Big Ray

Today would have been my grandfather’s 100th birthday. My grandfather, Raymond Boust, also know as Big Ray, died in 1974 when I was nine, but my memories of him are vivid. I guess this is because he was larger than life.

He was, in fact, a tall man, well over 6’3”, with steel grey eyes, a pencil thin mustache, and a deep guttural laugh. In his prime, he was known as the “Dark Gable” of South Philly. Yes, he was fine!

He and my grandmother slept in separate bedrooms in their home on St. Albans, and whenever I spent the night, I’d sleep with my grandmother, but my grandfather would put me to bed and stand in the doorway watching over me until I fell asleep. I’d always find him in the same place, watching over me, when I’d awaken. It didn’t matter how early I got up, he’d always be standing there looking at me. In my little girl’s mind, he’d been standing there all night making sure I was o.k. Once I was awake, he’d wordlessly motion for me to follow him downstairs, where he’d perch me in a chair at the dining room table. He’d then go into the kitchen and fix me the best hot cocoa (w/milk, not water) and a cup of black coffee for himself. To this day I cannot drink hot cocoa made with water and I've passed this high brow preference onto my children.

I remember one time when he actually woke me up and took me downstairs before the sun came up. He seemed excited, not his usual cool self and I was confused and disoriented. It was still dark out and I didn’t understand why he’d taken me out of bed. He placed me on the floor in the living room in front of the b & w TV. Big Ray’s voice boomed as he told me we were about to see the first man walk on the moon.

About 20 years after my grandfather died, I unknowingly rented an apartment in a house his family once owned in South Philly. After learning my familial connection to this particular piece of real estate, I became friendly with some of the older residents of the block who knew my grandfather well and remembered him fondly. Without a doubt, I know that my journey to that street, the 1900 block of Pemberton, did not happen by happenstance, but was Big Ray’s keeping a watchful eye on me once again.

Wii Havin' Fun

Has anyone out there heard of folks developing a Wii elbow or shoulder?

Santa bought the Mango Tribe a Wii this Christmas and hands-down it’s the best gift we’ve ever received. Everyone has been playing it, including my in-laws visiting from Sacramento and even my 80 year-old Aunt Elaine, who joined us for Christmas dinner. The kids, Loverman and me have even created our individual Miis and I’m happy to report that my Wii fitness age is an impressive 33 (not bad at all for a 43 year-old).

But, this morning after bowling a few rounds with the kids and beating Loverman in the best out of five in tennis, I noticed that my right shoulder is really sore and as pitiful as this may sound, playing these Wii games have been most physical exercise I’ve had in weeks. I had to pop two Motrin and take a nap to get myself together.

I’m sure hitting the tennis ball on the Wii Sports court may not be an adequate substitute for getting my butt out on a real tennis court, but it’s better than nothing. Now if I could just get my hands on the Wii Fit.

Happy Turkey Day

I love Thanksgiving. Hands down, it’s my favorite holiday. Sure, the food is great, spending time with family and friends is fun and having a four day weekend is fabulous. But what I enjoy most is the spirit of the holiday. For me, Thanksgiving is an opportunity to take a whopping cleansing breathe of thanks for my countless blessings.

Happy Thanksgiving y’all!

She's Got Mail

For the past two weeks Olivia has been coming home from school, not as her usual bubbly self, but in a foul mood. When I pressed her about this, she’d say nothing’s wrong, but finally admitted she didn’t think her 4th grade teacher, Maestra Amaya, liked her. “Why,” I asked? Olivia went on to explain that when she raises her hand to answer a question or participate in a discussion, she’s rarely called on. O.k. I thought, not such a big deal, I suggested maybe Olivia could ask to speak with Amaya privately to address her concerns. Stubbornly, Olivia huffed that she had no intention of speaking to this teacher about anything.

Let me provide a little back-story. For the most part, Olivia has been treated like a little star since her early days in preschool and it’s only continued once she hit elementary school. I’m sure it has a lot to do simply with how she looks; she stands out with her bright smile and head full of dreadlocks. To top it off, she’s a great kid. She’s friendly, can engage anyone in conversation and acts her age. So, I’m sure Amaya’s seeming lack of overt enthusiasm over my girl may have taken Olivia aback. This is Amaya’s first year at the school, she’s still finding her way around, learning who’s who and what’s what and probably hasn’t been peeped to Olivia’s status.

