Parenting in Black and White: But What About the Children?

I had my first child at 24 years old, and what I knew about raising kids you could put in a shot glass. To add to the child rearing confusion, I was the white mom of a biracial baby at a time when little was written or meaningfully discussed about racial identity development and effective parenting of biracial children. We have come a long way since then. The election of President Obama, a biracial man of African and white American descent was a personal victory for me as the mother of black Jewish children.

When I married a black man in 1980 it was still cause for a stir, and the classic line was "What about the children?" This question was nothing more than a thinly veiled code for racism in the guise of concern for "the children". It conjured up images of poor confused children, cast aside from both black and white society, lost with no where to call home except the lonely and desolate fringe. Perhaps my experience was altered by living in the San Francisco Bay Area,a region with a reputation for racial tolerance; however, in my travels across the America with my children in tow I am certain of one thing- those who issued the warnings were more of a problem than that which they warned against.

That being said, my intention is not to minimize the racial issues my children faced.Race in America is complicated stuff, and emotionally charged.The election of President Obama has not eradicated racism, and in some respects, it has fueled the fire of bigotry and manifested in the Tea Party movement,obstructionism of any solutions he proposes, and in the extreme given rise to the Birthers who challenge his American citizenship. This comes as no surprise to me having walked beside and behind my kids for the past 28 years. I have been privy to the underbelly of racism, and in no way do I dismiss its potency. The election of the first African American President was not something I thought I would live to see; however,we have a long way to go. A very long way to go.

When my daughter Rena was born in 1981, I had several friends with biracial children. Most of these children had one black parent and the other was white, Asian, Jewish, or Hispanic. As parents we frequently engaged in long discussions about the racial identity of our children and the racism and conflicts they would inevitably face, including the varying response of our families to our marriages and children. My husband and I were united in the belief that our children would be viewed in the world as black, not biracial, and we would raise them as such. Pure race is a myth in America. My kids did not physically present different than most of their friends with two black parents. The sociological phenomenon is they had a non black parent, and their parent's union was voluntary. We had not created a new breed, our kids looked the same as many other black kids. And though they came from different circumstances, they would require the same coping skills in dealing with racism.

The absence of literature on racial identity development was the inspiration for my thesis in 1986. I interviewed parents of black/white biracial children to investigate how they influenced their child's racial identity. The findings aroused a great deal of interest, including invitations to appear on several local talk shows. As an exploratory study, it was meant to provide the springboard for further focused research based on the results of in depth interviews. Several of the parents interviewed subscribed to the colorblind theory and the notion that their children would be raised with a biracial identity, not black. Networks of parents such as I-Pride championed a similar approach. Certainly having one non black parent and extended family is a differentiating factor; however, several of the non black parents I interviewed and knew at the time had been cut off or experienced hurtful recrimination from their families. Parents who insisted their children were colorblind and deliberately refrained from discussing race proactively with their children might have been shocked to learn that when speaking with their kids, race was their subject of choice. Denial is the society response to race, and many of the parents I interviewed were no different despite the fact their children were on the front lines of racism, biracial or not.

My experience as a parent has reinforced my belief that preparation, not protection, is the best approach to race. Children pass through developmental stages with racial and ethic identity development as in all areas of their growth. Being colorblind is not considered an attribute when a child cannot differentiate between colors. Children quite naturally see color and difference, that has never been the problem, rather, it is the response of adults to difference that perpetuates negativity. When I was pregnant with Jonathan,Rena attended the Jewish Community Center preschool in San Francisco. One of her classmates, a white boy, came over to me and began to rub my large pregnant belly.
"What color is this baby going to be?" he asked.
His mother hovering nearby was quick to chastise him.
I put my hand up and said, "It's a really good question. Rena's dad is black and I am white so I think this baby will look like Rena."
"Oh, okay", and with his curiosity satisfied he scattered into a crowd of children climbing on the play structure.
I like this story, it perfectly illustrates the source of the problem, adults, not children doing what they do best, asking questions and trying to process their world. Children transition from the literal stage of racial and ethnic identity development to an awareness of the social meaning of race and ethnicity. The messages received from family, community and the media further reinforce racial and social stratification, and it is basically downhill from there.

What is it about race that provokes such divided and deep emotion? Our shameful past that has yet to be reckoned with? Or the legacy that persists, evidenced by glaring health, education and criminal justice disparities? The historical context of racism has been eclipsed by a shallow simplification and sensationalizing of the issues rather than confront the complexity required to achieve meaningful reconciliation. I am well acquainted with the kind of rage that erupts over racism, often restraining myself from reaching across a table to grab someone by the collar after a racist remark has been uttered, often with swagger and arrogance. It is personal in the most profound way, and taken as an affront against my kids and our extended family. I battled on behalf of my children for years against the racism they faced on a daily basis. When recounting my kid's experiences to friends both here in America and abroad, they often express disbelief. I might not believe it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. My 10 year old son stopped by police while riding his bike, followed in stores, and easily discarded into special education as if it was his rightful destiny. Racism is blatant and subtle, intentional and a consequence of ignorance. Either way it is the source of pain, and inexcusable. Perhaps the most amazing part is the resilience of my children, their ability to reconcile contradiction, imperfection and persevere in the face of adversity. They never lost their humanity and humor; however, the price has been steep in less obvious ways.

Imagine this: you are sitting at a cafe in Accra, Ghana with your 21 year old son, discussing race in America. The day has been pleasant, touring around Accra and a cool relaxing drink over an interesting conversation is the perfect conclusion to your first day in Ghana. What feels like out of the blue, the child you carefully ushered to adulthood declares that he never felt like he could be the smartest kid in the class. What does that do to a parent who has fought the hard fights, struggled to provide access to a quality education, exposure to art and travel, and articulate on a regular basis your belief in their talent and intelligence? For this parent it was a dagger in my heart. Perhaps more disturbing was the thought that if my son felt this way, what about the critical mass of black males who had not had similar advantages? I tried to conceal the depth of my despair and pain to spare my son or inhibit him from disclosing his inner thoughts and feelings. Ghana seemed a fitting location for for him to express himself, where the Davis family trajectory from Africa to America began. And apparently sorrow is still passing back and forth across the Atlantic.

So what about the children? What has come of those unheeded warnings? Rena graduated from University of California Hastings College of Law, one of eleven black students in a class of over four hundred. It was understandable that she choose to be a visiting law student at Howard University in her second year at Hastings. "I need to see a library full of black people studying everyday." With joy she described what it felt like to no longer be invisible to most of the men she encountered, her undeniable beauty inspiring interest and admiration. She needed the reprieve, and deserved it. As her mother, a white mother, I recognized her need and encouraged her to go. I never took it personally or as a rejection. My significance in their life is irrefutable, and strengthened by my ability to see the world through their eyes, and them through the eyes of the world. Self identify any way you like; however, be prepared for how the world defines you to better navigate the treachery. Sitting at a cafe in Frankfurt, Germany it occurred to me that regardless of how I might self identify sixty plus years ago the Nazis would decide for me, and march me off to the ovens with a yellow star sewn onto my clothes. Thinking otherwise might have cost me my survival.

Parenthood is not for the faint at heart, it is a gut wrenching experience in the best of circumstances that humbles even the most confident and accomplished (or it should). Being a white/Jewish mother of a black male and female comes with its own set of challenges. It was an absolute necessity to acknowledge how my kids would be viewed and not to shrink from discomfort, mine or other people’s. I have been the only white person in the gym during my son’s games for years,the one to speak up when racist remarks were made, refusing to accept the “color blind” theory about biracial kids, or kids in general. Backing down was not an option, and I had to teach by example. Most important, I could not bullshit my kids about racism or they would be road kill, or worse, I would loose my credibility with them. I would like to think I have played a part in their ability to define and assert themselves with confidence. I watched both my children walk across a stage to collect high school and college diplomas. They have been Bar and Bat Mitzvah in the Jewish tradition and celebrate the duality of who they are with grace and humor. We have boarded planes to destinations across the globe together and apart. They display a humanity and compassion with strangers that brings tears to my eyes. What about the children? Twenty eight years later my response is as follows: Take a look, the proof is in the pudding.

Paris with Rena, 2002

Another step back in time...my memorable visit with Rena in Paris during her study abroad.




