2010: The Accidental Journey Continues

Pepsi and Pearl relaxing at their new home in Austin

It has been six months since my last blog post. That in itself is a statement on how my life became consumed with work as soon as I returned from Ghana. We hit the ground running in Mart for nearly two months trying to get the Mart Community Project launched and before I knew it, a new semester was before me with the added responsibilities of co-teaching and bringing students to Mart to work on community projects. As I write these words they unfold like a swift, even brush stroke; however, it was anything but.

I would be hard pressed to describe what actually happened inside me during 2010. Events can be chronicled, placed in a template of some kind, categorized, and accomplishments noted. It might even be impressive once the tally is complete. A grueling first year and a half of my PhD program behind me, three funded grants for projects in Mart, UT students from two classes working in Mart, developing and applying innovative methods to my research, writing a first solo article for submission, juggling two TA assignments, making collage portraits with my students, and my first ever 4.0 semester. For me; however, crawling along the surface of those “accomplishments” is a more complex reality, accompanied by a sense of holding on for dear life, slippery slope after slippery slope.

If I were a person of science, I could provide an analogy involving molecules and atoms that represent intricate and complicated pathways to explain the human experience in a compact and sophisticated way. However, I am relegated to wrestling with words and colors and images, traversing the deep dark emotive tunnels underground, in the hope that I may bring some of this struggle to light – and ultimately find a modicum of peace. It is elusive and momentary at best, and that is a good day. What ends up being our salvation is often the biggest surprise of all.

I left my home of twenty years, packed up my car with the doggies and my most valued possessions – art and a few personal items and documents. It was a brutal drive, with only one night stopover and driving 20 hours straight through to get to Austin. Pepsi, Pearl and I were road warriors, and unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the beginning of a trio, the three of us against the world. Not so many years before, the trio consisted of Rena, Jonathan and I in the house in Pinole, a young mother growing up with her kids. I vowed to be graceful about letting them go, and perhaps the best way for me to release my daily grip was to journey to my own new life. Looking in the rear view mirror and seeing my children wave goodbye that July morning was like glancing over my shoulder and seeing thirty years of my life fade behind a bend in the road.

Life got busy quick. Struggling to stay afloat in a sea of data analysis, theory, research methods, papers and exams absorbed my being. I was diagnosed with ADHD, not a big surprise; however, when your fears are confirmed, another boom is lowered and my tentative confidence was further shaken. There were times I thought the whole thing was a huge mistake yet I had no idea what else I would do with my life if I failed at this program. I could not bear another minute spent in a miss-matched job living a divided life. I refused to be licked by multiple regression, the constraints of academic writing, and being deferential when it was not deserved. My tenacity is formidable, and can be an asset or a liability depending on the circumstances. In this instance, I am not sure I would have survived without it.

In the frenetic pace of daily life we often forsake reflection. During the summer rush to roll out programs in Mart, I found myself caught in a cross fire of race, class, and the conflicting responsibility of multiple roles. I was forced to confront my inner turmoil and for the first time in two years I questioned the viability of the project, and my own sanity in believing art and social change stood a change in this racially polarized, class entrenched, impoverished town. I wanted to run, not walk, as fast as I could out of town to Austin, my little house and doggies. One early morning when sleep was elusive, I lay in bed and wrote a series of poems I sent via text to Gene – mainly because he rarely reads text messages. When the sun began to rise I braved the stifling heat and moved outside to the porch in what is known as “black folks town” in my pajamas and continued to write and send texts, five in total, from a raw uncensored part of my soul.

Those text poems, originally meant to remain buried along with my feelings, became the inspiration for five collage portraits I created for a course project. I was cautious to share the poems, and selectively showed them to colleagues who encouraged me to document the full range of my experiences in Mart, and reminded me of their value as a teaching tool among other purposes in furthering the development of meaningful community engagement. The misstep of bypassing reflection in my haste to “get things done” was a cautionary tale as I prepared my students for their work in Mart, and we could not shortchange the process with a single minded focus on action and outcomes.

Text Poem Collage


The concept of reflective practice, reflexivity, and reflective practitioner are found in abundance in academic literature. The value of reflection is well documented; however, the time required to practice and live a reflective life can be difficult to find or support. How to build reflection into our hectic lives or the artificial time frame of a semester when the list of things to do steadily multiplies is a constant challenge. My students grappled with reflection and process, explored alternative definitions of research and learning, and in the end concluded the experience of working with the community using a new approach had been extremely valuable and eye opening. The four hour round trip to Mart that at first was thought to be an major inconvenience proved to be an important part of the learning experience, allowing us to plan on the way there and process on the way back to Austin. Listening to the students discuss their impressions, epiphanies, and pose questions to each other and myself as I drove the van along I-35, the move to Austin and decision to pursue my PhD was affirmed.

