MONDAY THOUGHTS: WATCH YOUR STEP

The weather is so pleasant today! 

It's positively BEAUTIFUL outside. 

I decided to stop looking out of the window, and admiring it all from the inside out.

The flatbed truck had caught my attention earlier in the day. 

I wondered if a car was about to be towed. 

Then another truck arrived with dirt in its bed, and parked on our side of the street. 

A third truck with a long slide/funnel attached showed up. 

Could they be landscapers? 

(I have to say, of everything to be done in a neighborhood, the lawn care around here has not been lacking.) 

Would they be pouring cement? 

Dirt? 

I'd noticed the temporary "No Parking" signs posted across the street, too.

A little after noon, I decided to take a walk. 

My walk had a dual purpose. Exercise was one. Operation "Are they going to repair the grassway, easement, arborway, berm, verge, nature strip, parkway, boulevard", or whatever we Washingtonians call the grassy area between the sidewalk and the curb?", was the other. 

I was excited by the prospect of beautification. 

No sense in allowing Lady Bird Johnson's dream for the area to die, right? 

If not for the eroded eyesore, the street, which was newly excavated and paved recently, would be lovely.

We've been witnessing the steady erosion on our street for years. 

I still don't understand why, when the new sidewalk was constructed, the area next to it was not touched. Why on earth would we want to see the SIDE of the sidewalk? 

Is there not some kind of living, grassy carpet that could be rolled onto the area? 

What is the point of having a sidewalk if, after you cross it, you have to take a short, potentially ankle-breaking, knee-twisting trek through varying depths of depressions and exposed tree roots, just to get to your car, or cross the street? 

One shouldn't need a boost or helping hand from the grass to the sidewalk. 

They're adjacent to each other and, in a perfect world, are flush, level, and in no way treacherous.

I've always wondered who or what agency is responsible for the grassway, easement, arborway, berm, verge, nature strip, parkway, boulevard. 

Would I be in big trouble if I went to Home Depot and bought sod and seed, or contracted that nice landscaping company on Oxon Hill Road?

Every time there is substantial rainfall, because of the steepness of many hilly streets east of the river, as the water rushes downhill, the trenches get deeper and deeper. Now, in some spots along the over 150 feet from the middle of the street to the intersection, you can actually see the UNDERSIDE of the sidewalk.

I'm hoping that the workers will return soon. 

Maybe the guys who worked today weren't contracted to handle our dilemma, but they definitely saw it. 

I'm hoping to see "no parking" signs on our side of the street, soon, and lush, green grass where grass is supposed to be. 

Some flowers would be nice, too. 

Tulips.

We've been fortunate not to have much snowfall this winter. In the past, in those deeper areas of the grassway, easement, arborway, berm, verge, nature strip, parkway, boulevard, it was hard to know just how deep one's foot would go on that first step.

All of that aside, I enjoyed my short walk, and the warm weather. 

However, I'll leave maneuvering the terrain of the grassway, easement, arborway, berm, verge, nature strip, parkway, boulevard to the squirrels, for now.

By the way, what DO we call it in DC?

MONDAY THOUGHTS---BLACK GIRLS

Yes. 

I was rooting for them, too. 

The little Black girl in me is always happy to see intelligent, poised, positive role models, who look like her. 

She used to be excited to see Black people appear on TV. 

She remembers when a street kickball game could end instantly, if someone yelled from a window that there were Black people on TV. 

She watched "Julia" and "Christy Love" and Eartha Kitt as Catwoman on "Batman". 

She watched "Soul Train", "The Bill Cosby Show", and "Room 222". 

She still has her Black History scrapbook from 4th grade.

She doesn't know Viola or Octavia, but she was hoping to hear BOTH of their names tonight, just because. 

She isn't mad that only one of them won. 

Every time a camera panned to either one of them, as she watched the Oscars, she felt awfully proud. 

Viola and Octavia are just the kind of ladies that Miss Lenora Hall would have instructed her 4th graders to research. Miss Hall would have suggested that the class clip EVERY newspaper article about them, and paste them in their "Noted Blacks in American History" scrapbooks. 