Subj: Today
Date: Monday, October 7, 2002
From: Blackimage
To: Artist39
I walk out the door at 177 bis and head down the side street to the metro station dressed in gray pants, black turtle neck sweater, black boots and nice rain proof jacket, all things my mother has bought for me. As I am walking, choosing the sounds of the Paris streets and French over John Coltrane and my Discman and I think to myself: this is what my mother pictured when she thought of me in Paris. Her daughter walking quickly towards an unknown destination and a bright future that she worked hard to provide. It is then that I think I truly am my mother’s daughter.
Can’t wait to share Paris with you and learn some of your favorite spots. Talk to you soon.
Love,
Your Princess Girl

Subj: Re: Today
Date: Monday, October 7, 2002
From: Artist39
To: Blackimage
Dear Daughter:
Thank you so much for the lovely posting. In my mind’s eye I can see you there, my lovely young daughter roaming the streets of Paris, eyes darting back and forth to absorb the magic of street life. And looking good!
It brings me great joy to know you are so happy and enthralled with Paris life. I feel we have connected at a commonplace and time inside each other. I have walked those same streets in wonder and awe feeling lucky to be alive. There is so much beauty in the world Rena but often we are too distracted to take notice. We wait for big thundering events to mark significance in our lives when it is the small and ordinary that sustains us. I discovered parts of myself in my wanderings that I could never have managed if I had stayed put. It has been my goal as your mother to urge you out there, extricate yourself from the familiar so you too could feel the magic. When I read your email I thought it has worked, she understands what I have tried to do with my own life, perhaps on a smaller scale given my circumstances. And much like the passage I read to you from Ellen Gilcrist’s new book, your mother’s seduction is complete; you are finding and completing magical destinations, both internal and external, of your own. My messages are being delivered; they were always there waiting for you when you felt yourself to be ready. I also look forward to sharing my Paris with you; however, just as it happened when I visited you in my former home of Jerusalem, I am sure you will be doing much of the leading and I the following. As it should be my dear!
Loving you as always,
Mom

Subj: Greetings from Greece, Paris
Date: Monday, October 28, 2002
From: Artist39
I sit at a table in my daughter's studio in the Latin Quarter of Paris composing this letter. The studio is small but very charming. It is filled with light and on this particular day the sun is shining as I gaze out the large window to the courtyard and the white birch trees bearing yellow leaves confirming autumn's arrival. The courtyard is secluded from rue St. Jacques, the oldest street in Paris. Flower boxes filled with brightly colored geraniums decorate windows in true Parisian style. Rue St. Jacques is a narrow street lined with specialty shops. The green grocer adores Rena, calling to her as she enters and exits the blue door at 177 bis. Steps away are a bakery, a cheese shop and perhaps most important, a Laundromat. There are also a few good restaurants we intend to try. The flat is five minutes from the Jardin du Luxembourg where we walk each morning as we chat and admire the beauty of the gardens, sculptures and buildings on the large grounds. The first night I arrived we went for pizza and bookstore browsing and last night we went to the Marias for Jewish food, one of my favorite neighborhoods in Paris. Rena had not yet been there and found herself she loving it as well! We engaged in a conversation with a Hasidic Jew about where to go to synagogue. He seemed surprised with this black-white-Jewish-American-mother-daughter combination though he was very friendly and helpful. I bought Rena a small menorah and candles so she will be ready for Hanukkah. Everything must be small for her place. We explore and walk, enjoying Paris and each other.
How do I describe the feeling of arriving at Charles DeGaulle and seeing my soon to be twenty-one year old daughter through the glass partition waiting for me to fetch my bags? It was thrilling to see her standing there so beautiful and grown, looking cool and comfortable as if she lived in Paris her whole life. We blew kisses to each other while I waited for my bag, communicating without words, just smiles. From the moment I passed through the glass doors we fell into an easy rhythm together, no longer the daily adversaries arguing about homework, cleaning her room, the car, the phone and her appearance. I was now a mother visiting her grown child on her turf, turf I once claimed as my own. And I am happy to relinquish it to her and anything else I might offer to assist her on her journey.
I am enjoying Paris this stay more than ever. Living in an apartment rather than hotel is more my style. We market and cook, fix up Rena's apartment and I have loved buying her luxuries such as paper towels, napkins, aluminum foil and other staples she has felt too poor to purchase. While she was at class today I bought lots of groceries and when she came out of class I was waiting with two huge bags. There are still some outstanding items on the list, a water heater for tea and a straw basket for daily marketing, a must have in France. Rena is in great shape, walking faster than me and covering lots of ground as her classes are all over the city. She is eating more healthy than I have ever seen and very happy with herself and her place. We went drawing/watercoloring for a few hours in the Luxembourg Garden, the sun warming us as we tried to capture the vibrant colors of the flowers and the autumn yellow, rust and gold of the trees. Every so often we would sneak a look at each others paper and smile. I cannot help but marvel at it all.
Rena has a great group of friends from all over the US and by request I cooked red sauce and pasta for four of them tonight. They were all delightful and very grateful for a home cooked meal. I listened to their conversation with amusement, not very different from our conversations "back in the day"; however, I was compelled to offer some words of wisdom in relation to their homesickness and constant attention to the future rather than the present and the process. They were very gracious and respectful but you know what it is like to be young and in possession of all the answers! Rena reminds me several times a day how happy she is that I am here and asks me to stay on. I assured her she would tire of my company and long for her solitude after a while. I am very impressed with her and take great joy in her evolving maturity and adaptability. She rides the metro like a pro and seems at ease here despite the language obstacles. That’s my girl!

Greece was all I could have asked for, the magic in full force after ten years of annual visits. I spent a few days in Santorini with my friend Gylaine before taking the boat to Folegandros. My time on the island was filled with solitude, painting, reading and writing daily letters to Pamm on my laptop. I took long walks in the morning absorbing the colors and feeling nature creep into my bones. A full moon lit my way at night as I strolled through the village and up the hill to my room. I spent many hours on my terrace painting, reading and just being. I had some very warm visits with long time friends Anne and Fotis, and my morning ritual included coffee at another long time friend Dimitri's house. I cooked for myself most nights with the exception of some meals at Anne and Fotis' and one dinner out in Ano Meria with Anne and Fotis. I was so reclusive this visit that some of the locals did not know I was there until my last days. I was in my work deeply and very satisfied to paint most of the time. As always happens when I allow for it, the work came and I found myself engaged in a new series of abstract paintings that I am very pleased with. I spent many hours observing variations of blue, the horizon and the layers of colors that create sea and sky. The layers are often subtle but very significant. Blue is a language of it's own. I began to speak this language of blue and the complimenting colors that emerge from the terraced hills. Some days of rain produced many hues of green set against those ever-present golds, yellows and rusts. One early morning walk I watched the sun rise and the full moon set. Scattered clouds produced magnificent sunsets. My eyes followed birds in flight, awed by their grace and freedom. In that world I am completely at home, and while on the island that was my reality. The beauty and meaning helped release the toxins that had accumulated over the past two years and eased my worry over my uncertain fate in the job market, my anxiety over my son's senior year and impending departure to who knows where and most other things that keep me up at night. On Folegandros I was the essence of my best self, doing what I believe I am meant to do. I retraced my well-worn path over the past ten years and noted the changes from the woman that first set foot on the island and who she has become. There was some grieving at first for her and what she represented; however, by the time I departed I was not longing for her, rather I was quite satisfied with my present self despite the not so welcome changes that are inevitable with age. My work was vibrant, my time healing and affirming. I walked with that same old bounce in my step, and although ten years has passed since I first arrived it was magic all over again. I simply did not think I could ever feel that way again after the emptiness that taken its toll during these two rough years. I saw traces of my former self and was flooded with memories of past days and times yet I viewed it though a prism of compassion, not regret. If my theme upon arrival was loss and emptiness by the time of my departure it was one of abundance and healing. I felt pure happiness in my simple and meaningful existence. My time on the island was far too brief for sure, I could have kept on painting in my solitude surrounded by the island’s natural beauty and simplicity but I was not one for remorse, my gratitude far outweighed anything of the sort. I must admit though, I wept long and hard as the boat pulled away from the island while my friends waved from the shore until the boat is out of sight as is the custom on Folegandros. An end of innocence and the beginning of reality/adjustment, and one only hopes for the strength to sustain the magic as long as possible, to keep the island tucked safely into both heart and spirit.

And so the journey continues. On Thursday I depart for Copenhagen for a visit with "the girls" returning to Paris on Sunday. On Monday I take the TGV to Cadenet for several days with my dear friend Marie Anne, my first visit since her husband Hans passed away. We will have long talks, walk the dogs in the vineyards and miss Hans very much. I will travel more well worn paths and reacquaint myself with a much-loved landscape and colors I have painted countless times. This landscape and the village will offer me solace as I once again recall days and times gone by with friends, some of who remain in my life and others who for various reasons have not. I will return to Paris for a final day and a half with Rena before she departs for Amsterdam and I for San Francisco.
I wish all of you well and look forward to seeing you upon my return.
Much love,
Paula

Subj: More from Paris
Date: Wednesday, October 30, 2002
From: Artist39
Simply to be in Paris makes one feel special. That is my profound thought as I stroll across the Jardin du Luxembourg after walking Rena to class.
Life for me is a mixture of the mundane and the magical. I am working on unclogging Rena's drain in her shower and I am pleased to say progress is being made. I am also hard at work sitting in cafes and studying Paris street life, the hallmark of the city. Yesterday I walked Rena to class then crossed off several items from my domestic shopping list in one small shop. Using my small French vocabulary I purchased an electric hot water heater, Drano, can opener, covered trash container and a straw market bag. With that accomplishment under my belt I sat for two hours reading and watching people pass in the street as I sipped my coffee and ate a muffin. It was a hectic time of day as people were scurrying home after work or school. The cafes always seem to be busy and with the warm fall weather they are overflowing. Jardin du Luxembourg is full of people sitting, walking and jogging, taking advantage of the sun and mild weather. I jotted down impression and thoughts in my little notebook in hope that I might begin to write poetry again. So I collect words to be stored in the vault of my mind for possible use at another time.
The days pass all too fast as I shadow Rena in her life. We want to do many things yet time and classes prohibit us. I went to Comparative European Government class with her today and I confess I instigated a lively discussion. The Professor is an American and somewhat unbalanced in his interpretations, particularly when it applies to the US but also Europe or should I say major Western powers. Fairytale is the word that comes to my mind. When talking about the European conflict around farm subsidies he gave the impression that subsidies are not an American fact of life. I mentioned to our dairy, farm and defense subsidies, but not limited to...Amtrak, etc., tax breaks, incentives, blah, blah, blah. Then we progressed to the Iraq drama and nuclear weapons (I believe Mr. Bush refers to them as weapons of mass destruction) and I mentioned the fact that India and Pakistan also have nuclear weapons that they threaten each other with on a regular basis over Kashmir...blah, blah, blah. And then the good old notions of ideology as a motivating factor in all this aggression. Pakistan was a terrorist state and on our list of bad guys until we needed them to invade Afghanistan and now this dictator is our good friend while we overlook the oppression. Of course I had to mention the fact that Cheney was at the helm at Halliburton when they rebuilt the oil pipeline in Iraq. Somehow we ended with a heated discussion of affirmative action and quotas. Ah, good old affirmative action that has always been in place for white males and now that they are forced to share a few crumbs all one hears is the same tragic story about the white male who was very qualified and the woman or person of color who had less qualifications that displaced them...sob, sob, sob. In the words of white male student things get "watered down" with affirmative action, inferring that women and people of color are inferior and less qualified from the start. Look at the numbers I protested, there are not women and people of color taking over as CEOs or as Senators or Congressmen or judges. It does not add up, this conspiracy theory of quotas taking "all the good jobs away" and robbing white males of their birthright.