UT students and Mart residents at the Nancy Nail Library


During a presentation to the Writing for Nonprofit class, a student asked me, “Why Mart, what is special about Mart?” I paused for a moment and smiled at the thought of being a teacher and doctoral student, transitioning from instigator of an art installation to discussing Mart in a classroom brimming with University of Texas students. My response to the question went along these lines: Actually nothing is special about Mart, it represents the fate of countless towns in the American South whose economic fortunes dissolved when the railroad service discontinued, factories were shut down, and ConAgra style land grabs made local farming no longer profitable. I wish there was something special about Mart, that it represented an aberration rather than a carbon copy of other small towns with abandoned homes, empty commercial buildings, a decaying built and social environment, and a lingering legacy of a segregated past.

Why Mart? Perhaps I ought to have said this - the truth is Mart was chosen as the site for student projects because it is special to me; it is where my husband was born and raised, and where my family still lives. Mart cuts to the heart of America’s racial past with terms like black and white folk’s town freely used to this day, the absence of a black teacher or bank teller, the empty storefronts now carved out remains of power and privilege where those who amassed wealth from control labor pools ride out the decay in relative comfort not afforded to those who helped create their cushion. Why Mart? Because rural poverty is off the grid, and some roads are like driving on the moon’s craters, and because of the shame I felt when during a first visit to Mart an American born friend who lives in West Africa said she could not believe that people in America still live like this.

Rena, Jonathan and Uncle Rob Davis


And yet, in the vacancy that is prevalent in towns like Mart or cities like Detroit that have been left to crumble, the possibility to imagine and create is enormous. In these vast vacant spaces we can insert possibility with a mosaic mural so beautiful that residents driving rolled down their windows to tell the artist how wonderful it is, and a grandmother who expressed skepticism about the whole art and mural idea stood before it with her grandson for an hour because it took that long to appreciate the details. As the owner of the building told Muhsana when he saw the finished mural for the first time, “It’s not what I thought it would be but I like it”.

Artist Muhsana Ali working on the mosaic mural at the Mart Art Co-op



Mart offers abundant opportunity to create reciprocal university-community relationships and continue to refine this work in progress called public scholarship. Community engagement and service learning projects that include reflection, reciprocity, and mutuality continue to challenge us as we are compelled to acknowledge that what we don’t know can be more telling than what we do know, and that questions are more important than answers. As we upend traditional scholarly approaches to develop and improve existing models better suited for the messy and unpredictable community work we engage in, we must not avoid doubt and darkness, rather create a space for candid and authentic expression knowing it is an integral part of the journey. And remind ourselves that we are blazing trails, opening the door to new schools of thought, practice and research.

When I think of the crazy making chaos and frenzy to implement a too tall order of programs last summer, the constant expectation and demands leveled at me from all directions, and the hours logged in Mart and Austin with thousands of miles traveled between both locations, I have more than good reason to pause and ask why Mart, as the student in the WFNP class did. What would an authentic answer reveal? Everything I suppose, the full gambit of joy and sorrow, my surprise when desperation was the beginning of a breakthrough, and the walls I hit were actually openings in disguise. That is the magic of the work, being willing to follow a vision with no absolutes, tolerating chaos and mucking around in the muck, and being crazy enough to try and teach the process to others when you are still learning yourself. In essence, my accidental journey becomes yours.

Here is to our wonderous convergent and divergent journeys in 2011 and beyond!

Rena, 103 year old Mrs. Handy and I in Mart

Rules of the Road

As drivers we are required to follow the rules of the road. A yellow light indicates we proceed with caution. Depending on our mood, we may press our foot on the brakes or speed through the intersection before the light turns red. Red means stop, no split second decisions or risk serous consequences. Consistently driving above the speed limit guarantees a ticket is forthcoming; it is just a matter of time. Rules of the road exist to keep us safe. When we ignore them, we do so at our own peril, and in worst-case scenarios, inflict harm on others as well. Ultimately, stop or you will be stopped.

When I get a speeding ticket, I tend to spin it metaphorically, as a sign for me to slow down. For a while I drive more cautiously, slow my frenetic pace, and try to engage more appreciatively with life. Eventually, I pick up speed and return to my previous ways until the universe delivers another red light. In addition to speeding tickets, I am slowed to a crawl when I get sick. Control is lost, and you are at the mercy of medical professionals you may or may know. Life suddenly becomes tentative and terrifying. This week I took ill and was admitted to the hospital with a bacteria infection. I was well acquainted with the staff at Lister Hospital in Accra after taking five students there, and sitting through several shifts on the ward until one student was released. The doctors were hardly surprised when I showed up; in fact, they seemed to be waiting for me.