"There are so many things that are not in our textbooks, Class", she would say. "Every now and then, we are going to put them down. When Black people do anything of any significance, preserve that information. Remember them."

It's over. Octavia won. To the little Black girl in me, Viola did, too.

The Oscars are over. 

We all go back to whatever it was we were doing, or simply go to bed. 

They party, go to scheduled interviews, or maybe they go to bed, too.

It was a big deal. I imagine that the intense pressure is still on--that pressure many have felt since the first time someone who TRULY experienced terror, rejection, and racial discrimination preached, "You have to be twice as good, and work twice as hard. You represent your race. Don't embarrass us".

Sometimes, it really is enough to just be a part of a thing. 

Maybe winning isn't everything, all of the time. Maybe there's no reason to be disappointed, suspicious, despondent, bitter, angry or sad. 

The Black girls who made us so proud, did their jobs honorably, skillfully, got paid, and were on to the next project. 

Did they even have the grand competition, that is The Academy Awards, in mind as they worked?
Still, we held our breaths, and hoped the Black girls would win, like we've always done since the Black girls have been reluctantly invited to play. 

Black girls have always been in the game. Are we guilty of only focusing on the negative, because of the positions they were always given?
Had they BOTH walked away with statuettes, it would have been really nice. Our collective pride over something, of which we had no part, except to cheer, would have been immense.

"They were in amazing acting company, though."
"The competition was stiff."
"They looked so beautiful, and carried themselves so well."
"There were a lot of great performances that were ignored this year. At least "our" girls were nominated."
"This will really open new doors for them."
"They made us so proud."
"When they cried, we cried."

Yeah. We said or thought all of that.

What IS that thing, that is in so many of us, that is triggered when we see ourselves in arenas that haven't always been inclusive? 

Whether it's a game show, talk show, awards show, sporting event, or election, we hope fairness will finally smile on us. 

Are we still struggling to fit in, desiring to be accepted, praying "they" will see us, count us worthy, and let us in? 

(Oh. Weren't we proud as punch of little Cynné Simpson, too? 

When Esperanza Spalding emerged with her stunning afro, resembling a cottony cloud-like crown, and stood so poised, and sang so sweetly, weren't we beaming? 

Didn't we zero in on the Black "Cirque du Soleil" performers?)

Wait. WE weren't in it. We're sitting at home watching, commenting, criticizing, and joking, but the Black people we admire and claim, THEY were in it. 

They had to field all of the questions and comments, that have been asked and made, since Hattie McDaniel accepted her award.

Those who have dared to step out and display their talents, did the work, yet, WE have an expectation that seems as natural as our breathing. 

The Black girls we talked about, as if they were our sisters or first cousins, represent well, and we wanted them to bring home the prize for all of us to collectively share. We figured they could keep the Oscar on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and we'd keep it all the other days, and alternate holidays. Their win, we feel, is OUR long-awaited win, but we're always prepared if they lose. 

We're sort of used to that. 

That's how we snap back so easily. 

We refer to statistics, lists, and cross our fingers. 

We know who won first, who the last winner was, and how many years have passed in between wins. We investigate the age and race of the people who make the final choices. We always hope, "This year. Maybe THIS year". 

We argue about who should have won, and for what role. 

We debate about conspiracies. 

We shake our collective heads over snubs, and wonder why one thing is elevated, while another thing isn't. (We're STILL trying to process the whole pimp song thing. Sometimes you'd rather that a bone NOT be thrown your way.)

We love the movies, no matter who is starring in them. 

We've always gone to the movies for entertainment value alone, but when we see ourselves, even silent and in the background as extras, it's still something. 

When the great and powerful Academy acknowledges "us", something happens. 

We become intensely interested in the outcome. 

We purpose to go to the awards shows, courtesy of our television sets, and root for our people. 

It's the only reason we're watching, sometimes. 

We zero in on certain categories, and nothing else. We want them to know we are there in some way. 

We don't want them to worry, though. 