I was struck by how uninformed and shallow the students were, very impressionable and not very probing. There was a lack of diversity and not very much knowledge about world affairs or history. I suppose that is what they are here to learn and in that case I recommend the Professor present a more honest picture about the historical context and underlying motivations of government policy in the US and abroad. What he was saying about those "other countries" was very much at play in the US and Western Europe perhaps shrouded in ways that make us comfortable. It was great fun though and the Professor thanked me for the interaction.

Enough of the mundane and on to the magical:
I accompanied Rena to her studio art class and spent a blissful two hours painting a nude. It was fantastic, Rena in one corner and I in the other painting in Paris. I believe it was in Paris that I last painted from a live model. It was hard to dislodge me from my spot when class was over. I intend to return next week when I get back from Cadenet and put in as much studio time as possible. I was warmly welcomed by Rena's teachers and invited to return. It has been too long since I smelled the oil paints and turpentine, too long since I have worked from a live model. Rena started a fine watercolor that she will complete this week. The studio is outside the center of Paris and requires a few transfers on the Metro but nothing too complicated.

In a kind of mad dash we left the studio to get to the travel agent by 6 to purchase Rena's Eurail pass for travel to Amsterdam, Cadenet, Italy and Denmark. With that task out of the way we made our way back to the Marias for falafel and dessert from the Jewish bakery. We wandered the small streets arm in arm window shopping and admiring the warm night in Paris, an aberration for late October. As we crossed the Seine we saw a boat cruising down the river. I thought the boats had ended in mid-October but apparently not. We looked at each other and smiled both of us thinking the same great thought...Lets Go! The next boat was scheduled to leave in a half-hour. We huddled close on the top deck while the boat cruised past all the beautiful sights and under the many bridges. The Eiffel Tower was lit up, standing tall and dramatic. As I looked at my daughter I felt a surge of pride and gratitude for these special moments with her. I wondered how after years of struggle and self-doubt I had managed to have a part in raising a child so special and solid. I find myself looking at toddlers in Jardin du Luxembourg then at my grown daughter and I wonder where has the time gone? I try to fill in the gaps between these two distinct ages, rewinding and fast-forwarding the years in between, yet I still cannot comprehend or quantify the passing of time as it relates to one's life or the life of a child. It is as if time is swirling around me, mesmerizing me in a trance and then I wake up and abra cadabra here is this 45-year-old woman and her grown daughter. I reach to the toddler in Rena when I touch or smile at the toddler in the park. I take note of her tiny shoes or her cute dress; very similar to those I dressed Rena in at the same age. Rena and I watched a toddler venture away from his mother with all the courage in the world. I said to Rena let's just watch and see how far he will go before he turns around to find his mother, his touchstone and security. Minutes later he turns around and calls Mama! We giggled at the predictability of us humans, always turning around at some point for that which makes us safe and familiar, just as we are drawn to venture out to the world in search of the unknown and adventure.
It is a new day, Thursday, as I finish composing this letter. I have strolled through the Gardens on another sunny and mild morning. I inhaled the fresh morning air and took my place among the mixture of people on their way to work/school, joggers and others scurrying about. After I press send I will throw a few things in a small bag for Copenhagen. I hesitate to leave Rena and Paris simply because we are having such fun together. I assure her we will have more days together before I head home. Home is a strange notion for me right now. I felt at home on Folegandros and I feel at home here. I will do some thinking about what constitutes home as I continue my journey. Jonathan is my anchor to "back home" right now, and if not for him I believe I could redefine home quite easily, not with permanence perhaps but with more flexible contours.
For now I will return to the mundane once again and ready myself to leave. Thanks so much for your replies filled with warm and loving words.
Much love,
Paula

Subj: Copenhagen, encore Paris
Date: Thursday, November 7, 2002 10:52:23 AM
From: Artist39
There is no order or logic along this journey....
Copenhagen
I arrived in Copenhagen to Rie's open arms. We took the train into the city for dinner with Ping and Torgunn who met us after Greek class. Having been in Copenhagen so many times it has come to feel like one of my "homes." I am familiar with the city and have my routines. My first day is always a good time to sleep in and go slow. Luckily Torgunn was off in the morning allowing time to catch up on our lives while drinking coffee and eating breakfast. While Torgunn was at an afternoon class I took my sweet time getting dressed, a feat I managed by 5 PM. Torgunn and I went for Indian food then met up with Ping and Boris, her so-called boyfriend visiting from St. Petersburg. We had a spirited discussion about the controversy between Denmark and Russia, labor unions, old boy politics, and other political topics. We dragged Boris into the discussion kicking and screaming though in the end he seemed to enjoy himself.
Torgunn and I walked home that night as we usually do at all hours of the night, something that would be inconceivable in my car dependent driving life at home. My friends ride their bikes at 2 in the morning. Can we in the US imagine such a thing? Especially women! The weather in Copenhagen was better than expected, cold but sunny, and lovely for walking around the town. On Saturday I walked into town myself to meet Rie and Ping for lunch, then later we met Torgunn at an exhibit on Fundamentalism. The exhibit had some interesting presentations by artists from all over the world but it was not really about fundamentalism per se. My two favorite presentations were about the Danish presence in Greenland and an email written on a wall about a journey from Bosnia to Denmark. We ended the day with a great dinner prepared by Ping and walked home around midnight. We all gathered for brunch on Sunday at a cafe near the train station before I caught my flight back to Paris. We said our farewells, holding on extra long for hugs at the Air France ticket counter, confident we would all meet again soon either on Folegandros, Denmark or the US.
As always my time in Copenhagen is full of thoughtful discussion and warm meetings. Rie had much to share about her recent trip to Syria, and I was especially grateful for the soap she brought me back made locally in Aleppo. We speak freely regardless of our similar or conflicting opinions. We hold a basic respect for each other that forms the basis of the deep and lively conversations that are for me synonymous with my friends in Copenhagen.

The political backdrop has not improved since my visit to Copenhagen last October. At that time we were reeling from the 9/11 tragedy and I had hoped we might as a nation begin to reflect and perhaps change our course. Instead, we dug in our heels in name of patriotism and now we are frothing at the mouth for a chance to prove ourselves the supreme power by invading Iraq. "W" would have us believe this invasion is about evil and weapons of mass destruction but really my friends this about controlling the oil fields, not about morals. I see little evidence of moral practice anywhere in the world. For me it comes down to a bunch of guys making decisions that benefit their system, a boy's club of global proportions, bottom line. No offense to all my friends and family of the male gender, this is not personal. We are despised and envied all over the world because of our power and our innovations, our arrogance and our brains, but nothing lasts forever and it would behoove us to pay more attention to the history and the context of the places we see fit to impose ourselves on. I can say with no hesitation that I am frightened by the prospects appearing on the political horizon.

Paris
I returned to Paris/CDG and found Rena waiting for me in the same place she was one week earlier. I felt happy but tired from my Copenhagen trip. The thought of re-packing and heading out the door early the next morning for Cadenet seemed impossible. After some difficult deliberation I decided to remain Paris for the week rather than make a quick trip south. I was very conflicted but in the end I opted for Paris and a slower pace. My week in Paris began with the familiar pattern of walking the J du L, buying my paper at the same news stand, roaming the streets while Rena was in class and either cooking or going out for dinner. Since my arrival in Greece I have been in a process of excavating myself. I felt buried and lost. Over these weeks I have made a connection to my former vibrancy and creativity.
Such a process involves an afternoon like the following:

