fact, it was just one beautiful simple sentence. They spoke "Cazzie" and I don't think they even knew the language existed. In fact, with just 21 words, all that I thought to be doing correctly, conditioned myself to do automatically, trusted to be the only true path, proven to work in my life without fail, had been turned upside down. The strength of those 21 words, the logic beyond those 21 words, the passion in which each of those 21 words were stated, the spirit in which each of those 21 words were offered has penetrated all my defenses and stopped me in my track. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's been days now since they were spoken. I can still hear them. It is as if I can see the written version of each word before my eyes when I close them. They are written beautifully in calligraphy with large loops and deeply slant towards the right. I've become a revisionist historian. I've taken those 21 words and tried to apply them to my past to imagine how I would have done things differently and benefitted greatly if I had heard those 21 words sooner. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Those 21 words are a gift that the giver has no idea they gave. I am fairly confident that the giver has no idea of the impact of those 21 words. For all I know, the giver may not even remember saying those words. But I remember. The universe remembers. I have been blessed with a gift of 21 words that I plan to use, guide me and make me open to all that I was armored against. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As I write this, I am contemplating whether or not to share those 21 words. I am fully aware that the 21 words that rocked my understand of living, may in fact be completely irrelevant to someone else. As painfully as it is to imagine, those same 21 words can be dismissed and ignored by another in the similar fashion that I have disregarded so many words offered to me before. What is profound to me may be </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">immaterial to you. (As a build a shield around my 21 words!) But honesty must lead the path. The 21 words were not an exclusive gift to me. I believe they should be shared in the spirit of continuing the blessing. So I will pass the gift on and as always I say "Dear God, allow the words offered to be relevant."</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I know your boat will make it ashore, but imagine how much easier it would be if you used a paddle." </span></span></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-28097779771830625152011-01-15T18:42:00.003-05:002013-01-15T11:17:22.843-05:00I Refuse to Party Like It's My Birthday.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD07gfZnLWvsaPO64s5ye13cYRBjX-AOour3eNZuGF1pvlgzlOfEM9HtEnxEAhf8HFVUaCXFEGoPRfrcYIL7-v375zgCXFAFzR0UF2XprI06ylYlqyqQ6LNXj5MH2aFpPgUoZ78U_ZWo/s1600/esl-mlk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD07gfZnLWvsaPO64s5ye13cYRBjX-AOour3eNZuGF1pvlgzlOfEM9HtEnxEAhf8HFVUaCXFEGoPRfrcYIL7-v375zgCXFAFzR0UF2XprI06ylYlqyqQ6LNXj5MH2aFpPgUoZ78U_ZWo/s320/esl-mlk.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
I wrote this is 2007 as an email to a few friends. I have decided to include it in my blog, as my inbox is once again flooded with "I am King" etc party invitations.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> All Good People,<br />
<br />
<br />
FREE AT LAST *EVERYONE FREE* @ ETOILE<br />
Party like royalty this MLK Sat w/ Dj Self.: No cover for all b4 12 & comp drinks b4 12 @ Mars2112!<br />
<br />
In my spam folder are a series of emails much like the ones above. I'm not quite sure how to process, much less express, my level of sorrow that in a mere 21 years, Martin Luther King Jr.'s Holiday has been reduced to nothing more than another opportunity for us to drop it like it's hot.<br />
<br />
There is no reason to pretend that there is a living cell is my body that can "remember" Dr. King. I've never heard his voice, except on tape. My first memory of his face is either the calendar in our house or the fan at church. I'm not a child of the Civil Rights Movement. I have no personal concept of what it means to be limited to racially segregated water fountains. I've never been hosed down by police or bitten by police dogs. I've never even been to a lunch counter, much less been clubbed in the back of the head for sitting at one. Yes, I sat at the back of the bus...but that was because it was the best seat on the bus to stick my head out of and yell "What's up?!" just in case I saw one of my girls as it rolled down DeKalb Ave. The time and space of my birth has granted me the privilege of being the recipient of the Civil Rights fruits, not the laborer.<br />
<br />