If things don't work out there, there's always BET and the NAACP where the competition is more likely to look alike, and a win is more feasible--but are there politics lurking in those circles, too? 

Do those awards mean as much as the Oscar?

While they are celebrating art and honing their skills, and working, we just want to hear the names of the Black girls: 

Hattie, 

Ethel, 

Juanita, 

Cicely, 

Diahann, 

Dorothy, 

Diana, 

Beah, 

Alfre, 

Halle, 

Margaret, 

Oprah, 

Whoopi, 

Marianne, 

Latifah, 

Sophie, 

Jennifer, 

Ruby, 

Viola, 

Taraji, 

Angela, 

Gabourey, 

Mo'Nique, 

Octavia...

Somehow it makes us feel better about ourselves in America--an America that hasn't always been kind. 

Should we just be glad for the nod? 

Wait. 

WE didn't get a nod. 

We were sitting at home on our sofas, wishing we could wear dresses like that, and noticing whose forehead didn't seem to be moving.

When Chris Rock took center stage, and Whitney's photo flashed across the screen, we perked up.

Did we even pay for a ticket to see the movies in which the Black girls starred? 

Were we so preoccupied with the whole maids and mammies thing, that we forgot history, and the fact that those roles did, and still do exist? 

What do we want to see? 

Remember now. Some of us said that Julia and Clair Huxtable were unrealistic.

 

Can Black actresses just be actresses, or are they saddled with representing the rest of us every time they read a script? 

What do we serve ourselves, when equipped with the resources and opportunities to plan the audio-visual meals? 

Maybe that's the REAL issue we should discuss, as we congratulate Olivia and Viola. 

Is Hollywood the culprit, or are we? 

While we're waiting for Hollywood to give us more diverse, honorable images, what images are we portraying every day, that cause some to assume that Black girls are pitifully one dimensional, loud, ignorant, void of values, self worth, and woefully wrong?
Where IS this meeting place where we're all supposed to go, to discuss what we all like and dislike? 

Will there ever be a time when we can watch an awards show--any awards show--and the elephant in the room that we want to ignore, but somehow can't, won't answer to the name RACE?

A body can only hope.

I wrote a poem a few years ago when the little Black girl in me was talking in a way I couldn't ignore. 

She was so proud. 

She was born in Louisiana, see--so were her parents, and their parents, and their parents. 

There's a reason why she's always rooting for Black girls to succeed. 

She grew up, and gave birth to a daughter--another Black girl, who has exceeded her greatest expectations...: )

LITTLE BLACK GIRLS IN THE WHITE HOUSE
Vanessa Renee Williams

I close my eyes
And the pictures that my mind starts to play
Are really great
It's nothing like
The ordinary that I see when I'm awake
But that's okay
I've been accused of wishful thinking
And my multicolored, way out there dreaming
Is just because I've been taught to hope
And I believe in peace and chasing rainbows

I'm in love with love
And think there's good in everybody
If you just take the time to look
And looking for the things that I don't even see
Should tell you just a little bit about me
The childlike wonder in my heart and my mind
It doesn't take much to arouse
I feel so many possibilities
Some things I never thought I would ever see
Yes, there are visions happily dancing about
Like little Black girls in the White House

Never been there before
But I'm going
Don't know the ins and outs
But I'll be an expert soon enough
There will be nobody to keep me bound, or keep me out
And I'll be free
Like little Black girls in the White House

An over forty-something dream
I'd really love for my over-eighty Daddy to see
Ooo, I can feel it!
A welcomed change within and without
And I'll be strong
Where I belong
Like little Black girls in the White House