I believe I have found my favorite place in Paris. Browsing at the Sennelier Store on quai Voltaire is a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. As I wandered through the store floors touching pastels and paper I felt myself to be in heaven. There are drawers and drawers filled with oil and soft pastels of every color ever made by Sennelier. The store faces the Seine and is a short walk from the Pont des Arts. The store is very small. A narrow spiral stairway leads to two upper floors that resemble an attic. Each floor has a window with a lovely view if you should decide to linger as I did, reluctant to leave the shelves full of paper, canvas, paints and brushes. Everything is stocked to maximum efficiency with a bipolar sense of chaos and order.
As I stood in silence and solitude I gripped the edge of a display counter, overwhelmed by the perfection of the moment. I was clear in thought when I whispered to myself, this is where I belong, where my life is supposed to be, in Paris. The afternoon light fell softly through the window as the hustle of the crowd could be heard two flights below. Particles of dust hung in the air creating an almost grainy effect. I memorized every aspect of the moment knowing I would attempt to recreate the room in precise detail, perhaps on a day not as joyous as this.
I filled my small plastic tray with oil and soft pastels. I bought two small books of hand made paper. I debated about what and how much I should buy, as if I were readying myself for a long stay in a remote region with no hope of buying art supplies for many months. I did not want to squander the opportunity and miss one single item. The salesman showed me extra large oil bars that I have never seen before. As I considered my purchase many people came and went while I listened to the intensity of their questions. I reluctantly paid for my supplies and stepped out to the street and a flowing current of homebound workers/students. I navigated along small streets populated by art galleries and specialty shops, peering into the window of those that interested me. In little time I was approaching the Jardin du Luxembourg where I stopped for a coffee before making my way to the blue door at 177 bis. After a visit to the produce store and the butcher I was back "home" to begin dinner, chicken soup and salad, a Rena request.
I sat at the little table and looked around the studio. I have come to feel so much at home here in this small space that I share with my daughter. I tried to picture myself in a four-bedroom house on Dohrmann Lane and was unable to conjure up the image. My days in Paris have been full, as they were on Folegandros. While preparing dinner I glanced outside the kitchen window and noticed a bug making its way across the ledge. How good it is to take note of such small things, to be in a state of mind that allows you to follow a bug and simply wonder about its life and what will happen after it is no longer in your field of vision. Life is happening all around us and hundreds of people and creatures cross our path in the course of a day. I wonder about that fleeting split second when we brush against each others universe and I find it remarkable as I total up the network of family and friends and connections at work and school that criss-cross here and there as we occupy the same space in the street or metro station/train most likely never to see each other again. However, for a brief moment in time we overlap in this random sort of way whether we choose to consider it or not. Such are the thoughts of a woman with time on her hands.

I set out for Sacre-Coeur early in the morning with my nephew Abehjha in mind. I took the Metro to Gare du Nord and walked through the neighborhood bordering the station
and Montmartre. These streets are distinctly different from where Rena lives; streets lined with discount shops and far more people of color. I stopped at a few of the discount stores to see what was happening inside. It was a whirlwind of activity and frenzy as shoppers picked through the merchandise in search of a bargain. Once inside I felt the electricity and urgency of the shoppers, like a tidal wave about to crest as hands reach for item after item, grabbed or discarded. Dressed in jeans and sneakers I almost blended into the crowd; however, I lacked a certain shopping desperation and possessed far too much reserve to truly blend in. I continued on to Sacre-Coeur, which abruptly shifts to a tourist infested, zone as you turn onto the cobblestone street leading to the church perched high on the hill. I climbed the steps pausing to enjoy the view. It is a breathtaking view for sure. The shortest, steepest, metro line in Paris, the Finicular, runs up and down the hill and for the price of a regular metro ticket you can hop on. Having walked up I decided to experience this tiny tram-like metro car. I inserted my metro pass into the billet machine and rode the tram down the hill simply for the sake of it. I retraced my steps back to Gare du Nord and home.
Rena and I spent the afternoon at the art studio painting another nude. I was so impressed at the painting she completed last week I put first dibs in for it so I can frame it when she gets back to the States. I have long been convinced of her artistic abilities, her painting was bold and imaginative, and definitely her own style.

Walking through the Jardin du Luxembourg this morning I discovered a small apple orchid. I must have walked by that particular spot at least twenty times without noticing it before. There are plaques indicating the type of apple tree. The park is full of surprises if you have the time to explore and wander around the less frequented areas. On a sunny day, no matter how cold, people are jogging, sitting, strolling and reading. Living so close to this park has been a daily pleasure.

My time in Paris quickly draws to a close. These past two weeks here have been some of my best since I began traveling again ten years ago. I have had special time with my daughter that I will delight in for years to come. My mother and I also had some very happy days here together in 1995 and as I mentioned to her the other day via instant message, "Every mother and daughter should have their Paris time." We will miss each other but it is time for me to go and leave her to her life. It is no secret that she is living a life I could only dream about at this time; however, I take great pride in the fact that I have helped make this experience a reality for her. She is very clever and I am sure her time here will serve her well in the coming years.
It feels as if I have been away for a long time, more than a month but I cannot actually quantify it. I have pangs of longing for the island; those hot afternoons painting on the
terrace, hours and hours of deep solitude, fabulous October skies, walks in the early
morning and star/moon gazing late at night. Both in Greece and on the streets of Paris the beauty of it all is overwhelming, life uncontainably swelling up inside me. In these moments I have the urge to weep, to release the tidal wave of emotion that grips my soul. I am certain one cannot live in each moment with that degree of intensity or consciousness, we would blow like an old fuse. Yet those moments and realizations remind us that we are alive in the truest sense of the word with all our senses ready to receive the magic we too often overlook as we scurry about in our day-to-day tasks.
I arrived on Folegandros feeling very broken and empty seriously doubting I could ever feel this way again. I feared I had lost my edge and would never paint or write worth a damm. I lamented my younger, thinner, more energetic self like a long lost lover. I still think she was a ball of fire, lit from within by a sense of desperation to change her life or else and no one better stand in her way. However; I no longer "want my old body back" or return to those tumultuous days. I am looking forward to hitting my stride as I enter my 46th year as an artist, a mother, a friend and a perpetual seeker. A new chapter is about to begin and the best thing I can say about it is I have no idea what is going to happen.
Tomorrow is my last day on Paris. I will take one last morning walk around the J du L, buy a croissant and paper, see Rena off to class and have coffee while I reflect on this past month and contemplate the future. When Rena comes home from class we will dress up and take pictures, go to the Place de Vosges, the Bastille, and perhaps take a boat ride along the Canal St-Martin if weather permits. We have some last minute errands and stocking up to do. We will cram all we can into our last day in Paris. Rena departs for Amsterdam on Saturday morning after seeing me to the airport. And the journey continues...
Thanks to all of you for accompanying along this journey over the past weeks. Writing to you has given me cause for pause and reflection. As I made mental notes during my daily treks I did so with the intention of relaying them to you. The miracle of technology makes the immediacy of these reports possible.
I will be sure to check in one final time and let you know I have arrived home safely. Until then, take care and be well.
Paula



Subj: Afterthoughts and home
Date: Tuesday, January 5, 2003
From: Artist39

I wake up some mornings disoriented. Once the sleep has left my eyes I realize I am not in Paris, I am in my bedroom at home.
Home.
The word leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
Gone are mornings with my daughter as she dashes off to class, my walks in the Jardin du Luxembourg, days spent wandering the city on foot, reading at cafes. The electric current of Paris no longer passes through me. I miss my daily greetings with the kind people of the produce store. I often think about the laughter and joy that resonate from that shop throughout the day and I find myself wishing for work that sparks smiles for myself and everyone around me. Am I a romantic for believing that simplicity breeds delight and happiness?
The day before I departed, Rena and I crossed the street so I could say farewell to our friends at the produce shop. When Rena explained in French that I would be leaving the owner bellowed a passionate "NO!" We laughed but inside I was not laughing. In my best French I explained that my 17-year-old son was waiting for me to come home and I needed to help him prepare applications for university. I pointed to Rena and said, "my baby, I have to leave my other baby and I am sad." He put his arm around a lovely young woman Rena's age and said, "My baby." A knowing look passed between us, a look that transcends language, nationality, religion and any other form of difference. This is the look that conveys a shared experience of parenting, binding us together in understanding and sympathy like no other.
He leaned forward, eyes now serious and said in his best English, "She is part of my family now, if she needs anything she comes here and we take care of her."
I stood in the cramped quarters of this produce shop overcome with love and gratitude for these kind and welcoming people, for the part of humanity that offers compassion and generosity to another human being, be it a stranger or a friend for life.
You can go mother, don't worry, and there are eyes watching out for your daughter.

It poured my last night in Paris with a vengeance. We stayed close to home doing laundry one last time. Friday evening is not a popular night to do laundry so we had the place to ourselves for a change. As the dryer tumbled our clothes we sat in near silence reading, leaving our books now and then for a reassuring smile.
Rena reached for my hand and said, "Don't leave mom, Jonathan will be okay if you stay a while longer."
I stared at the page, trying to hide the tears welling up in my eyes. "I have to go Rena, you know I owe it to Jonathan as I did to you. I can't do this to him his senior year. He needs me, he is not ready yet, you want me but you don't need me. You are fine; I can leave here with complete confidence that you are fine. Leaving here is not what I want to do but I cannot do that to Jonathan. I have to go home and get him ready for college and I have to find a job"
No more words, just the dryer tumbling and the rain pounding the pavement.