I continued to urge Olivia to speak with her teacher, explaining she may be reading Maestra Amaya all wrong, but unless she talks to her about it, she’ll never know. I’m pretty big on communication, trying to talk things out, owning your feelings and where you stand in a situation, and as Olivia gets older and starts to navigate pre-teen social dynamics, I know these will be useful skills if she starts exercising them early.

Well, as Olivia continued to mope and dismiss my calls to talk to her teacher, I offered another option. I suggested Olivia write down her thoughts and feelings and send them to her teacher in the form of an email. She’s been asking for an email address for the past few weeks and although Loverman and I have been pretty restrictive when it comes to video and computer games, we felt ok with her getting her own email address.

Olivia fell for the bait and agreed to send her teacher an email once we got set her set-up with an email address. She spent about a half hour getting her thoughts together and writing the email. Once she was satisfied and feeling accomplished with what she’d written she released it to the universe and pushed “send.” Olivia went on and sent additional emails to Loverman, me and a few of her friends at school. Later that evening, she asked if she could use the computer to see if anyone had responded to her emails. “Sure,” I said and to Olivia’s surprise, her teacher had responded with a detailed email addressing Olivia’s concerns. She also asked Olivia if they could meet during snack time the next day to continue their discussion.

When I picked up the kids the next day, Olivia was her usual upbeat self and when I inquired about her meeting with Amaya, Olivia said they had spoken and she now has a better understanding of her teacher’s position. Amaya told Olivia that she does, indeed notice Olivia’s continued interest in participating in class, but not all of Olivia’s classmates participate at the same level and she feels like if she has a choice between selecting Olivia or another student who may not participate as often, she selects the other student. Amaya also told Olivia how much she appreciated Olivia’s email.

I am so proud of Olivia and I’m happy this particular incident has been resolved to Olivia’s satisfaction. She learned a lesson and so did I. I learned that in spite of my efforts of denial, my girl is really growing up and for the most part, she really listens to what Loverman and me are saying to her. I know that my years of total control of what she does, whom she interacts with and my handling of all her affairs are fleeting, but I can see that she’s going to be just fine.

She Touched Him!

Barack Obama was in Philadelphia today. He made four stops throughout the city. As astonishingly as it must sound, the Mango tribe was not able to check him out. Nope, we were too busy with soccer games and work commitments.

But not to fret… our friends and family did follow him to various locations (some may call it stalking), and below is a gloating email from my girl Lori. She actually, physically touched him. She also took this accompanying photo. Lucky girl!

Ladies,

I touched Barack Obama today and it was everything I thought it would be. Please excuse me while I pause to take a drag from cigarette.

I have attached one photo to this email. I apologize for not having more to show, but these were taken under adverse and hostile circumstances, for I had quite aggressively muscled my way past several people in the crowd to get closer to Barack. With shouts of "Where the hell does she think she's going?! We're all here to see the same damn thing." at my back, I valiantly held on to both my balance and my life. Were these people insane? Alas, I was not there to merely see – but also to touch, feel, and even taste had the opportunity presented itself. The gods be damned! I was going to emerge victorious from this crusade even if it meant leaving children, the elderly, and the handicapped in my wake. So it was done.

The details:
We touched with our left hands.
His – large with long fingers, soft, warm. He has a strong, deliberate, and genuine shake. He holds on for a moment, squeezes, then gently and slowly lets go.
Mine – frantic, desperate, obsessed, and vice-like. We all know I'm unstable.

Wish you all could have been there and touched him also. Enjoy the photo.

Love,
Lori

Co-Opting Playdates and Time-Outs

In my last post, I mentioned hosting my book club meeting on Saturday afternoon. We had a great time catching up, discussing the book, eating and drinking sangria and pomegranate margaritas. I always enjoy this time because the women in the group are wonderful, warm, interesting and intelligent and I’m guaranteed to have a good time. In fact, I come to refer to these dates as a “mommy play date.” That’s right, I’ve co-opted the term “play date,” and just as I plan these important and vital activities with my kids’ friends and classmates to foster friendships and assist in the development of their social skills, I, too, see the need to identify and organize “adults only” activities so my brain doesn’t drift into atrophy as I raise my children and navigate parenthood.