Despite moving past the half-century mark, for the most part I move about as I always have. The signs of aging are visible, and some mornings my aching bones prevent me from bolting out of bed as I once did. A degenerative meniscus that has yet to be operated on grounded me from running; however, I still go to the gym, ride my bike, lift weights when time allows, and do physical labor around my house. In my mind, I am able to do most things, even when I ought to hold back and ask for help. My kids seem to share this ageless view of me, and since their dad is 18 years older than me, he is the recipient of their indulgence. When I feel sorry for myself I scold them for it. Being a young mom who grew up with her kids and fed into the can do anything image, I take my share of the blame for their treating me as if I am invincible. Perhaps it is wishful thinking on all our part.

The doctors at Lister Hospital in Accra are excellent, as is the overall care. I had complete confidence in them, and when the doctor read my lab results he informed me I had been sick well over a week. He was quite firm about admitting me, and when he discharged me, his instructions were clear – rest is as important as the medication. How did I not notice I wondered? Then again, when you are running 24/7 with your team to ensure your students and every detail of the program is executed to the best of your ability, there is little time to attend to yourself. This happened to me when I brought students to Senegal, and really it is no different than other times I have taken ill while caring for my children and working. Goes with the territory.

When the group departed Wednesday morning for a 3-day trip to Kumasi, I stayed back in Accra. On my first visit to Ghana we did not make it to Kumasi, and was looking forward to my first visit; however, I erred on the side of caution. A schedule packed with activity was not what my doctor had in mind so I complied and remained in Accra alone. Once the bus departed I was torn between regret and feeling confident I made the right decision. I began to read my book and woke up two hours later. I fixed some makeshift soup with chicken broth, an onion, and noodles. After lunch I picked up my book, attempting to read while the World Cup game provided background noise. Three hours later I woke with my book on my chest. I no longer doubted my decision.

Being sick gave me reason to pause for the first time since moving to Austin - actually, well before then. I had been on a constant roller coaster for a long while, traveling back and forth to Texas for the Mart Project, Senegal, and three trips to Europe before March of last year. In the span of a year I left California after 35 years, bought a house and set it up from scratch, and one week after completing the first year of my PhD program I spent five hectic days in California before departing for Ghana where I hit the ground running. I have a weird belief that I can will away illness with mental toughness. Needless to say, though often successful, it does not always work. Adding this to my reluctance to ask for help can be a dangerous combination. The universe as a way of outsmarting us though, and if we poses any sense at all, we will embrace the notion with nothing but gratitude.

Here in Accra I am wrapped in a blanket of solitude. I move slowly, walking to the Koffee Lounge to drink decaf tea, eat food my stomach will tolerate, and get online. This café has become our dinning room with Dinah as our hostess and provider of healthy, delicious foods and a wonderful space to socialize, work, and observe a slice of life in Ghana that closely resembles a café in Austin filled with Ghanaians. Africa is not just aid appeals with faces of starving children; it is modern life with professionals, families, and a diverse population of customers who enjoy good coffee, Asian fusion food, and smoothies. It is excellent service, clean and attractive environments, and uniquely African style not aiming to be a poor imitation of the West.

Being alone in Accra, I have been able to think, read, and most importantly feel the life inside and around me. Walking back and forth to the café street rhythms take hold - music and chatter, laughter of children, street vendors hawking their goods. I am a single entity, glanced at or ignored, moving about as I once did in my previous travels. Being quiet alters your perspective, grateful for a smile or greeting, you become more humble and receptive, less imposing. Only then have I arrived at my destination. Moving quickly and rushing about, whether it is in Austin or Accra, dilutes the essence of absorbing and feeling an environment. We have come to over rely on our props and tools, our access to information in the virtual world preventing us from connecting in real time. Sitting still is scorned as laziness and a waste of time. How else are we supposed to take notice of beauty otherwise overlooked and the nuance of humanity? Incessant chatter prevents listening; constant movement avoids eye contact with a stranger and perhaps the exchange of a smile. I am as guilty as anyone, when I get going nothing seems to slow me down; that is unless I am stopped by forces beyond my control, hence the red light, speeding ticket, or worse yet – becoming ill.