I slept fitfully that last night, thoughts poking and prodding my sleep. Rena rode the metro with me, determined to deposit her mom at the airport before catching her train to Amsterdam.
As I waited in the long security line I told her to scat, allez, go, take her butt to the Gare du Nord and not be late as is her usual habit. We held each other and wept shamelessly. I pushed her away several times and told her to go. Finally she complied and I turned away, unable to watch her walking through the terminal. I was reminded of another time I left her in a far away city, almost four years earlier when my taxi pulled away from a street corner in Jerusalem where she stood waving, only 17 years old. A voice yelling "MOM!" loud enough for half the terminal to hear roused me from the past. I looked through the crowd and there was my girl, waving her arms, calling to me. In that moment I felt both victory and defeat. I had parented this child to adulthood and we evolved loving and liking each other. She still felt separation anxiety but she was able to walk away, however reluctantly and board that train to Amsterdam. I had done my job and after years of battling back and forth I could say I had done it well. My defeat came in the departure itself, in my trepidation that life at home would erase all I had claimed during this month away. The thought I would get sucked up and depleted was unbearable.
I cried those tears as we made the long bus ride to our board our plane, seemingly on the other end of the airport. The Air France bus was filed to capacity as people pressed up against each other. I stood holding on to a pole oblivious to those surrounding me, their voices a buzz with no words registering either in French or English. I hated each and every one of them for conspiring to construct this reality of leaving. One man in particular in my field of vision did not look away as the others did to my tears. After we exited the bus and began climbing the steps to the plane he came up beside me and asked in French accented English if I was going to be all right.
This provoked more tears. I stared him dead straight in the eyes and said, "No, I don't want to leave."
"Ah, but you can always come back."
But I did not feel this to be true. Though I can always return to Paris I will never be able to replicate the perfection of those days with Rena at 177 bis. No, this would go down as one of the great experiences of my life when persons, place and time are matched with no deficits, no empty spaces to fill. In the days and years to come I will lean back on this time, ask it to sustain me, and most important to remind me of how high I can soar when my spirit is in need of a lift.

Home
I was not wrong to be apprehensive about returning. Life has managed to peck away at me in the few short days since I passed through customs and saw my son's handsome, smiling face. There are issues, a crisis or two, and lots of details that require my attention. Work needs to be found and bills need to be paid. There is a university and a school district that are begging for an ass kicking. There are college applications to be filled out. And in the middle of it all is a woman who stands perplexed and confused about how she is going to hold onto herself in the eye of the many storms that encircle her.
I could say she is hopelessly despaired right now but that would not be the whole truth. There is a part to this truth, to this woman, that refuses to be deterred no matter what crops up. I saw her on the island in her past and present self and she gave me reason to believe she would never allow her spirit to fade as she once again painted until the sun fell behind the cliffs. I saw her on the streets of Paris, giddy with life and a bounce in her step. I saw her watching her daughter from afar, as she dashed across a busy Paris boulevard to her class, making sure she crossed the threshold into perceived safety, much like she did when the daughter was in kindergarten. In these already trying times I carry this woman inside me with a belief that she will spirit me forward as I fight for my kids, deal with life's trails and tribulations and desperately seek my rightful place on this planet. With her inside me I dare anyone to deny me.

It is time for my morning walk. No longer the J du L, I walk along the San Pablo Bay trail feeling all the blue I can, surrounded by the expanse of water and sky. There are autumn colors to study, trains passing to jostle me from my dreams and birds in flight to follow across the sky. For sure it is a gift and I am grateful for my proximity to water and nature. I will take account for these gifts, as I will no doubt be grieving the loss of Paris and Folegandros. Wherever I am, I hope I will continue to be filled by life, nature, art, poetry and that time and circumstances will allow me to share some hours in the company of my many friends who have been a patient audience to my thoughts and feelings over this past month.
I'll look forward to that.

Stinson Beach Reflections, November 2006

Written three years ago. Writing allows us to revisit our past and consider the changes that have occurred. When I wrote this I would never have imagined I would be living in Austin, Texas pursuing a PhD. What a journey life is!
I dedicate this post to the loving memory of Lee Franklin.


This past week I have lived in a small apartment in Stinson Beach, a coastal village 40 minutes drive north of San Francisco. Although not far in distance, Stinson is a universe away. Similar to my Greek island life, everything I need is within walking distance, the grocery, cafes, and most important the beach is minutes from my door. There is a post office, library, gallery, small bookstore, and several restaurants to choose from. When the spirit moves me I drive through the West Marin countryside to feel the colors and be soothed by the rolling hills draped in autumn red, gold, green, and my favorite – yellow. I think a lot and keep my mouth shut though I do talk to myself. I came here out of the usual desperation to break free of my daily grind so I might find enough peace and inspiration to paint and write, to live life in a natural rhythm, to reflect and be moved by the natural beauty that surrounds me.

This has been an experiment of sorts, being so close to home. It was a practical response to a compelling situation. I was closing up inside, despairing, and not able to feel my creative self. The light was out again, smothered by commuting on I-80, work, too much noise and too little thought. Or should I say a lack of space or time to think. Life at the usual pace simply does not allow for reflection. I am not able to flip a switch when I come home to creative mode, regardless of the hours in front of me. As a result the feelings, thoughts, colors, words, ideas that form a ticker tape across my brain remain in constant motion. I become passive, stare at a TV screen or computer screen and become increasingly “tired”. Come the time change in October, the blankness descends upon me with a thud. Up early, then early to bed and what have I to show for myself after living on the planet an entire day? Nonetheless, there remains a nagging voice inside that begs to be heard, “You are wasting inside, and your gifts along with it!”

It might be a mark of weakness, lack of discipline, or whatever character flaw that could be attributed to a faltering of will and perseverance to rise above and do “my work” regardless of the obstacles. Or perhaps it is my age and a sense of resignation, along with a fear that the best days have come and gone old girl. I am just stubborn and rebellious enough to refuse to accept the latter. Some days I feel an entire universe is about to explode inside me, and I vow to respond to the profound urge to make something of myself as an artist and writer. That nagging voice again, and the unspoken truth that I was meant to confront blank white paper with color and thread words together in this lifetime, not wait for another. I have to make stuff, in that process all the pieces come together for me, when life makes some degree of sense. There is no other way for me to define rapture.

As an artist I rely heavily on contrast; the contrast of light, color, texture, distance and perspective. Contrast sharpens the focus, lifts the picture off the page into another dimension. Actually, contrast is a tool of the trade and art would be flat without it. Off the page contrast is another thing, provoking the disparity between sadness and joy, beauty and horror, right and wrong, and so on. Contrast takes on many forms in my daily life. Every morning I read about Iraq in the New York Times and hear of the mounting casualties on CNN and NPR as I commute to work. What strikes me most as the day progresses is how little the war seems to do with most Americans, or the ones I come into contact with on a daily basis. I sit at my desk or cross the street and say to myself, “We are at war, do not forget we are at war and thousands of people are being killed and wounded everyday. Get angry, do something!” The most I seem to do is remind myself a few times a day and leave it at that. Some days I initiate a discussion and try to remind someone else, rant and rave a bit and then go back to the task at hand. I often wonder who else is reminding themselves everyday that people are being killed because we elected a grandiose liar and the whole thing has spiraled out of control and we are too engrossed in our lives that on the whole might be going well enough so that we can pretty much tune it out other than to politely agree on how awful it is.

Although I have made a point of ridding myself of anger that has held me down, I think anger is sometimes the only appropriate response. Particularly when people are being killed for no good reason other than so a small number of rich people can become even richer from someone else’s misery. However, anger is not well received. Shouldn’t we be angry, and honest about this anger so justified? Can you imagine if someone asks how you are and you say, “Well, I am pissed off about the war in Iraq and Bush and how he is destroying this country and compromised our place in the world and that’s all I want to talk about, forget the pleasantries.” I basically cussed out a Bush supporter in a movie theater whose arrogant and snide remarks about “other people’s kids can fight the war”, not his college attending child. And I felt I let him off easy. What has become of us if we cease to have a line that cannot be crossed? Was that not what the civil rights movement, the anti-war movement and the feminist movement was about? Being mad as hell and not taking it anymore, insisting on change - now. Making light of “other people’s kids” who do not have the options my kids or his kids have is worthy of anger and public humiliation, to say the least. I am grateful the mid-term election reflected a national disapproval of the war, now let’s see if this unfixable mess can somehow be unfixed enough to stop more innocents from being killed and wounded.

I have been accused of being “too serious” most of my life. I marched against the Vietnam War and for civil rights when most of my peers were discovering lipstick. I think I have great humor and capacity for joy. Though I would not agree that I am “too serious”, I am however dead serious when I comes to certain things. Raising black kids requires a degree of seriousness, and the ability to confront those who might cause harm to my children, individuals and institutions alike. Being a parent is not for the faint at heart, it is a gut wrenching experience in the best of circumstances that humbles even the most confident and accomplished (or it should). Being a white/Jewish mother of a black male and female comes with its own set of challenges. I had to learn to see the world as it viewed my kids and not to shrink from discomfort, mine or other people’s. I have been the only white person in the gym during my son’s games for years, the one to speak up when racist remarks were made, refusing to accept the “color blind” theory about biracial kids, or kids in general. Backing down was not an option, and I had to teach by example. Most important, I could not bullshit my kids about racism or they would be road kill, or worse, I would loose my credibility with them.

There are a million stories and examples from parenting black kids that illustrate the contrast between being black and white in America. I know the Pinole Police Chief well and when he hears my voice on the other end of the phone he knows it is not a courtesy call. Walking behind my kids, I see the looks, particularly with my son, the feared black male. There is a discomfort that deflates when they open their mouth and speak “proper” English, or refer to their travels and education, and then the real trump card, having a white mother. It is so subtle, yet transparent. The underlying message is my kids are different, not like regular black people, perhaps because they are biracial and I am their mother. I know the statistics but my kids are not a number. And yet the fact that they defy the numbers is no consolation to us; it is our rallying cry. Being at UC Hastings College of Law is an achievement only if you make it possible for someone else to get there. A broadcast/media internship with the Warriors is an achievement only if you hook up someone when you leave as someone did for you. My children have been raised with high expectations to fully develop their human potential for more than their own purposes. And to never be comfortable while black kids are caught in an achievement gap, incarcerated disproportionately, and being killed by guns and a cycle of poverty.