At 36, however, I do remember the exhilaration that came as a child every January 15th. I remember being the only one of my friends that stayed out of school in observation of his birth, long before '86. Every year on January 15th, my mother would go to work (bills had to get paid) but she would drop me off at The House of Lord Pentecostal Church and I would march with hundreds of others from Atlantic Ave to City Hall. There was never one adult assigned to me. I was just part of the crowd. I shuttled between Zakiya and Sister Betty in the choir to Charles Barron with the bullhorns. I had no "real" concept of what I was doing. I was 6, 7, 8 years old. All I knew, was that I got to walk in the MIDDLE of Brooklyn Bridge. The part where the cars drove!! AND I got to yell and sing in the streets! Yell and sing loudly! Not only that, but I wasn't going to get in trouble because of it. It was encouraged! Nobody was going to tell me to "be quite" or "stop that noise". I got to scream/sing and let the whole world know that "the one thing we did right was the day we decided to fight" and that I wasn't "gonna let nobody turn me around." It was magically. I got to carry posters demanding that Mayor Koch (the man I swore was Ed Purdue's "the chicken man" twin brother) be dumped! The energy of those annual events and all the other marchs in between, from the closing of Sydenhem Hospital to the murder of Eleanor Bumpers, that my mother always made sure I was at, engrained the notion of collective consciousness and collective power. The notion that there was strength, if not complete invincibility, in numbers. And most importantly, that there was always something worth fighting for that was larger than and greater than any one individual.<br />
<br />
Nope, I have no idea what the point of this email is. I'm not about to ask any questions or even attempt to provide answers. I'm just thinking out loud. I'm frustrated that my childhood memories are currently being mocked by parties. I'm completely disgusted at imagining what the true and real warriors of the generations before me must be thinking and feeling at the way we've come to honor Dr. King. Do whatever you do on January 15th, but please do it with pride, remembrance, and respect for all those who came before us and suffered, bleed and died so that, if you so desired (and how I hope you don't)...can "party like it's your birthday."<br />
<br />
As always,<br />
<br />
Yours in Struggle and Strength,<br />
Cazzie </span>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-89555661643041185112010-10-26T20:47:00.004-04:002011-01-16T09:12:13.680-05:00An Open Letter To "My Sister" and All Who Have Given Birth To An Angel<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sis,</span></span></div><div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Foremost, I love you. You are love. It is so. So it is.</span></span></div><div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My intention is not to comfort you, because I respect the journey of healing, which requires first pain. My intention is not to mask my sadness while attempting to carry yours by wishing this whole thing away. My intention , however, is to illuminate what is, such that this experience is not something that you run from, forget or wear as a burden. This experience is truly, if you allow yourself to listen to the inner voice from whenst truth comes, is truly, my sister, a miracle. An event for you to be proud of. A role for you to accept with dignity and mask from no one. My sister, tomorrow you will birth an angel. I will not accept the language of "still birth" or the new age language of a baby "born sleep." That child is alive with the love of God through wish He brought to you, directly to and through you. My sister, tomorrow you will birth an angel. A perfect being. A perfect being who knows no sorrows, knows no pain, creates no sorrow, creates no pain. She is angel. My sister, tomorrow you will birth an angel. How rare a blessing to be the mother of a perfect angel! Yes, we love our children here on this planet and in our eyes they may indeed be "perfect". But we know that angels from God are </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">truly</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> his only perfect creation in human body form. Be blessed with the knowledge that he chose you to be the vessel to which an angel has been brought to the world. It is the angels that carry God's message. It is the angels the serve the throne of Heaven. It is said that there are no angels who minister to this earth but those who belong to it. She is being born tomorrow onto this earth so that she ascend to Heaven in order to minister to those of us here on this earth. That perfect being, that angel, is your daughter, my sister. Join me, when you can, and I know that day will come, and let's rejoice and celebrate the miracle of YOU being the mother of God's chosen angel. My sister, tomorrow you will birth an angel.</span></span></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-58093440212438185312010-08-19T02:03:00.005-04:002012-01-27T17:52:07.295-05:00If Mama Ain't Happy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgj6vsFACbDDAoeW3IXqo9BjsDPeYGXQNdDvKKFLOmEaPZ5P7pot6r7gLZyzmn_jthiS4gSeSGoF5BOvOJmtpqPl2I-aR_1mIJGolli_WtWctAMn9WE6vYPNnCwedtjGNLXAaLPIFtnk/s1600/p49528b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgj6vsFACbDDAoeW3IXqo9BjsDPeYGXQNdDvKKFLOmEaPZ5P7pot6r7gLZyzmn_jthiS4gSeSGoF5BOvOJmtpqPl2I-aR_1mIJGolli_WtWctAMn9WE6vYPNnCwedtjGNLXAaLPIFtnk/s1600/p49528b.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Over the pass few months I've been in the presence of mothers who are in the midst of life altering transitions. Some of these mothers are in my close circle and some are extended. Although each scenario is as unique as the human being living these experiences, there are a few common denominators amongst them. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The first common denominator is that they are fortunate enough to have opted to enter this transitional phase versus it being forced down their throats via illness, injury, global recession, death and all other ways life can kick your butt. As a woman and mother who experienced both transition and transformation as a personal decision <i>and</i> as a result of circumstance, there is a huge difference. Without placing value on one over the other, saying “I did this because I chose to” is different than saying “I did this because I had to.” These women desired change internally and actively pursued it externally. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The second common denominator amongst these mothers is that they have all stated that the catalyst for entering the transitional phase was the pursuit of happiness. Each one had discovered that they were unhappy and through deep reflection, 'round the kitchen table sister-talk, relentless prayer and snot running tear sessions decided to change their current circumstance and go forth in the search (and hopefully, eventually the acquisition) of happiness. It is a mighty courageous and revolutionary act to disrupt the familiar and known for the “I have no idea what is out there, but I’m about to go find out.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Of course, my experience is far from universal, but I do think that parallel journeys yield moments of similarity. I know what the dark scary days of transition looks, smells and tastes like. Given that everyday living is a roller coaster ride, I fully expected my friends’ journey to happiness to include great days of clarity and inspiration, as well as deleterious days of poor decisions, fear and mass confusion. My expectations were met. Hey, as my friend Colin always says, “Everyday ain’t Christmas”, but in the cases where the bad days seemed to outnumber the good, I became concerned. I am a firm believer that God is not the author of confusion. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So this leads me to the third common denominator, which is a troublesome one, for me. I like to ask questions. It’s how I learn. When asked, none of the women who I directly spoke to could clearly define or paint a picture of what happiness for them would look like. They could tell me everything that they weren’t happy with, but could not define happiness for themselves beyond the notion of “more”. More time, more stuff, more appreciation, more respect, more accolades, more recognition, more money and more more. I began to wonder, if you cannot succinctly define what your happiness is, how will you know it when you find it? Over the months of continued observation and conversation, I realized that my sister-friends were looking for their happiness through their rearview mirror with regret for decisions made, time passed, roads not taken, sacrifices made, weight gained, words unspoken and dreams deferred while seated in their early model minivans in their driveway next to their lawns with the grass that is closer to brown than the green of their neighbor’s. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On more than one occasion, I have heard a few of these sister-friends yell the battle cry, ‘If Mama ain’t happy, nobody’s gonna be happy.” Mama’s search for happiness is directly correlated to the wellness of her children. That’s not shocking. Children tend to look to their parents for guidance on how they should act during, feel about, process and respond to change. However there is something about “If Mama ain’t happy, nobody’s gonna be happy” that doesn’t sit well in my soul, as I reflect on these sister-friends. Regrets over the past in conjunction with the quest for an ill defined, poorly visualized notion of happiness can have huge negative implications on our children. As those words hit my ears, after bearing witness to the aftermath of the bad days associated with their search for happiness, “If Mama ain’t happy, nobody’s gonna be happy” sounded more like “Misery loves company.” </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">If Mama’s well-being is truly the guide for the emotional stability of the entire family unit, then Mama owes it to herself and her offspring to recognize, in the words of C.P Snow that “The pursuit of happiness is a most ridiculous phrase, if you pursue happiness you'll never find it.” Dear sweet Mama, don’t you see that if your only working definition of happiness is essentially a deficit model based on what you don’t have, is it even possible for you to find the beauty in what you do have? Maybe, just maybe, happiness is not to be sought, chased after, lusted for and stalked. Maybe, just maybe, happiness is a gift from God placed inside each of us waiting only to be recognized and in fact, if you pay close attention, you will see that happiness has actively been pursuing <i>you</i>.</span></span><br />
<br />
Yours In Struggle and Strength,<br />
<br />