When working with architecture students in Senegal, my colleague Muhsana Ali and I pulled away our student’s props. We confiscated their notebooks, cameras, measuring tools, and sketchbooks. We asked them to feel the land as preparation for their design, and their tools were distracting them. Their anger was not easily masked, or their panic at being stripped of their props. We instructed them to walk the land, smell the scents, listen to the sounds, inventory the colors. Find a spot and sit still, close your eyes so you can begin to visualize a design that is in harmony with the land, the culture, and residents. We may as well have been talking in ancient Greek; however, we were insistent. Creation is emotive as well as cognitive, perhaps more so. Regardless of the distribution, it requires a blending of the senses and takes into consideration context. There is no one path to any destination; however, the ability to stop in our tracks and reflect cannot be underestimated.

Here in Accra I am in pause mode. One moment I am a blank stare, and the next pondering the Chinese presence in Africa. I take my medication and sleep when I am tired. In the quiet I hear my own thoughts unraveling, a car door slam, dogs barking in the distance, and as was the case yesterday, rain pouring down with a vengeance. I feel both insignificant and an important part of the universe, with either way fine by me. Next week at this time I will be in Austin, back in my beloved house with Pepsi and Pearl. All that is Ghana will go with me. Memories of Jonathan walking the streets as if he had lived here all his life, Frank carrying me in circles when I arrived, dancing with Renee at Taverna Tropicana, gut busting laughter with Kwame, long talks with Dorie in the van, watching the students in their individual and group process, waiting for George to arrive when he was only five minutes away ten minutes ago, a decaying slave fort with life swelling around it on a Sunday afternoon, and the kindness of the staff at Lister Hospital when I was my most vulnerable. It takes so little giving to receive. Life offers us infinite possibility for growth, joy, and connection. All we have to do is follow the rules of the road.

Ghana Revisited

I traveled to Ghana in 2008 with my son, then 21 years old, in large part for him to retrace his African heritage. As the white mother of an African descent child, I felt honored to accompany my son on this significant journey. Parenting my children meant vigilant navigation of American racism, and the confrontation of painful realities in both subtle and overt ways. Going to Ghana felt proactive, and although we were not sure of what to expect, we approached it with joy and excitement.

We were fortunate to be in the company of friends who knew Ghana well, both Americans and Ghanaians. Though our itinerary included the usual stops such as Accra, Cape Coast and Elmina, our encounters with residents were many. If I had to characterize the weeks spent in Ghana with one word, it would be laughter, day after day. The friendships we made were maintained though frequent emails and phone calls. I felt pride when people frequently commented on my son’s manners, humor, and general ability to engage with Ghanaians. The bonds we formed lent credence to the concept of “friend for life”.

When the opportunity to return to Ghana as a Teaching Assistant for a four week Maymester course was offered to me, I jumped at it. My dear friend Frank Decosta would be joining us as one of the local coordinator. Frank is a lecturer at the university and well versed in all matters Ghanaian. Our reunion resembled one of long lost friends as he carried me around in circles with my students looking on. If I could explain what Ghana feels like to me, that moment would aptly describe it. For those who travel, home exists on so many levels.

Africa is often digested in one all encompassing gulp. To comprehend the diversity of this large, often misunderstood continent, one would have to traverse the landmass from top to bottom, side to side. Hardly practical for most of us, we settle for a visit to one, perhaps two countries if we are lucky. In the absence of the ability to actually make the journey, I can only recommend reading books that provide historical, political, and cultural information to process the magnitude of what Africa has been, and continues to be to the industrialized world.

Regardless of your take on Africa, the historical context and role of the European powers, later America, and now China cannot be ignored. I am not set to preach; however, once you obtain a basic grasp of the interruption caused by carving up land like a chess game with no regard to tribe, language, or culture, the conditions of Africa are less perplexing. The capture of African land and people by Arabs and later Europeans, the designation of European colonies and later nationhood resembled the way Middle East was remapped by the Sykes-Picot Agreement in 1917. Borders were determined by economic self-interest with no consideration given to history and culture, making the these decisions seem reckless and arbitrary from a retrospective vantage point. The havoc wrought by the greed and entitlement of European powers to confiscate resources and conquer without a shred of doubt has resulted in consequences felt to this very day.

The wealth we enjoy in the west was built on the backs of free labor from Africa, the indigenous residents of the Americas, immigrants from China who built railroads, and later other sources of cheap labor including undocumented workers. Americans and Europeans can complain about the cultural intrusion and depletion of social services caused by these outsiders; however, I see no rush to pay higher wages to legal residents or employers refraining from hiring workers they well know are undocumented. As the waters of West Africa are illegally stripped by Western European and Asian countries, those who sustenance depends on the fishing industry ironically set off on treacherous journeys in boats that would otherwise provide their livelihood. These desperate attempts to reach the shores of Europe in hopes of earning wages not found in their home country are often lethal. I observed this in Senegal, and was compelled to create The Senegal Series: The New Slavery, paintings depicting the story of those who embark on the journey in search of a “better life”.