My week in Stinson Beach has been the ultimate contrast from daily life in Pinole. I arrived feeling like a layer of film on a glass. A crisis at work prevented me from arriving in early afternoon. As Stinson came into view on Highway 1, the sun was descending and ribbons of electric pink and purple streaked the sky. The air was unseasonably warm. The village was quiet, typical for a Wednesday evening in November. I unpacked my bags and art supplies, spreading newspaper on the floor to catch falling pieces of oil pastels. I ate dinner at one of the three restaurants with my book. It was the beginning of less words coming out of my mouth and my inner dialog. The most constant sound has been the crashing of waves that is audible from my apartment. I leave the sliding door to the terrace open at night so I can drift off to sleep with the sea as my lullaby. I inhale the salt air from the sea and the fragrance of the woods. At night I walk under a canopy of stars and hear the crunching of leaves and twigs underfoot. I have no reason to be mindful of time since I eat when I am hungry and sleep when I am tired.

I begin each day with a long walk on the beach. I have forsaken jogging and my iPod, preferring to slow things down and listen to the sea and chattering birds. Stinson is a long stretch of beach, and I usually spend 1-2 hours walking. I walked in a drizzle the first day, and from then on it has been mostly sunny and warm. My pace is my pace, sometimes slow and deliberate, sometimes intense and deep depending on what I am doing. I study colors; close my eyes to feel rather than see, allowing emotions to surface that have been long buried. I delight in the autumn colors, the vibrant yellows, reds, gold, and deep rich hues of green. The texture of the rolling hills resembles bolts of velvet fabric tossed across the landscape. I cry, laugh aloud, talk to myself. I read papers and think about what I have read while drinking a latte on my terrace where the sea is in full view. I watch cable news, Dancing With the Stars Results pulling for Emmett Smith (he won!), and my Thursday lineup of Grey’s Anatomy and ER. And I have painted, hours of glorious painting.

I reconnected with an artist friend in Bolinas. I could not recall why our friendship lapsed years ago. I knocked on her door and walked in and we began or banter as if we last saw each other days and not years ago. Jackie invited me to an opening at the Bolinas Museum, their annual “mini” show. There were some excellent pieces in the show, several I would have liked to tuck in my purse. What struck me being with Jackie, and at the opening, was how far away from my art and others who make art I have become. I tend to be reclusive in my work and shy away from the “art scene”. Years of exhibiting soured me to the system; however, it has not always been an attribute to isolate myself. I thought of my younger self and the work I once did that was more provocative and interesting, definitely a commentary on my life and the world as I interpreted it. What had the years done to me? Marred my spirit and creativity? I painted on 30 ft, scrolls and old windows and doors with poetry scrawled on windowpanes. My divorce, my parenting angst, my relationship missteps, the Gulf War, pessimism and optimism and awe of nature were all there. By staying aloof of myself I had compromised my art. When did I stop using my work as a commentary and why? I certainly have worthy experiences, strong feelings and an awareness that could be channeled into my work rather than feeling like a plugged toilet. Playing it safe and lazy was not yielding satisfying results.

I had begun painting the day before I went with Jackie to the exhibition. Krystal and Jonathan came to visit Friday with Pepsi. I reserved them a dog room downstairs so I would not have to share my space or put away my paints. Pepsi would try and eat them and anything else lying around. Krystal came up to my room and saw the first two paintings on the extra bed. She was so impressed with them and I was anything but. You can have one if you want I told her as if I was offering her a drink of tap water. I thought nothing of the pieces other than they had opened the gate to painting after another long dry spell since Copenhagen. I stuck with it; however, and I hit my stride enough to feel a union and harmony that happens when I am deep in my work. It is not only a matter of laziness; the process requires time and a mental space that is conducive to creating. For me, anyway. I need encounters with trees sporting yellow leaves in the woods, quiet that allows one to hear the stream under a small wooden bridge, and ample time to reflect and grapple with articulating the huge quantity of thoughts and feeling that mount inside. Not being in perpetual motion helps.

My time here was not without ruptures to the solitude. Pepsi had a blast on the beach, a bit too much of a blast, and she got ill drinking salt water and sneaking tastes along the shore. It was too much of a good thing I guess, she was so much fun on the beach we stayed for two hours. Before she left it was clear she was not feeling well and I asked Jonathan to take her to the vet. Rena emailed me since there is no Sprint cell reception and told me she was vomiting on the way home. I was scrounging for change to use the pay phone and have the kids call me back. The vet decided to keep her overnight for observation and to get some fluids in her. Rena had us on three-way and Jonathan was crying at having to leave her. She put the vet on three-way so I could ask questions. I fretted throughout my evening with Jackie. I thought about how much I love that pup, and how devastated we would be as a family if something happened to her. I opened myself up to the dilemma of loving and caring when I got her against my better judgment. Pepsi has turned out to give me far more than she has taken. Like another child, she requires care and attention; however, she brings a smile to my face each time I walk through the door. I could play with her for hours and I hate to leave her when I go to work. I tell her I love her a million times a day. I knew I would wake early and head back to Pinole early to check on her and talk to the vet. With no resentment I did just that.

We visited her at the clinic Sunday morning. She was perky and had kept down the small amounts of food they had fed her. She was given liquids but they wanted to keep her for a few more hours. I wept when we got in the car. This was the life I had chosen, one that included other people and now a puppy who ranked right up there with my kids. Even on the island I have mitigated situations from afar, worried to a point of distress, and until the crisis subsided I was no good to myself, or others. Thankfully I have had friends to lean my head on, reassure me and wipe my tears. Being close makes it harder and easier; I can go home and then leave again once I have a peace of mind though the obvious downside is going home at all. I have a reoccurring dream when I am in Europe that I have to return home for some reason and then I am in a frenzy trying to get myself back on the plane to complete my time away, adamant about going back regardless of the cost. I always wake up wondering where I am and breath a sigh of relief when I realize it is just the dream again and I am still in Europe. No dream book required to interpret the meaning of that dream. I have chosen to be accessible one way or the other to my family, to email personal statement revisions from a Greek island, to console my crying child on the phone thousands of miles away, to listen to their fears and gripes, and celebrate their successes whether I am in Copenhagen or at work in Oakland.

I though about love as I drove back from Pinole. It grips your heart and will not let go. When a child is in pain or danger, the adrenaline starts to flow and the daunting possibility that there is no limit to what I would do to protect my children, even cross the law, is scary to say the least. I have one absolute rule to the world; don’t fuck with my kids, and by the look on my face and tone in my voice; most people know I mean it. I have parted ways with my family over this rule; ceased communication with my own mother so there is no reason to doubt my sincerity. Fortunately, I have not had to test my limits on that rule though I have had to step up and put my on boxing gloves on more than one occasion.

What also occupied my mind as I drove through the woods was Lee Franklin and the news I received that morning that he had passed. Lee is a friend of my son’s from Berkeley High, a stand out kid who played sports and did well in school. His trademark smile was the highlight of more than one person’s day. Lee was raised by Pops, his grandfather, whose presence at games was a given. Lee was also battling leukemia. Lee went to Arizona State, and that was the last I heard until Jonathan came home form school one afternoon last spring and told me Lee was in one of his classes. He had gotten sick again and had to leave Arizona, and was now at SF State in the broadcast department, on the mend again. Towards the end of the semester Jonathan said Lee was not attending class anymore. I ran into good friends of Lee and they said he was at Alta Bates Hospital. Jonathan and I visited Lee there, and again when he was moved to Childrens Hospital. He had so many visitors it was impossible to see him on weekends. The last time I saw him was a few weeks ago, we sat at the nurses station chatting. He was sitting in a wheel chair after a walk and eating gummy bears. He looked so well, the signature smile appearing every now and then. I thought for sure this kid is going to defy all the odds and make it. Jonathan saw him a few days later and agreed. The last time Jonathan went to visit Lee he was sleeping, and then mid term exams arrived.

I received a phone call from Rena and an email from Karen Perkins that he had passed. I walked into Jonathan’s room to tell him and we both cried, out of sadness as well as admiration for this young man who fought harder than anyone could expect with a courage and heart that touched all of us who were privileged enough to be in his presence. I though about Pops and how devoted he was to Lee, how much he loved him. The kind of love that puts you into someone else’s body and feel their pain, that makes you want to own it so you can relieve that person of the burden, take the bullet for them. That love is the gripping kind. It is not subject to whim or romance, good times or bad, it is a constant that goes with the years and phases and trial and tribulations. It is unconditional and rock solid, it is surrender and determination and does not flinch in the face of adversity. I walked the beach later that day with the sun shinning and air warm. It was like summer but not. I held Lee close to me, I danced a jig for him and praised his spirit, and I thanked him for the few minutes I spent with him over the past months, and the opportunity to see that smile beam across his face.