I'll also share another secret--- sometimes instead of sending my kids to “time-out,” I put myself in “mommy time-out.” This one works like a charm, because I usually put myself in time-out right in the middle of some melt-down between Olivia /Yannick and instead of banishing them to their room to get themselves together and to “think about it,” I sashay off to the sanctity of my own bedroom, admonishing them not to disturb me until my time-out is over. I don't use this one too often, but when I hit them with this little role reversal, they're so dazed and confused they usually forget whatever they were fussing about. I’m convinced this little maneuver has saved my sanity on more than one occasion.

Personal Aesthetics

Do you have a design aesthetic? I think about this a lot, especially since my girl Zenia introduced me to Carrie and Danielle and their book, Style Statement. I’m confident I have a design aesthetic when it comes to my home. I like bold colors on the walls, comfortable, inviting furniture, and artwork, framed photos of family and friends and bookshelves filled with books in every room. I want our home to be a welcoming and peaceful space.

I’m not as confident about my personal aesthetic when it comes to fashion. Again, I gravitate towards color--- orange is my favorite, but I also wear lots of greens and browns. Outside of colors, I’m at a total loss. I think this may have more to do with body image than anything else. I honestly need to lose about 20+ lbs., but I have been feeling a lot better about my weight since we’ve joined the swim club and I’ve been both swimming regularly and participating in a bi-weekly water aerobics class. I am satisfied with other aspects of my appearance, specifically my haircut, but I felt just as comfortable with my dreads. Or maybe, I should say that up until I cut them off I felt good about them, because one morning I just woke up and knew that this was the day I needed to cut them off. I suddenly felt like I was hiding under the weight of my hair and I wanted to see myself again without having to pull my hair away from my face. I wanted step into the shower and feel the water on my head every morning. I had the dreads cut off that very day. I never looked back and I won’t be growing the dreads back like I did that last two times I cut them off. I wear short hair well. It suits me.

Earlier today I hosted my book club meeting and in preparation, my cousin/sister Allyson offered to bake a blueberry pie and when she dropped it off, she also handed me a gift she picked up somewhere on her daily travels. The package contained the funkiest serving tray and bowls. It had Mango Mama written all over it. Allyson does this sort of thing all the time, she’s always keeping mental notes, remembering some off-handed comment you made months ago, like when I thanked her for the beautiful serving platter she bought me during her trip to Mexico in May. I was so excited when I saw the platter because I’d recently determined that the Mango Tribe entertains on a fairly frequent basis, and we’d grown beyond the festive, plastic serving bowls I picked a few years ago. It was time to step up our game. Well, I guess my Fairy God-Sister Allyson took note and when she ran across a sale at Pier 1, she decided to hook a sister up and I’m thankful.

For me, having a sense of your personal aesthetic is a reflection of how comfortable you are in your own skin, a barometer to gauge if you’re living in an emotional/spiritual space of personal authenticity. Allyson’s gift affirms that on some level, my personal design aesthetic is being translated, because she nailed it and I can’t wait for the next opportunity to break out my new pieces.

Summers at the Nile

When I was about five, my mother spent lots of money on swimming lessons at the local YMCA. Let’s just say that instead of being money well spent, most of the money sadly went down the drain. It wasn’t until the summer months came and we started spending our days at the Nile did I truly learn to swim and thus began a summer ritual that lasted well into my teen years.

The Nile is the oldest Black-owned swim club in the country and my grandparents and some of their neighbors were founding members. The club was created in 1959 when a group of progressive African American residents of Yeadon, PA were denied membership to the all-White Yeadon Swim Club. This was no small accomplishment because this endeavor required they pool their resources, buy a plot of land and build a pool, clubhouse, snack bar and modest recreational facilities, and ironically, as the Nile continues to offer its members a family-friendly respite minutes away from Philadelphia’s city limits, the Yeadon Swim Club no longer exists. As a kid, I remember my White classmates hosting their summer birthday parties at the Yeadon Swim Club and it was simply understood I wouldn’t be invited because of the club’s no Blacks allowed policy.