DO YOUR BEST

Make your point if you have to, but not at the expense of your skills. Make your point, but time it right, and direct it to the people who will be best helped by it. Don't let what didn't happen, what's not in place, who's not there, time, space, finances, broken promises, surprises, changes, or anything cause you to diminish yourself in any way. Lose the "I'm gonna show them" attitude. You never know who's in the room. Do your very best--EVERY time--no matter who is NOT doing their part. Just because someone got the job doesn't mean they're good at it. Don't let your indignation influence how you do yours. When the successful implementation of one task depends greatly on how well another task is done, a touchy situation can ensue.
Resist the inclination to resort to tantrums, fits and otherwise childish behavior no matter how warranted you may feel it is. Playing dumb, backing off, giving less, refusing to help, or shutting down might not send the desired message. Maybe it IS them. Maybe it IS their fault. Maybe things WEREN'T right, but don't make them worse by acting like you don't know what YOU'RE doing. Hastily timed protests reflect poorly on you and your ability, not them and theirs.
When witnessed by people who don't know the back story, a disaster unfolding before their eyes gets blamed on everyone who appears to be contributing to it. Don't find yourself being raked over the coals when you could have gotten a respectful pass or compliment.

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: START...PROGRAMS...ACCESSORIES...PAINT!

I found a print of one of the first drawings I ever created using the "paint" accessory on my PC. It occurred to me that I once thought I would never use a computer to create art.
I use my computer almost every day, now. 

I remember when I had no interest in computers whatsoever--especially where Art was concerned. I admit, I had a bit of a phobia about technology that matched my once intense dislike of Mathematics. Necessity demanded that I get over it all.

In the 80's, when I was a student at Howard University, a classmate, Roslyn Bright, enthusiastically asked me to consider enrolling in computer graphics courses. I declined, and continued to do things the hard way (out of some weird sense of loyalty to things like crayons, paint, pencils and paper). A part of me felt as if it was cheating to manipulate a machine to do what I'd always happily done by hand.

I embraced computer technology reluctantly, and recall the day I wished I'd taken Roslyn's advice. In the late 80's, I knew it would only be a matter of time before computers would be landing in my Art classroom. As a result of a school system directive in the early 90's the PC's arrived. All teachers were be required to enroll in a mandatory computer literacy course. 

I was reminded of the time I was assigned to substitute teach a Computer Science class in 1986. I didn't dare tell the children that I didn't even know how to turn on the machines. 

By the end of the day, it was clear that the students had been teaching me.
When my older sister purchased a new desktop computer, she sang its praises in her very left-brained way, and allowed me to try my hand at it. Through trial and error, and assured that I wouldn't break anything, I stumbled upon an accessory labeled "Paint". 

When I discovered that I could manipulate the mouse and draw, I was hooked instantly, and really didn't care what else the computer could do. I was fascinated by the tools that eliminated the messiness of actual art media. 

I remember my first drawing and wish I could find a print of it. 

 It amazes me how my images have transformed from safe and linear to detailed, colorful and textured. 

I wish I had a nickel for every time someone has suggested "You need a MAC". Perhaps I might have more options, but PAINT has been faithful. It's helped me create images, and enhance the JPEG files of traditionally rendered drawings and paintings that I've either sold or lost. 

I no longer feel the sense of betrayal I used to when I opted to choose my computer over paper, canvas, pencils, pens, acrylics and brushes. 

From my first use of the desktop mouse years ago, to my current use of the touchpad of my laptop, I know it's just another creative option--an option I really do enjoy. It's like finger painting.

Now, if I could only perfect my PAINT penmanship when I'm trying to sign my work. 

I know. 

There's probably a tool for that...: )

TUESDAY THOUGHTS: POETRY PROMPT----FEBRUARY FOURTEENTH

I walked into the house on Valentine's Day

"Divorce Court" was on the TV

I stopped in my tracks

Laughed out loud, dried my eyes

And thought, "Things aren't as bad as they seem!"

No---things aren't as bad as they seem!

The lump in my throat that was there when I rose

Had suddenly faded away

The Enemy thought he'd depress me, but no--

I had the most fabulous day!

It was really a fabulous day!

I'd dressed up myself, went out into the world

Felt the Sun, braved the cold, and I smiled

Had to admit, it felt good being me

Hadn't felt quite like that in a while!

Hadn't felt quite like that in a while!