Stinson Beach and I go back over 25 years. I walked these shores pregnant with Rena, watched my kids make sand castles, taught them to body surf and educated them in the beauty and meaning of a glorious sunset. Jonathan and I spent a warm August day here before he moved into his dorm. That was one of the all time Stinson greats, we body surfed for hours and found ourselves face to face with a seal bobbing in the surf. We have shared magic here on more than one occasion. They have Stinson Beach rituals that they now share with their friends, such as eating grill cheese (Rena) and burgers (Jonathan) at the Parkside. And they develop rituals of their own, as I have shared this place with other loved ones. Gene and I spent two days here at the Ocean Court two years ago January. Stinson was always a great day trip destination; I even coerced Gene into the sea on a warm July afternoon. Jonathan and Krystal love to eat at the Sand Dollar and will drive up here on a whim for fish and chips. The kids and I stayed at the Ocean Court many years ago for two nights. It was a turbulent time in our lives and it offered us a reprieve, a chance to escape and have fun at a place we loved. I am in that same room, and often think back to the joy of those few days before everything had happened and life felt scary yet full of possibilities.

Not everything has happened though. There is still time and life ahead to live. Paintings are spread across the extra bed and that is a good thing. I have felt peace and moved at my own pace for a week. I am rested and renewed. Another Stinson Beach chapter has been added to the collection. I am once again left to wonder if balance is possible or am I always to feel divided? I am nearing fifty years old and this is not getting any easier. I thought it would, that once my kids turned eighteen I would be free. Foolish me, and the truth is I do not want to be totally free of them. I like my kids a lot. I like being close to them and hanging out with them. They are the reason I am not living in Europe, they are the reason I agree to live a life of debt, and they are well worth it. I look at them and I think, job well done. They are kind and thoughtful and most important, they have a sense of otherness that I would have been willing to beat into them if it not had taken so easily. Nonetheless, I am in a role transition and it is not easy for any of us to move on and let go. But we are working on it despite the mutual cries of hold me close, let me go! It is a constant cycle of renewal, loss, redemption, despair and hope, fed by the random and the planned. I am the first to admit I am in the struggle.

Perhaps the real battle is between authenticity and practicality, what seems to be two opposing forces much of the time. This is most pronounced at work, where we earn our living to pay for all the things we deem necessary for our family and ourselves. There is no way I feel I can be my authentic self there. I do my best to maintain integrity in my work as coordinator of services to homeless students and their families at Oakland Unified. The truth is the district is failing a majority of the 48,000 students enrolled, as most urban school districts are, and perhaps education as a whole. I try to ignore that fact as much as possible and concentrate on what I can provide these students and families. I facilitate a group for parents at the largest family shelter in downtown Oakland. The only way I can do this with any measure of success is to be authentic, to lay the cards on the table about who I am and who they are and the differences between us. From there we can rest in some common ground. Although I have no clue what it is like to be homeless and live in a shelter, nor do I ever want to, I know what it is like to put my face in my hands and sob, frantic with worry over my child. On that we can relate, and we take it from there. The truth is I am more authentic with those parents than I am with my co-workers or boss. If I told them what I really think I would be fired on the spot. So we hold it in and there is always a price to pay for holding it in. My travels to Europe and this most recent week in Stinson are flashing red lights that warm me to make a change sooner rather than later. I cannot live my authentic life in one week or one month increments and be the artist I need to be. I also cannot take flight from my life in its entirety. Authenticity reflects the wholeness of self and incorporation of polarizing forces. That is the challenge. At least it has been my challenge for as long as I can remember.

Once again I prepare my departure without answers, only questions, and lots of paintings. There is a conspicuous absence of people in my paintings in recent years. The colors are ever-present; however, though I need to think about where the figures have gone and why. I hardly bother with structures of any kind, preferring to tangle with abstract impressions and color. At some point perhaps the figures will return and tell a different story. At this moment I am content and I intend to savor it for as long as possible. There are paints and clothes to pack up, and a beach to visit one last time. The sky is much like it was my first day, overcast with a hint of rain. The weather is a constant cycle of sun, rain, clear skies and overcast, of blue, gray and everything in between. A metaphor for life if there ever was one. I will linger in the silence and solitude here in my remaining hours. Soon I will be making the trek over the hill. I can see what awaits me in my mind’s eye; a puppy who can’t wait to jump on me and play fetch, my daughter in a study frenzy, my son relieved to have a few days without any obligations besides his fantasy football and basketball league. There will be Thanksgiving dinner preparations with Tommy at the helm and me in charge of clean up. We will gather tomorrow and the overwhelming theme will be gratitude. What else can I say about a life filled with wonderful family and friends, one that has afforded me opportunity to explore and journey, and of course, meet all of you!
Have a very happy Thanksgiving, or to my non-US friends, a wonderful weekend ahead.
Much love,
Paula

Crazy Love

I have been thinking about love in its various forms lately. Now that my first semester has come to a close, I am able to ponder life's biggest mystery - love.

My life in Austin is a solitary one. Sometimes I feel like a mother no more. Days of children and the constant swirl of activity associated with child rearing seem like a fictitious past. Rena calls daily and has visited several times; however, Jonathan has visited once for only a day and we speak sporadically. In my worst moments of doubt I ached for my son. I am not sure why his was the face I longed to see, though it may have something to do with the battle we fought against the school district and special education services when he was in 6th grade. There were no darker days. Jonathan and I were in lockstep as we climbed a slippery slope for five months while his fate hung in the balance. I was consumed with securing his placement in a private school at the district's expense per ADA law. I locked my door at work and sobbed at the thought of my son in the clutches of people who felt it was their professional entitlement to inflict damage upon him rather than evaluate a system that disproportionately herded black males into special education and served as a port of entry to the criminal justice system. I will never forget a particular moment when I was deep in thought, my mind spinning as I drafted emails and strategy in my head. I felt Jonathan's presence and looked up and to see his worried face staring at me intently. His concern seemed more for me than himself. No words passed between us, but in that moment I felt an electric transference of mutual strength and love, and the message was clear - I will never falter when it comes to you and your well being. I am your net and you are mine.

The love a parent feels for their child is the gripping kind that rips your chest open and exposes vulnerabilities you would rather forget you have. It places you square in the middle of a rock and a hard place. In retrospect, I wish I had done less to cushion their blows, let them feel the burn at a younger age and face consequences too painful for me to bear, not necessarily them. Parenting is the great equalizer, decimating any false pretense of arrogance you posses in an instant. There is no more humbling an experience. The days of passing judgment on how other people raise their kids comes to a grinding halt when you become a parent and find yourself in a daily quandary that tests everything you thought you knew but really didn't. I described motherhood to my friend Muhsana in the following way: you would throw yourself in front of a speeding train for them without hesitation, and when parenting drives you to a breaking point you feel like tossing them in front of the same train. What besides love for a child could cause complete contradiction, complication, and loss of self and sanity?

Love for a child is a life long proposition. Romantic love comes and goes, sometimes with a new partner or repeat performances with someone time and time again. My own tumultuous road trip of relationships has taught me one thing for sure - never say never. When I think I have reached my capacity to love or be compelled by another human being I find myself elevated a few inches off the ground by the brush of a shoulder against mine. When I gladly locked the door and threw away the key (for good of course), relieved that menopause provided the perfect excuse to avoid heartache, I hear a tap, tap, tap on the door asking permission to enter. There is something about human contact that is both terrifying and necessary. Perhaps there are lessons best learned alone while some require the accompaniment of others. The truth is, love is a form of magic. Its potency can be healing or toxic depending on an infinite number of factors that make it impossible to write prescriptions for its best application. My friend Chuck used to say solitude was addictive in its quiet predictability. Love challenges us to take the ride again and subscribe to optimism against our better judgment. The element of surprise is confounding, nudging us off centered ground and back onto the roller coaster. And this can be done at any age as I recently learned.

My 80 year old brother-in-law Rob returned to his hometown of Mart, Texas several years ago after he retired as a bus driver from the transit system in Denver. He was blinded by glaucoma after retirement, living in a dark and solitary place though managing with a large degree of independence thanks to three time weekly visits by my sister-in-law. My nieces and nephews in close proximity stopped by often with their grandchildren in tow for hours of porch storytelling. Rob proclaimed to be happy on his own, and after his first wife died and his second marriage ended in divorce, he considered that part of his life had reached a conclusion. Enter Miss Zelma Sharpe, a former classmate who admired him from afar since their school days in Mart, and widower also living alone in Mart. At church she kept her distance, and Rob being blind could not see her. Somehow her admiration became known to my nieces and the matchmaking began in earnest. Rob protested, insisting he was happy alone; however, he humored us and played along in jest. On a return trip to Mart one of my nieces informed me they had begun courting for real, no jokes this time.

I stayed at Rob's house while working on the (Re)Building Memory Project. Solitude was replaced with giggles and laughter, hand holding and kissing,reminiscing about days gone by. Minutes after Miss Zelma left to go home the phone would ring, informing Rob she had arrived safely. Rob would lay his head in her lap, Miss Zelma stroking him as they listened to music for hours on end. They resembled teenagers, lovestruck and unable to believe their good fortune to have fond each other again. Each tells their own version of how they thought the other was uninterested while harboring a secret crush. They went on to marry other people and have children, live long lives filled with triumphs and tragedy. The circle of life came round to a place where it began. Rob cannot see the love that illuminates Miss Zelma's face; however, we know he feels it. A few days before the wedding Rob confessed to my niece Cindy that he didn't want to be alone anymore. The most jaded person could not help but be moved by love recovered at this age.