Cazzie</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-7215285160926595672010-08-15T23:26:00.003-04:002010-08-19T02:20:22.175-04:00Dear God, Please Ignore Her Prayers.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, while enjoying</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">my</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> late evening space sans three fourths of my children, I started a text conversation with a girlfriend. During that conversation, she stated that she wants me to get married. Here we go again! Read this:</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I need to marry you off to an amazing widowed millionaire who has 4 daughters. You deserve it. …I told you I would pray on it for you. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, how much wrong have I done in this lifetime that she thinks I DESERVE, not only a husband, but four additional children, much less </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">girls</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, in my world? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fast forward a week. I am attending a sporting event with the same girlfriend that sent me the text. She is with a large group of people from a variety of backgrounds, age groups and addresses. Like most sporting events, it was loud and hard to maintain a direct conversation. Nevertheless, she proceeds to tell me about one of the gentlemen in the group. I am struggling to hear all that she is saying, but I did catch his occupation and a bit about his personality. I was confused on why she was sharing this information so I interrupted to ask “Is he a new suitor of yours?” She looks surprised and responds “No, he is for you.” OK. I BUSTED OUT laughing. You have to personally know me to fully understand the volume level connected to my laughter…but it’s far from a sweet chuckle. Aw hell!!! No she didn’t! She is relentless!! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For reasons I don’t understand, she is not alone. I have few friends who think that marriage would be a welcomed addition to my life. I have one friend who was near tears when I told her I have no intentions on marrying until my children are in college. “Caz, you are too wonderful to remain single. You have too much love inside of you to be alone.” Good gravy! Then there was my other friend who said, “Caz, if nothing else, you need to be married for the boys’ sake. They need a man in their life that can help take the burden off of you.” Say what now? (You do know that didn’t go over well with me and heavy emphasis was put of my displeasure with the word “burden”.) Nevertheless, the marriage bees keep buzzing around me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve been told that I’m “running”, “jaded”, “afraid” and “guarded”. The “guarded” part is fair, I was wired that way at birth. The rest is bunch of malarkey. Let me give you a little background. I am a mother of four sons. I was married to their father and that relationship lasted from the age of 18 through 32. As divorcees, we had a solid co-parenting relationship. I had sole custody and although he lived many states away (and without court orders mandating how our time with our children was to be shared) he saw the boys at least once a month, all holidays and the entire summer. It worked for me. It worked for him. Best of all, it worked for them. He died a tragic death two years ago. I am now more than just a single parent, I am the sole surviving parent. That’s my role and quite frankly, I can dig it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So here’s my logic regarding my life and marriage. I am not a martyr to the cards that I have been dealt. I was not created to suffer and I don’t plan to. Shoot, I love life and believe I live each day out loud, raucous laugh and all! With that stated, my children are my priority. I make no apologies for that. I have no interest in sharing, negotiating, or co-mingling my role as their parent with anyone else. I am not interested in marriage while my children are young and live under my roof. Are there many blended families that make it work? Of course…but check this out…it requires “work”. I am not interested in any more work at this stage of my life. Relationships are work. Hard work. As for me, I am on a sabbatical. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My suitors have heard it said loud and clear, “The best I can offer you is sixth place and I am not sure I am even willing to do that. So don’t get attached.” Managing the everyday activities, childhood grief, teenage hormones, grades, and the individual developmental needs of four boys is a lot to juggle for one person. I enjoy it. I love doing it and I am not complaining. However, I am not willing to sacrifice an iota of my time as their parent for the everyday activities, adult stress, male hormones, work pressure and individual developmental needs of a grown man. Why is that considered “running” “jaded”, “afraid” or “guarded”? To me, it just sounds honest.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Onward and Upward,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Caz</span></div></span></span>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-19179761500873927432010-08-09T02:10:00.004-04:002011-03-21T20:34:14.336-04:00There Are No Peaches In This Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is a definite hush in my life of crazy boy stories at the moment. Summer allows us to be scattered across the northeast in hot pursuit of our own individual space…healthy space.