No, there were no huge flowers, nor boxes of treats

Just the truffles I bought for myself

No plan for the evening, no candlelight setting

Just me loving me, nothing else

Just me loving me, nothing else

Been alone all the other days of the year

So what's different about this one day?

Is it just what I say when I'm fighting back tears?

Is it how I chase Lonely away?

If it's Saturday, Tuesday, or Thursday, I know

There is so much I can celebrate

I am loved, and adored, and as long as I've breath

Every day will be a special day

Be it fourteenth of February, or June one

I'm content, and sweet peace can be mine

See-- my happiness hinges on what's happening

But joy I can have all the time!

Yes, joy I can have all the time!

VRW c2009

SUNDAY THOUGHTS: POETRY PROMPT---STARS

I woke up this morning wondering how stars die. 

On a website called 'Skywatch", I found the following information:

"Before understanding how stars die, we first have to understand what they are, and how do they live...

Eventually, all the star’s fuel is exhausted, and it starts to contract. 

Remember, it was the pressure created by nuclear fusion that prevented gravity from shrinking the star. Once the fusion has stopped, gravity takes over..." 

~Ed Ehrlich

A few years ago, I wrote a poem, and it, too, was on my mind this morning.

STARS

"And the stars
Shall withdraw their shining
Not burn out.
Not malfunction.
Not be extinguished.
Not fade.
Just take their radiance away
On purpose.

Did things get too heavy?
Perhaps, they were too hot.
Were they too old?
Did they get weary?
Did they change their minds?
Did they lose their reason to shine?

Deep down, are they no different than me?
What can so impact a star
That it will cease to be?
Can a star stop shining
And still be a star?"

I listened to the very respectful Don Lemon, and other contributors to CNN's coverage of the death of Whitney Houston, until my eyes were burning. 

I had no choice but to drag myself to bed. 

It’s funny how the death of a stranger can make you feel as if you've lost a member of your own family. 

You wonder what you could have said or done. 

You thank God you have the capacity to feel sympathy for someone you don't even know.

I told my sister that I was so glad we were together, because I knew she would understand how the news impacted me. Neither of us knew Whitney Houston, but as a singer, and a 60's baby, her music was the stuff of my 20's and 30's and 40's. 

I was so hopeful that it would continue into my 50's and beyond.

 

I never watched her infamous reality show. 

I didn't want to get wrapped up her court TV drama. I didn't want to see photos or videos that captured her in an embarrassing, less than glamorous light. 

I just wanted to remember the purity of her voice, and the joy that singing seemed to bring her.

The photos on her newest project are beautiful. 

I remember how I rooted for her in my head.
Now she's dead, and I suppose I, too, want the blame to make its rounds, and visit everything and everyone responsible for silencing her. 

Now, a daughter has to continue on without her mother. A mother, family, and friends have to go on without their loved one. A world has been deprived of one of its most beloved voices.

I was choked up so long, I do believe I cried in my sleep. You can always tell, the minute you wake up and take a deep breath.

I remember when Richard got the call about the inclusion of his composition, “I Love The Lord” in the film, "The Preacher's Wife". 

We were all so excited.  

"Vision" attended the movie premier at a theater in NW DC, and performed for the audience what we'd learned was Whitney's favorite gospel song. 

When the film ended, and others headed for the exits, we remained in our seats, anxiously watching the credits roll. We were waiting to see the words "I LOVE THE LORD" composed by Richard Smallwood". 

When we did, we clapped and cheered for him. 

Whitney had done a wonderful job covering the song we'd all loved for years (that was beautifully recorded by Dottie Jones).

 

It felt like we knew her, and she'd honored one of our own. What we knew and admired, was her body of musical work. 

Last night I wondered just how much the work impacted her body.

Every time someone said, "The show must go on", I felt angry and conflicted. 

I'm not sure how "The Show" has so soundly convinced the people ON stage that they need IT more than IT needs them. 

Is it because there are so many hungry, replacement, wannabe stars who still have lots of fuel, and are willing to take a chance at burning out, just to get an opportunity to shine? 

