I'm 54 years old. Lately I've "seen" things differently. At first I was alarmed that this new sense of life meant I was going to die soon (I’m half Greek and have a more-than-slight tendency to add an unneeded note of drama to my ordinary life) but now I have accepted that this is merely another interesting page unfolding for me.
When I was in 10th grade Art Class, I had a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Brown, who once upon a lazy warm day, showed us how to start a picture with a center design: circle, square, star, whatever. Once we established our center, we drew lines or ovals around it. Then we added around the circles and lines, spreading outward until we had filled the page with beautiful, random forms and figures. We colored them in as we pleased, and a gorgeous tapestry or quilt was created. It was really a kind of glorified doodle, but so very much fun and cool and beautiful. It kind of reached out to the universe, had no end, and to me represented . . . endless possibilities.
At this point in my life I feel very aware of that tapestry or quilt. Everything I do each day, every person I meet, is an interaction with the entire earth in a small way. Kind deeds spread outward to affect countless others (if I smile at a clerk, maybe they will smile at their next customer, and so on and so on). The sight of the full moon spreads beauty throughout the town of Murphy and outward to all of Dallas, and even further out, spreading its gentle glow over the earth. The energy I expend at work adds to the energy of the globe as it goes about its business.
I like that. I like feeling that I am a part of something universal. I like looking at the world as potentially good and, if I spread my small form of goodness, my positive energy, it might help cause a chain reaction of positive energy that will actually make a difference.*
If nothing else, I find the world an endlessly fascinating place, full of wonder and new adventures. I hope I always will.
*CAVEAT: This feeling of benign good will in no way mitigates my frequent desire to slap certain politicians and other idiots upside the head when they do or say something totally asinine, bigoted or downright stupid; nor does it abate my earnest and sincere promise to eviscerate anyone who tries to harm my children.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
April 4, 1968
I was 12 years old and living in St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands. On the island, white residents were the minority. Those of us who lived on the island year-round accepted the fact that we were not the indigenous people. While not tourists, in many ways we did not belong to the island as completely as those whose ancestors were forcibly made a part of the land on which they slaved, weaving their history into that of the remnants of the Carib Indians who greeted Columbus.
It was enlightening for me. I was used to being served last at the local bakery and being treated, however good-naturedly, as not quite equal. At age 12, I accepted what I had and felt right at home. No one was mean, especially to a kid, and for the most part everyone on the island got along.
April 4 changed everything. When Dr. King was killed, long-simmering tensions between black and white exploded with searing intensity. After the news of his death was reported, we started getting phone calls from the local Jehovah’sWitnesses who knew us and were frightened. Dad was off island on business, so Mom and I were alone in the big house on two acres with only three dogs for protection. Granted, one of the dogs was feared island-wide, but this was a fear of violence that even Dede couldn’t handle. One of the Jehovah’s Witnesses who worked at the airport called to say she had heard rumors that there would be a massacre of all the whites on the island that night. Mom and I stayed up and jumped at every little noise.
On the other side of the island in Christiansted, Roger McKibbin, who had moved his family to St. Croix because he thought Armageddon would not be as bad there, either hadn’t heard the news or figured it did not impact him. He took his two daughters, ages 8 and 10, to The Golden Cow for ice cream. Unbeknownst to him, a very angry man was holding court in the ice cream parlor, swearing vengeance for Dr. King. He said he was going to kill the first white man he saw.
Roger walked into The Golden Cow with his daughters. As they went to the counter to order, the man drew a knife, came up behind Roger and slit his throat. Roger bled to death in front of his daughters while the rest of the customers simply watched.
That was the only murder on the island on April 4. The raw violence seemed to shock everyone into common grief and for a while the racial tension eased. But it was never the same again. Innocence had been lost. Easy camaraderie between the races became increasingly strained. Tourists were treated with suspicion instead of welcomed and the Black Panther movement began to take root, culminating in the Fountain Valley Golf Course murders in 1971, a year after we moved. For many years after that, no tourist ship would stop at St. Croix and the economy suffered accordingly. I don’t know if it’s ever really recovered.