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve opted to use this time with only one fourth of my tribe present to purge our household of all the extra stuff we’ve accumulated during the course of the year. In doing so, I came across some paper work that brought to light the fact that I left Georgia seven years ago this week. And when I say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">left</i>, I actually mean ran out of there like a bat out of hell. Without exaggeration, when I de-boarded the plane from Georgia my first stop was the mall because I left <i>everything</i> behind, undergarments included. I got off that plane singing Joe Cuba's "I'll never go back to Georgia" loudly and with determination. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For many of my northern friends, living in Georgia and the greater Atlanta area means that they have traveled a road that lead them to success and that they are actively enjoying the fruits of their labor. I guess in this case that fruit would be a peach. I know many people from the north who live in the greater Atlanta area and have created a wonderful, rewarding and happy life. I wasn’t one of those people.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Was the cost of living cheaper than what I was used to as a native New Yorker? Was the grass greener? Yards bigger? Grocery stores cleaner? Donuts better? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes and well, the last one is a Dunkin Donuts versus Krispy Kreme debate that I am still waffling over. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, for me, those things weren’t enough to make it my promise land. The Atlanta that welcomed me was full of pretentious, materialist, one-dimensional folks with a lot of money. Especially the women. The women I met where the one’s whose idea of social consciousness meant getting a new gown and Mani Pedi appointment secured in time for the Jack and Jill ball. And for all the Jack and Jill folks that may be reading this, I have no intentions on stepping on your toes…albeit, freshly painted. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) I am strictly referencing my experience at a particular place and time with actual women. Grassroots was nothing more than something you hired a foreign gardener to get rid off. A simple question such as “Where do you go to church?” was really a coded question used to decipher if you resided amongst the elite of Cascades or if you fled to Cobb County, Suwannee or Alpharetta. The level of conversation amongst these women swayed between malicious gossip, on going tales about their spouses and their other lovers…Gucci, Louie and Versace. Now in all fairness, did I meet great women in the greater Atlanta area? Absolutely. However, for each one of those, I met a dozen of the other. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Does that mean that I currently live in my paradise? Honestly, I don’t know. However, I do know that in these seven years, I’ve been greeted by women who could care less about my zip code, tax bracket or designer of my shoes. The woman in my life here are community organizers (whether by profession and by everyday practice), volunteers, and family advocates. They work collectively for the greater good of our community. They step in and fill recognizable voids just because they can, not because they want to prove someone else’s inefficiency. It is great to know that I can look in the faces of the women in my life here and no longer have to pray that nothing in them is a reflection of me. It is a great relief to know that there are no peaches in this garden state.<br />
<br />
Be ever so wonderful,<br />
Caz<br />
<br />
If I knew how to give a blog post a theme song, this would be it:<br />
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJ2AMpwkqVM</div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-77045207129126266512010-08-07T22:26:00.007-04:002010-08-19T21:07:16.990-04:00When Love Calls, You Better Answer.<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSon97odJ9EEdpg_NX0v_fNe3UT0AFapP1_H_tvjnb-LI5C4s0mA8V3B86rO0GrU1RI6bfktNoH0LiJgwG6YDA_AgrQe6QoqQhSPphlipEge4FxdoOTDaaNMfFuTARTCI2XwWnyDPcn0/s320/barnes38.jpg" /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div>It’s no secret that I don’t like talking on the phone. Honestly, I probably only answer about 20% of my daily received phone calls. This morning, at 2am, my cell phone rings. In my world, anyone that dials my phone during what I call “The Sin Hours” must be delivering bad news. I braced myself to hear crying on the other end. I looked at the Caller-Id. It was my life long best friend…the same woman who annually cries at “Snoopy Come Home” and the change of seasons. I took a deep breath because I knew, without fail, she would be wailing and sobbing through whatever tragic news awaited me. I answered by saying her name and she immediately responded by saying mine. This is how we’ve greeted each other since our telephones were mustard yellow and attached to the wall in our parent's kitchen with a cord that always got stretched and twisted into knots. She wasn’t crying! Turns out she was having some transportation issues and needed me to take her to New England six hours later. No problem.