Perhaps it's time for a serious, thorough overhaul in certain arenas and industries, that will render them more kind, supportive, and thoughtful to those whose talents fuel them.

 

Where is all of the pressure, stress, and danger coming from, when all someone wants to do is share their talent? 

Is the negativity internal, or is it exacerbated by all of the external, greedy forces that seek to profit?

 

How does what you love to do, become secondary to the agendas and demands of others who often forget that you are a human being?

Perhaps individuals should decide just how badly they want notoriety, and whether or not they really need the services, or company of certain people. 

Maybe it's time to evaluate whether or not everything that is hyped as necessary parts of the territory, or the game, is really just a bunch of crap. 

In actuality, some things that people insist you must do to "make it" or get "there", are detrimental to you as a person, AND a performer.

After all, when it's time TO perform--when it's time to do that thing (that you love so much that you would do it for free)--don't you want to be ABLE to? Wouldn't you want to do it WELL--the way you used to when no one knew your name?

Some people love WHAT you do, every time you do it, no matter what toll it takes on you TO do it, but they don't love YOU. 

They prove it by the demands they make. 

Say "No" for the first time, and see what happens.

Every now and then, the show must NOT go on, and people will just have to get the heck over it. 

Let them buy and listen to the record, watch the DVD, or read the book. 

But then, that IS what we do, isn't it? 

We fatten the pockets of those who invest in, steal from, and deceive stars, but watch silently or judgmentally as the stars burn out. 

We keep silent as opportunistic, dishonest people take full credit for what God has given, and make talented people feel as if they were nothing, and would never have amounted to anything worthwhile without them. 

When a star dies, it never fails. The value of their life's work goes up, and someone else benefits from it--sometimes for more years than the star was even alive. 

We express our sadness, recover from our grief, confirm our theories and suspicions, and reminisce about the days when they shined the very brightest, while an artificial spotlight is shined on the worst chapters of their lives. 

People have such simple, pure wishes; such humble beginnings. What happens?

Something is so wrong with it all. 

When does the joy turn to misery?

It's disheartening—all that a person endures Just To Sing A Song .

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: ENJOY THE VIEW

I just stood at the patio door this morning and looked out. It was beautiful. 

I'm not sure how long I stared before I opened the door. 

I soon found it was beautiful AND cold.

Every now and then it's nice to get away, and you don't even have to go far.
My nice, serene morning in Williamsburg has morphed into a nice serene afternoon.

It had been cloudy all day, but one huge, ominous looking cloud stood out. 

A little after 5 PM, errands all done, and Chick-fil-A in tow, as soon as the lock on the door was turned, the snow began to fall swiftly. 

It started so suddenly it was a little shocking, and the flakes were huge. 

It was as if it was waiting for us to get safely inside....: )

#williamsburg

FREE SPEECH?

OH, HAPPY DAY

I love singing background vocals. 

I could literally remain in a studio all day if all I had to do was sing and stack vocals, and challenge myself to match the last phrase, word, or sound.

 
Pianist, Kim Jordan, (Detroit native, DMV favorite, worship leader, and former Gil Scott-Heron musical director) recently gave me an opportunity to "play" at her home studio. 

She's working on her new project, and the first release is a nice, new twist on a song I honestly don't think anyone in the world doesn't know. 

No matter who you are, it seems that if you travel overseas to perform gospel music, "Oh, Happy Day" had better be in your repertoire. 

I will never forget the group of well-dressed, briefcase-toting Italian businessmen who approached members of "Vision" as we relaxed in the lobby of our hotel in Terni, Italy. They knew we were in town for the Umbria Gospel and Soul Festival, and although we may not have understood much of what they said, we DID understand when they insisted we sing "Oh Happy Day" right there in the lobby. 

The sight of those men smiling, dancing, clapping, and singing in their elegant suits was a delightful sight to behold.

I really appreciate Kim for the chance to sing a song I love and "be the choir". 
Steven Ford refers to the vocal parts as "Your sisters" any time I record with him. 
Vince Evans calls them "those other girls"...lol

Everybody knows that I prefer singing alto, but I had the best time reaching for those soprano notes for Kim's project. 