It looks like history may be repeating itself, because two years ago Loverman and I invested in a series of lessons at a Y in the city hoping that our brown babies would morph into brown water babies and share our love for swimming. Didn’t work. Fortunately, neither displayed a fear of the water, but it seems for the money we spent, we should have gotten beyond a flailing semblance of a doggie paddle.

Since moving to a neighborhood not far from my childhood home, I often found myself fondly smiling as I drove past the Nile. I vividly recall riding my bike to the pool everyday from the last day of school in mid-June to Labor Day, becoming tanned way beyond my usual shade of café au lait. This year as summer approached both my mom and aunt suggested Loverman and I invest in a membership for our family. It sounded good to me, but with all of the other summer expenses, I didn’t know if it was possible, but two weeks ago I decided to stop by the club and pick up the membership info, and as I looked over the grounds I was flooded with the most wonderful memories and rushed home to crunch the numbers to see how we could make this work.

Later that evening as Loverman and I were reviewing the membership options, we went on the Nile’s website and on its homepage there’s a digital postcard featuring archival photographs of the Nile back in its heyday. There’s a photo of Harry Belafonte at the Nile, followed by The Supremes at the Nile and then I got the biggest surprise--- a photo of my grandmother, Veronica Athealea Nelson, looking her diva best with some friends at the Nile circa 1959. I couldn’t believe it, what an amazing, unexpected gift. For me it was incredibly clear my grandmother was beaconing me, telling me it was time to come home.

Well, we have joined and on our first visit I was welcomed by and reconnected with folks I haven’t seen in more than twenty-five years, people who have known me all my life and remember me when I was Olivia’s age. Although some things have changed, like there are fewer members, and there are even some White members, ultimately it’s just like I remember it. The sound system stays tuned to ‘DAS FM and the young lifeguards run a tight ship to ensure everyone’s safety and everyday adult swim is from 6:00 – 6:30pm and for that blissful half hour I can get my workout on and swim laps. Olivia and Yannick are now swimming like guppies and have browned almost to a crisp and the water really seems to wear Yannick out because after a day at the pool the little guy sleeps for a good 12 to 13 hours. Nirvnana!

It’s feels good to be back, like I’m contributing to my grandparents legacy and efforts to be apart of something bigger and benefits the entire community. A lofty concept sure, but it’s true and its without question the best investment we could have made this summer.

I am a sandwich

I am a sandwich or better yet, I am of the sandwich generation. I am in my early forties and I’m sandwiched between my two younger children and parents in their mid-sixties. My experience with my father this week has made this painfully clear.

For the last year or so, my dad has been in extreme discomfort from his right knee and earlier this week he had knee replacement surgery. When Dad mentioned he was planning to have this surgery, I was really happy, because of course, if something could be done to alleviate his pain, I wanted it done. I was also concerned as to how we could manage his recovery because my dad lives alone. I’m an only child, and since my parent’s break-up about 4 years ago, my dad and I have been forced to deal with each other in a more production way, as we’ve tried to heal our challenged relationship.

When discussing his operation, my dad assured me he had everything covered and really wouldn’t need my assistance. In fact, he said he didn’t need me to come to the hospital during the surgery. Well, I explained nothing would keep me from being with him at the hospital or as he weathered this ordeal, but I needed to have some idea of what I’d be in for. I mean, what about getting him up and down the stairs in his house? How much weight will he be able to put on his right leg by the time he goes home? My dad’s 6’1” and about 250lbs, he’s not a small man and I didn’t know if he should really be managing in his house alone for the first few days after the surgery. I’d already planned to go to his house each morning to fix his breakfast for at least the first week following the operation. I’m off for the holidays until January 3rd, so it really isn’t a big deal. Again, my dad’s assured me this isn’t necessary.

Well, yesterday I learned my dad has no idea of what he’s in for and the few things he does have in place are woefully inadequate and will not address his immediate needs once he’s discharged. When I went to the hospital yesterday afternoon, my dad’s nurse, Marsha, introduced me to Tracey, my dad’s caseworker. Tracey peppered me with at least a half dozen questions, which I wasn’t prepared to answer. She told me I’d have to buy a portable toilet and walker. For at least the next three weeks, a physical therapist and homecare nurse will come to Dad’s home to assist him, but someone should probably be staying with him for the first week at least. Once Tracy gave me a more comprehensive picture of my dad’s situation, I was pretty mad and disgusted with my dad.