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">See, this is my best friend since the first day of the first grade. Our desks were arranged in a horse-shoe and we sat across from each other. She stuck her tongue out at me and I rolled my eyes at her with that exaggerated flair and neck twirl that every little ghetto girl in 1975 had mastered. We have been life long friends ever since. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ride to New England included over 300 miles, two pockets of traffic, one missed exit and zero moments of silence. We yapped non-stop. Two women with 35 years of friendship under their belts in a car without her teenage girls needing her permission to do something or my pre-teen boys needing my assistance in locating a jockstrap, cleat or mouthpiece. We spoke of love found and love lost. Loved ones we have buried and skeletons we dug up. We finished each others sentences. She has a habit of saying to me mid-story, “Kasandra, what am I about to say?” and with 95% accuracy, I can iterate her exact thoughts. We speak a secret coded language developed during adolescence as a way to exist as rebellious teens under the watchful eye of strict West Indian parents, grandparents and older siblings. Our secrets run deep! She used to receive letters at her address for me from one of my suitors circa 1991 that I needed to keep sheltered from my then boyfriend. (Remind me to get those letters.) There is immeasurable comfort in knowing that every word out my mouth will find a sacred safe space in her ears. Our friendship is not ordinary. I believe it is ordained. Her superstitious, extra artsy and super emotional ways drive me crazy. In return, my black and white, lack of patience and dismissive nature grates her every nerve. But we accept each other as we are and have 35 years of unconditional love to our credit to prove it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now truth be told, I had to drive 300 miles round trip yesterday. I was /am tired. My plan for today was to prepare for a guest I have arriving next week…not drive another 300 miles. However, today’s journey was a great reminder that God blessed me and trusted me with a rare gift of friendship at the tender age of five. He gave us both the wisdom and the proper tools to nurture and sustain it to the end of our natural days. So while I will continue to ignore the vast majority of calls that come to my phone, today was the perfect reminder that when love calls, you better answer.<br />
<br />
Walk good,<br />
Caz<br />
<br />
If I knew how to give a blog post a theme song, this would be it.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"></span><br />
<h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="UIStory_Message"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYbSnoKexMs" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "3a206", event);" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYbSnoKex<wbr></wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></span>Ms</a></span></h3></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-11774830542763896562010-08-06T22:29:00.006-04:002010-08-06T22:39:41.421-04:00Never Spoken To Boy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders. </span></span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Henry David Thoreau</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Many moons ago I went to school with a boy that I never spoke to, whom I shall call "Never Spoken to Boy". We shared friends. We shared teachers. We may have even shared glances. We shared a building everyday, but we never shared words. I would like to believe by extension of our mutual friends, we also shared respect for each other.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Fast forward a few decade worth of moons to the dawn of Facebook. In the far right hand column is the section of suggested friends. Lo and behold, Never Spoken to Boy. As expected, we had over a dozen mutual friends. Without hesitation, (cause by now I am grown and I don’t hesitate over much of anything) I decided to send him a friend request with a note. If memory serves me correctly (and I guess Facebook stores this stuff, if I need 100% accuracy), it read:</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Greetings Never Spoken to Boy (you do know I used his real name and didn’t call him Never Spoken to Boy), I trust that this reaches you in good health and spirits. It’s great to see your face in the “suggested friends” column and I trust that all is well in your world.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Be ever so wonderful,</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Caz</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">He accepted my friendship and responded with an amiable note.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Statuses are updated daily. Responses are made to our mutual friends and through this cyber medium we began to learn more about each other. Our hobbies overlap (no he is not a scrapper! HMPH!). Our travels overlap. Our taste in music and books are parallel. We are both text-aholics. The Never Spoken to Boy turns out to be a really cool man.