I've never had voice lessons, but I'm so grateful for the ability to hear. That's why I’m so convinced that there’s so much to learn about Music if you’re a part of an aggregation with good, competent leadership. 

Don't ever sleep on your church choir, no matter how humble it may be. 

I attribute my ability to hear all of the vocal parts to singing in church choirs, and listening intently to R&B records when I was younger.

If, at rehearsal, there was a part missing, or a section was short of members, someone had to fill in. 

When it came to my favorite songs on 45's, I didn't listen much to the leads, but the background vocals always fascinated me. 

I always wanted to find MY part and sing along with them. 

To me, there's nothing like harmony. When it's tight and right, it rings.

Kim's uplifting take on "Oh, Happy Day" is available to download at Amazon Music. 

You can also listen at YouTube.

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: REMEMBERING MOMMY

Nine years ago today, my Mom died. 

I still find it difficult to wrap my mind around the thought. 

I can't phone her. 

It's so weird. 

I can still hear her voice. Whether it was public-speaking-proper, or tinged with a little Louisiana drawl as she chatted on the phone with friends, it was wonderful in its charm and rhythm. She wasn’t a screamer, but her raised voice was firm. I can still hear her sharp, “Ah. Young people?” as she brought her English classes to order.

Mommy always said, 'Know when to turn it on and when to turn it off."

I miss her. 

I encounter people in public being  disrespectful to their mothers, and I transform into Supergirl--confronting ungrateful, out-of-control, smart-mouthed brats (young and old) one department or grocery store at a time. I know it isn't, but in the moment, somehow, I feel it IS my business. I don't know how many people I've scolded in stores over the last 9 years. "Excuse me. You have your mom right here with you. I would give anything to be able to shop with my Mom today. If I want to visit MY mom, I have to go to Ft. Lincoln Cemetery." 

I don't know how many stunned, ashamed, and even grateful faces I've walked away from, with the hopes that they'd get it. 

You only get one mom. There may be many "play" moms, godmothers, aunts, and even teachers, but only one mom. Treat her right.

For whatever one's mom may be, or may have been, the fact is, you’re here. That, alone, deserves some consideration and respect.

I go through what has become a twice-yearly ritual. 

I look at photographs--no I gaze at them--especially the ones where it seems as if she's looking directly at me. 

I look at the video clip from the "Persuaded: Live in Washington" recording that was filmed at Jericho City of Praise. In a few brief scenes, there's Mommy, happily clapping away on 1 and 3. 

I try to remember things she said. I reach out to my sisters and Dad. 

I read messages from her former students. 

I think about the years she spent teaching for D.C. Public Schools, first at Birney Elementary, then H.D. Woodson, then P. R. Harris Educational Center (formerly Friendship).

I look in the mirror, and see more, and more, then and more of her face. 

I enjoy some popcorn-- prepared the old-fashioned way. (Mommy LOVED popcorn).

Today, I took a virtual walk down Addis Lane, in Addis Louisiana, courtesy of Google maps.

Although I can't erase from my mind the sight of the emergency room staff working frantically to save her, each year I feel more empowered. I saw what no child--even an adult child--should see, but I thank God for the time Mommy did have on Earth. 

At birth, she was a preemie, and wasn't expected to live at all. I remember my Auntee Lillian retelling the story and smile. 

Mommy was extraordinary. In every dream I've had since she died where Mommy is featured, she is beautiful, carefree, happy, fit, and very busy with her wonderful life.

Mommy died at Washington Hospital Center. I often wonder what happened between the time we left her room on the night of February 3 around 10 PM, and the wee hours of the morning of February 4th. 

I guess I'll never really know. 

One of the last things she said to me, after I brushed her hair and placed it in one French braid, was "Be happy".

I hate cancer. Every time I hear "colon cancer", "pulmonary embolism" or "coumadin" I cringe. 

Every time I hear of strides in treatment, I smile.

I miss my Mommy. I can only imagine what a spry, stylish, elegant senior citizen she would have been.