I’m angry because this is a lot more than I anticipated and because I’ve been asking my dad for weeks to sit down with me and devise a plan to make this work. Now I find myself having to rework my plans to accommodate his needs. I’m not proud that I feel this way, but I would be more amiable about helping him out if my dad asked, or at least, sat me down to explain what the recovery was realistically going to look like. At this point, I’ve found myself in this position by default.

I’m also realizing that as my parents' age, I will probably find myself in this position a lot more often, sandwiched between their needs, and my responsibilities as a wife and mother. But, if this were my mom, the circumstances would be a lot different because my mother and I have a much better relationship. We communicate and work well together. This current situation with my dad reflects our ongoing struggle, one in which in his mind, I’m still a 12-year-old child, who has to do things his way, without question, and to a certain extent, I guess I’ve played into this scenario, but if I value my sanity and that of my family, things are definitely going to have to change.

Finding Your THING?

When I was pregnant with Olivia, Loverman used to spend hour after hour wondering what our little girl’s THING would be as she grew up. He did the same while we were expecting Yannick, too. I listened and dreamed, praying only for their safe passage from the womb to the world.

As the children grow, the two of us catch glimpses of what we think may be their THING, maybe more like leanings toward their THING, but today when Olivia came home with a partial scholarship to an intensive Saturday art program at a local university, our hunches were confirmed. Olivia is an artist.

It’s really not a surprise. Our lives are surrounded by art and artists. My mom is an incredible jewelry designer, my husband’s a filmmaker, I program for a multidisciplinary presenting arts organization. In fact, years ago, I curated an exhibition which included shadowboxes made with found materials and this exhibit included some of Olivia’s early work. I think she may have been three at the time.

From day one, Yannick has been musical. I’d be surprised if music isn’t his THING. It’s in every pore of his little body. His nickname is Be-bop, because even as an infant, he’d bop back and forth to any rhythm within earshot. As a baby, his favorite book was Charlie Parker Played Be-bop. As he’s gotten older, his musical tastes seem to be gravitating towards world traditions including the polyrhythmic North Indian tabla and all things Beatles.

What a gift Miss Olivia has been given! To be affirmed of her talents at such a young age. I think knowing your THING helps to ground you. I know so many folks who are still looking for their THING, or haven’t been given the space and time to really develop what they think their THING may be.

Now, the challenge for Loverman and I will be to strike the right balance between providing support and encouragement, while not allowing this revelation to limit this child as she explores her other talents and interests. We’ve got to know when to step aside and allow nature to run its course, because who says that you can only have one THING?

Score 1 for the little guy!

Yesterday, my entire mango tribe was heading home after the usual Sunday-get-ready-for-Monday errands and Yannick was trying to tell us a story. He's a little chatterbox and as usual, Olivia was butting in and tramping all over the details he was working so hard to provide. When they took a breath, I jumped in and scolded Miss Olivia for never letting her little brother tell the story all by himself. I’m going on and on, blah… blah… blah… blah, about letting the little guy speak and the importance of active listening, when Yannick quips in and says…. “Yeah, like you’re doing right now Mommy.”

We all fell out laughing and afterwards mango mommy just zipped her lips. Point well taken, little guy.

SCORE BOARD
Yannick: 1
Olivia & Mango Mama: 0

The Man or Woman in the Mirror

When I was a younger, my mom used to urge me to choose my friends wisely, because they’re a reflection of you. She’s right and through the years I’ve also learned that if you’re lucky, your friends can reflect the person you’re aspiring to be.

Case in point, today my sister, Allyson, is leaving for a two-week journey to various villages in Nigeria to offer her medical services, free of charge, to whoever needs it. She’s working with the Nigerian-based Pro-health International. Allyson is my sister by nurture, not by nature. She’s actually a distant cousin, and we didn’t meet until we were 18, but from the day we met, we’ve been thick as thieves, and vitally engaged in each other’s lives. Through Allyson, I’ve learned the importance of consistent nurturing of familial relationships. Allyson is not only my girl, but she’s actively engaged in the lives of my children and husband. As Loverman and I struggle to do our best to raise loving, intelligent and insightful children, Aunt Allyson is here to fill in any blanks that we may miss along the way.