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Crisis hits on the home front. I am in the midst of an onslaught of text messages. I am receiving an absolutely ridiculous amount of them from concerned friends; far more than I care to respond to, at the time. Simultaneously, I am sending a bunch to my select circle of Wisdom Warriors that I have come to rely on. Somewhere in this confusion, I attempt to text one of my Wisdom Warriors who is an attorney and whose first three letters of her name are the same as Never Spoken to Boy, but instead, I accidently send my text of distress to him. Immediately he calls me. I was confused by his call in the midst of my mayhem. He points to my error and out of nowhere (well, it seemed like no where to me!) he offers an amazing piece of advise that immediately moved me from frantic to empowered…and empowered I remained.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now, the truth be told, I still don’t speak to Never Spoken to Boy very often. We continue to respond to mutual status updates. We text each other from time to time. We are developing as friends and are enjoying the process. Although I pray that the day will never come when Never Spoken to Boy evolves into I Don’t Talk to Him Anymore Man, I will forever cherish the moment that Never Spoken to Boy spoke the exact words I needed to hear the moment I needed them most.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Peace and Coltrane's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Love Supreme</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">,</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Caz</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></b></span></div></span>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6838044396154404370.post-47527753670250346162010-08-05T17:02:00.004-04:002010-08-08T00:58:58.060-04:00Making a Short Story Long....<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;">...</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">I do that a lot. So here we go! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">A few years ago, I met one of the most incredible human being I believe I will ever meet in this lifetime. We met in a chicken shack. That’s not really relevant to the story, but it does prove that greatness is everywhere. Anyway, I cherish him to no end. Life gets interrupted and we must run our daily course. As such, roughly three years have passed since we have been in the same room and maybe, at best, a half a dozen emails were exchanged during that time. Nevertheless, I emailed him (everybody know I don’t use the telephone) to tell him about this blog. He responded with the type of wisdom and humor I have come to expect from him. True to who we are to each other, it appeared as if time had not passed at all. Since last night, he has been heavy on my mind and I decided to take a walk down nostalgia lane. I dug into the stored/saved envelope of my emails, knowing that there was a treasure waiting for me. See, part of who we were/are to each other was/is a source of inspiration during the path of everyday living. In my inbox from my friend were a plethora of the most amazing quotes and life lessons put into words. Whether deliberately or arbitrarily, he would send me quotes that helped me focus, attempt to claim sanity, and rejoice in the air of each day. From this cornucopia of wisdom, I opted to select a few of my favorites to share. On the micro level, I share these selected quotes as a way to pay homage to this friendship that continues to grow despite not being watered regularly. On the macro level, I share them because it would be extremely selfish of me to keep the joy and knowledge extracted from these quotes all to myself. As the wise Khalil Gibran penned, “In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter and sharing of pleasures.” This is my contribution, my friends, to the “sharing of pleasure” part for today. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Indulge and Enjoy,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Caz</span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">-Chinese Epigram<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">–Leo Buscaglia<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">-Rabindranath Tagore<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Why should I? When somebody insulted Caruso, did he sing an aria for them?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Explaining why he did not hit a motorist after the latter abused him following an accident.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">-- Joe Louis (1914-1981) American Heavyweight Boxer<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Whatever relationships you have attracted in your life at this moment, are precisely the ones you need in your life at this moment. There is a hidden meaning behind all events, and this hidden meaning is servingyour own evolution.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">-Deepak Chopra<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I'm looking forward to looking back on all this.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">-Sandra Knell<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">AND THIS IS MY ABSOLUTELY FAVORITE AND ONE OF THE MOST VALUABLE TO ME AS A PARENT!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">-E.M. Forster<o:p></o:p></span></div>EightEyesMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13295185081263506138noreply@blogger.com2