It was enlightening for me. I was used to being served last at the local bakery and being treated, however good-naturedly, as not quite equal. At age 12, I accepted what I had and felt right at home. No one was mean, especially to a kid, and for the most part everyone on the island got along.
April 4 changed everything. When Dr. King was killed, long-simmering tensions between black and white exploded with searing intensity. After the news of his death was reported, we started getting phone calls from the local Jehovah’sWitnesses who knew us and were frightened. Dad was off island on business, so Mom and I were alone in the big house on two acres with only three dogs for protection. Granted, one of the dogs was feared island-wide, but this was a fear of violence that even Dede couldn’t handle. One of the Jehovah’s Witnesses who worked at the airport called to say she had heard rumors that there would be a massacre of all the whites on the island that night. Mom and I stayed up and jumped at every little noise.
On the other side of the island in Christiansted, Roger McKibbin, who had moved his family to St. Croix because he thought Armageddon would not be as bad there, either hadn’t heard the news or figured it did not impact him. He took his two daughters, ages 8 and 10, to The Golden Cow for ice cream. Unbeknownst to him, a very angry man was holding court in the ice cream parlor, swearing vengeance for Dr. King. He said he was going to kill the first white man he saw.
Roger walked into The Golden Cow with his daughters. As they went to the counter to order, the man drew a knife, came up behind Roger and slit his throat. Roger bled to death in front of his daughters while the rest of the customers simply watched.
That was the only murder on the island on April 4. The raw violence seemed to shock everyone into common grief and for a while the racial tension eased. But it was never the same again. Innocence had been lost. Easy camaraderie between the races became increasingly strained. Tourists were treated with suspicion instead of welcomed and the Black Panther movement began to take root, culminating in the Fountain Valley Golf Course murders in 1971, a year after we moved. For many years after that, no tourist ship would stop at St. Croix and the economy suffered accordingly. I don’t know if it’s ever really recovered.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Deacon Brown
It's spring in Dallas, and Deacon Brown is back on the street. I don't know where he goes in winter, but once the weather gets unsupportably cold, he disappears for a few months, perhaps to a homeless shelter or other place of refuge.
Deacon Brown is a tall African American man of indeterminate age, with a ready smile that shows the ravages of time, a handful of homemade religious tracts, and an incurably cheerful demeanor. He greets everyone, hands out a tract and, of course, asks for a donation. His cheerfulness is contagious and usually prompts me to find spare change, or buy him food from the nearby pharmacy.
He's a little thinner this year, and there's a hint of bewilderment in his eyes that I haven't seen before. But he greeted me with enthusiasm even though I had no cash and we exchanged our usual greetings. I wonder about his background, how he came to be where he is, and I accept that I will probably never know. However, he is one homeless person who is not just a face on the street, alone and forgotten. He is a friend.
Deacon Brown is a tall African American man of indeterminate age, with a ready smile that shows the ravages of time, a handful of homemade religious tracts, and an incurably cheerful demeanor. He greets everyone, hands out a tract and, of course, asks for a donation. His cheerfulness is contagious and usually prompts me to find spare change, or buy him food from the nearby pharmacy.
He's a little thinner this year, and there's a hint of bewilderment in his eyes that I haven't seen before. But he greeted me with enthusiasm even though I had no cash and we exchanged our usual greetings. I wonder about his background, how he came to be where he is, and I accept that I will probably never know. However, he is one homeless person who is not just a face on the street, alone and forgotten. He is a friend.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Flowers
two buds on the same vine
reaching for the sky together
wind, rain, snow may fall
no matter . . .
strength comes from the common stem
for one at least . . .
the healing sun caresses the flowers
one opens
reaching out to embrace the golden day
the other clutches tighter into its folded petals
too hot
it will hurt
open petals
you've changed
reaching for the sky together
wind, rain, snow may fall
no matter . . .
strength comes from the common stem
for one at least . . .
the healing sun caresses the flowers
one opens
reaching out to embrace the golden day
the other clutches tighter into its folded petals
too hot
it will hurt
open petals
you've changed
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