I’m also happy to say that Loverman inspires me daily. I often tell the kids that in my eyes I’ve already done my best by them because I’ve given them the best daddy in the world and anyone who personally knows Loverman, will agree that this is the absolute truth. As a dad, the only thing this man hasn’t done (other than the physical labor to bring them into the world) is breastfeed. Because of Loverman, I am learning to be a more patient and present parent.

I could wax poetic about all of my friends, and the fact of the matter is I’d be hard press to identify even one who in some way or another doesn’t challenge me to be a better person. I hope that as a sister, wife, mother and friend, I’m not the slug in the group and in my unique way, I do the same for them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I love Thanksgiving. I’ve loved Thanksgiving all my life and it may be the only American holiday that I truly buy into. I mean what’s not to love, you’re given a feeding frenzy pass and you can let yourself go and enjoy four full days of laying back and literally chew the fat.

When I was a kid, my family and I would gather at my Aunt Minnie’s for the holiday and I was always the center of attention as the only kid on the scene; and the Sunday following Thanksgiving, everyone would gather again, but this time at my grandmother’s to enjoy the leftovers. We followed this same routine well into my college years, and honestly, it was fine with me. I’ve never been big on change.

I can’t remember the year things shifted to having Thanksgiving dinner at my parents, but I was cool with it, because all of the living players followed the meal to my parent’s house, so it was simply a change in location.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve really learned to appreciate the stability of my childhood and our traditions, and mourn how much things have changed and the family members who are no longer with us. I expected that I would pass these traditions onto my children.

When I express these feelings to my mom or Aunt Pam, they explain that it’s up to Loverman and me to create new traditions for the kids. For the last few years we’ve had Thanksgiving at our house and my now separated parents have joined us with my elderly aunts. This isn’t going to work this year because tensions between my folks are at an all-time high.

This year we’re joining my cousin Allyson. She’s like a sister to me and she’s had one hell of a year and is in search of creating a few new traditions of her own.

I think I’m finally getting pass this wishing for the good ‘ole days and looking to focus on the larger picture, not the interchangeable details, like the fact that regardless where we land for the meal, we’re surrounded by loving friends and family and our blessings are abundant.

Have a wonderful holiday people.

Friday Morning Madness

So, this morning in my usual chaotic attempt to get the kids out of bed, washed, teeth brushed, dressed and down for breakfast, I was stopped in my tracks when my 5 yr. old complained that he couldn’t brush his teeth.

“Why baby?”

“Because the batteries in my toothbrush are dead!”

New World Order

Even though my oldest, Olivia, is only in 3rd grade, homework time is often stressful, and I guess it’s understandable since Olivia’s homework is in Spanish and neither Loverman or I are native Spanish speakers. Both Olivia and Yannick are in an immersion program at their school and they learn most of their lessons in Spanish. From the first day of kindergarten through 4th grade, their teachers speak to them in Spanish and the kids are expected to respond in Spanish, so for Olivia, this is her 4th year of Spanish and she surpassed her parent’s Spanish comprehension by the middle of 1st grade. Yannick’s only in his fifth week of kindergarten, so fortunately, we’re still of assistance to the little guy, but he’s a quick learner, so I guess we’d better watch out.

When family and friends hear that the kids learn in Spanish all day and find out that Loverman and I don’t speak much Spanish, they often ask why we chose to put the kids in a Spanish speaking program and for us it’s really simple, we’re preparing our children for the new world order.

Both Olivia and Yannick are bright, curious kids and when it came to finding a school that complemented our worldview, this school and its progressive academic approach seemed ideal. Sure, homework can be stressful, and communication with the mostly native Spanish-speaking teachers is sometimes challenging and sometimes, there are cultural nuances that need to be addressed, but overall, it’s exceeded our expectations. See, we’re teaching our children that yes, we live in the U.S., but we’re also citizens of the world and both within and beyond the borders of this country, Spanish is widely spoken. Actually, 400 million people worldwide speak Spanish.

Children are sponges and adapt quite easily to learning a new language, culture, etc. Oftentimes, it’s the parents that must step outside our comfort zone to truly prepare our children to be competitive globally.