I was buying books at the Co-Op in August when I received a call informing me I was going to get a new sister-in-law. Rob and Miss Zelma were to be married the Saturday after Thanksgiving before family from all over the country. On subsequent visits to Mart, Miss Zelma was like a young bride to be,barely able to contain her excitement. On the day of the wedding, the church parking lot was filled to capacity as were the pews. My nephew Buck is the Pastor of the church and officiated the wedding ceremony. When he pronounced them man and wife there was a short pause, and the audience called out for the kiss. Buck turned to us and said, "I've got this!" and led the couple to the candle lighting. We exploded in laughter. They finally kissed a long rapturous kiss, provoking thunderous applause. As they walked down the aisle arm in arm, the song "The Prayer" played. Tears streamed down my face, and my heart swelled with hope. The possibility of second, even third chances seemed plausible. At the reception, Zelma and Rob leaned into each other, creating a soft comfortable haven of their own as the world turned around them.

Driving home to Austin that evening with my daughter Rena, the magic lingered. I thought about love and its ability to surprise even the most vehement of skeptics. Living the solitary life in Austin and studying most hours of the day had taken a toll on me. I wondered if I would ever be able to share my life with someone the way Zelma and Rob had chosen to do. I had opted for a less threatening kind of love with Pepsi and Pearl as my emotional touchstones. They greet me upon my return each day and cuddle with me at night, no questions asked. I navigated a marriage, child rearing and several relationships with the best of intention. My heart has been broken and repaired, and despite feeling I would never get over the bitter taste of loss and betrayal, I managed to release anger that burdened me for years in favor of forgiveness and liberation. Perhaps it is the only way to make room for love to reclaim us.

In the aftermath of the first semester of my PhD program, I have quite a bit of time on my hands. I think how nice it would be to raise a glass and toast my accomplishments with my partner, or lace our fingers together at the movies and sleep in on a weekday. The solitude I so desperately sought to focus on my studies presents an upside as well as a down. However, the absence of a physical body is not the same as absence of love. I feel love floating out there, landing in front of me when I need it the most. While taking my statistics final, there was a computer glitch that caused me to take the exam a second time (in tears). I heard a incoming text beep on my iPhone and reluctantly paused to read the message. It was from my son, and simply said "I love you". Perfect timing, my deflated spirit was lifted, enabling me to proceed.

Love, like magic, is everywhere. We are required to open ourselves up to the possibility and remove preconceived conditions if we are to receive it. The ability to reckon and be with oneself is as important as the ability to connect. In essence, they are two sides of the same coin, a metaphor for love in all its various forms. There is no expiration date on love, as proved by Zelma and Rob. I like the never too late thing, and it looks like it might be catching on. Rumor has it my 70 year old sister-in-law, now residing in Mart on an extended vacation from Denver, is courting her childhood sweetheart, a retired teacher and career military man. He recently built a large new house in nearby Waco, and I hear from a reliable source she is spending a good chunk of time there. Yesterday we spoke on the phone and she sounded like a school girl giddy in love. When questioned about the possibility of returning to Texas permanently, she could barely conceal her excitement. "Things are looking up" she proclaimed. One day you are living in an apartment in Denver, reconciled to being alone after a lifetime of care taking, satisfied to savor joy in your children and grandchildren. Unexpectedly, life takes a turn, ushered by love. As high school sweethearts, dashed hopes soon become a routine aspect of life; however, rekindled love experienced at 70, or even 80 years of age, has the ability to make good on broken promises, ease the pain of a shattered heart and chase away loneliness, reminding us that it really is never too late. Love, love, love, love, crazy love....

School Daze: Missing in Action

I have momentarily come up for air. Two and a half months of non-stop studying, writing, reading and doubting myself on a daily basis. Whatever competence or confidence I possessed before entering this PhD program has dissipated, leaving me wondering what brought me here in the first place. Everyone seems younger and smarter while I plod along at a snail's pace aspiring for a B average. This is not for the faint at heart, and requires surrendering a piece of oneself; however, I am in this for the long haul, goal driven,prepared to put in whatever hours (and hours and hours) are demanded of me. My tenacity to get the job done is not to be confused with a greater determination to hold onto a corner of myself that is unyielding under this or any other kind of pressure. I remind myself I have stood down bigger obstacles over the course of my life.

In those thick wavy glass moments of despair I feel as alone as I have ever felt. Spending what feels like an eternity in my office grappling with statistics and data, writing theory papers, and memorizing research terms and concepts, has warped my perspective and humanity. I am too tired to talk on the phone, and even if I had more energy, I would bore myself with my own tales of woe. I made a choice to purse a PhD at 52. Despite the challenges I remain grateful for the opportunity to study and extend myself. I have a wonderful home in a friendly neighborhood within biking distance of school and large yard for my doggies romp. Still, I feel hermetically sealed in an isolation chamber, unable to communicate with normal people or talk about anything other than school. I am a big picture person, and the big picture is obscured by a task by task existence. Finish one assignment and start the next. Is there a sky covering me or a tiny canopy? Where are my colors? Have I faded into a murky white paste? Are my parts moving or frozen?

I have flashes of my past life. The childcare center is located in the social work building. I watch parents drop off their young children filled with mutual angst and hesitation as they negotiate farewells. That was me once, a graduate student pregnant with Jonathan, dropping Rena off at the child development center at Sacramento State. Life was a flurry of activity with classes, internship, thesis and commuting from the Bay Area to Sacramento. It was wonderful though, I was learning again and proving myself academically as I wrestled with fear and insecurity. I was not alone though, I came home to outstretched arms and assurance. In my Austin life there is no cushion between me and an endless stream of work. Pepsi and Pearl are my emotional touchstones. I cannot imagine my life here without them and their love.

Some days I feel as if I am circling the drain. Other day I feel victorious. An 84 on a research mid term might be a disappointment for some in my cohort; however, for me it is cause for celebration. Not falling on my face is a modest but candid expectation. Before my statistics midterm, I cried myself to sleep at night, in the shower the next morning, in the car on my way to school, and perhaps most humiliating, in my professor's office. What happened to my thick skin? Peeled away, layer by layer, page by page of statistics concepts too difficult for me to wrap my arms around, differentiating independent and dependent variables, grasping every kind of validity and threats to validity, decreasing the volume of my voice for the sake of proving defensibility with more technical and scholarly writing. It's all about "publishing" in journals and book chapters, large studies and data sets.

Being diagnosed at 52 with ADHD, knowing full well all these years that my struggles were in large part attributed to a learning disability, was a shock nonetheless. I managed to get by on grit and finesse; however, returning to school presented challenges that could not be disguised and required additional help. I advocated for my children and countless others, and now I am the one in need of support. Hours of testing resulted in a diagnosis that confirmed my suspicions. How had I managed all these years, struggling with a disorganized file cabinet for a brain? A freaky superior short term memory and a failing long term memory confounded by disorganization. I compensated amazingly well, developing an extensive repertoire of tricks and strategies. Still, after the results I sat in the car and sobbed. I replayed my life and felt the tense cord that has always been pulling inside me as I worked to focus against a momentum dragging me in a million directions. Details eluding me while navigating the forest, oblivious to the trees. Nose to the grindstone, work harder, remain vigilant or risk being exposed for the fraud I felt like most of the time. Was it really being smart or just luck? How would I manage to cover all the ground a PhD program demanded when my deficits could swallow me up quicker than my strengths would be able to rescue me? I left a life behind and placed all bets on my ability to get my doctorate. There is no room for failure, ADHD notwithstanding.

I am still the wild child artist. Art and social work, Afrocentric theory and practice, teaming with oral historians. This is not unheard of, yet it is not the typical trajectory in social work doctoral education. My aspirations are not to publish in the Journal of the American Medical Association (referred to with reverence as JAMA). Multi-disciplinary teams extend beyond a collaboration between social work, public health, psychology and medicine. I hang with the artists, historians, architects, educators, community activists and early childhood folks who are game for innovative out of the box approaches. Art and oral history projects are a step towards repairing roads in Mart, Texas. My passion to create, to provoke, capture and document the magic of transformation inspired by a convergence of mediums and approaches led me to this program. Community gardens, art workshops, performance pieces, restoring the black cemetery and collecting oral histories propel social and personal change.

I am learning though, a mind exploding learning, a synchronization of ecstasy and agony. Writing a 19 page critical analysis on Afrocentric theory felt like coming home. Terms and concepts remain hollow if there is no mechanism for application to people's lives. Theory serves purpose when it advances meaningful change and shakes up the marbles. Learning about Afrocentric theory united my historical knowledge and experience parenting black children. It offers a new paradigm for practice in social work and other disciplines. I loved the reading, delving deep into historical, philosophical, and political discourse that challenges the status quo with a compelling case for rejecting accepted thought and practice. If Freud, Maslow and Erickson, by their own admission, did not factor black people into the equation of their work, can their theories be trusted to explain an experience that has no congruence with those who were the basis of their research?

One of my professors has cautioned me about getting submerged in the dissertation. "The idea is to get in and get out, do not confuse the dissertation with your life's work." I take this advice seriously, particularly at age 52. My dissertation will have an expediency factor that does not preclude a contribution. I suppose it is magical to feel there is still a body of work ahead of me in art and scholarship, in relationships that facilitate transformation and redemption from my own tangled past. Most days I struggle just to keep my head above water, feeling submerged and swallowed by a dark force that runs contrary to everything familiar and comfortable. This process reckons full exposure. I am holding up, tenacious as ever, with every intention of crossing the threshold. If I seem missing in action to you, know that I am right here in Austin, plugging away and thinking how nice it would be to get a life line tossed every now and then from my friends and supporters scattered across the globe. As the kids say,"Holla!"