The phenomenon is widespread though, and sadly it extends to places as remote as the small Greek island I have frequented for many years. The increased numbers of Albanians and Romanians working the hotels and construction jobs is pronounced. Years of listening to my European friends criticize the U.S. on racism, political bullying, and consumerism (all well founded) have come back to haunt them. In some cases, they hail from former slave trading nations who were spared the nastiness of slavery on their soil, enjoying a lofty position until the the “immigrant problem" knocked them off their pedistal. Xenophobia, racism, and fear are part of their national landscape just as racial profiling and the achievement gap is part of ours. Being in Ghana and linking the slave trade and their colonial past to our present is more like parallel play than severed ties. The stories continue to cross the Atlantic, and our fates remain intricately intertwined.

While I sat by a student’s sick bed in the hospital (she is fully recovered!), I had time to spare. I began reading Richard Dowden’s Africa: Altered States and Ordinary Miracles. Still only halfway through the 550 pages, I am baffled by the complexity that comprises Africa. I am reminded that we must resist the temptation to cut a broad swath across the continent, rather, inform ourselves of the diversity that Africa is, and how in understanding Africa we better grasp the development of our nation and ourselves. The urge to pathologize Africa as if we are innocent bystanders is as ludicrous as pointing a finger at the Middle East and blaming one side versus the other, or believing the rise of Islamic fervor came from out of the blue. We will continue to be cold cocked if we refuse to acknowledge our role in setting the stage for dictatorships, poverty, and terrorism that has shifted our reality and ability to move about as fearlessly as we once did.

Being in Ghana connects me to history and reminds me our ties are not as buried by the past as we may think. The ability to tell our story, whatever the story may be, is a critical link. The inhibitors of storytelling include include shame and guilt about the past and the role our ancestors may have played. Still, the story matters. My colleague on this trip is a Ghanaian whose great, great grandfather was a chief in Elmina who traded slaves. We drove past the ancestral home that dates back hundreds of years, and where family members still reside. His 101 year old grandmother lived there until she passed recently.

Good and evil are two sides of the same coin and not necessarily exclusive to each other. Redemption offers the opportunity to liberate our spirit and redefine our journey. Contradiction is inherent in all our stories, histories, and attempt to make sense of that which seems unforgivable including slavery, the Holocaust, ethnic cleansing, massacres, and mass starvation. Walking through Cape Coast and Elmina slave castles pushes the bounds of human understanding. The strategy of the built environment is evident in the location of the Anglican chapel above the male slave dungeon, or the Governors quarters above the female slave dungeon. Looking out through the door of no return, the Atlantic Ocean is a mirror to the American present as well as past. The image of my son standing in deep thought before that gateway is one I will never forget.

When we were in Tema a few days ago with a group of students Frank reminded me we were close to an old slave fort he had visited with a mutual friend. Two students of African descent chose to go with us to see it. The fort is in a state of severe decay; however, the structure still reveals details of its past function including dungeons and the quarters of the captors. This historical site is of a much smaller scale compared to the roots tourist destinations of Elmina and Cape Coast. If you were not informed in advance of its historical significance, the fort is all but indistinguishable from other structures that line the shore this coastal village. A family lives in the lower portion, there is a hole in the floor upstairs, and part of the roof is exposed. Nonetheless, walking through the ruin ghosts of the past can be felt, calling to memory against the sound of the mighty Atlantic surf. In a faint whisper voices seem to be saying don’t forget us, we mattered, we were once here.

Emerging from the fort life is everywhere, boats bobbing on the sea, people gathered along the beach eating, visiting, and children running about playing. Long after captured Africans were sent along the coast to Cape Coast and Elmina, generations lived through colonial rule, independence, the election of governments, and the building of lives and families. We pick up where others leave off, the stories of those before us leading the way. An old slave fort is someone’s residence and a place to gather on a Sunday afternoon, yet it remains a site of memory that no amount of neglect can deny. While the contradiction is confounding, it is also an opening to explore the complex mystery of humanity. Our willingness to comply with evil or act in defiance on behalf of righteousness is more than a polar extreme. We move through life acquiring layers of vision by a willingness to tell our stories and listen to the stories of others. Ultimately, that is the great equalizer.

I first came to Ghana to help my son connect with his African ancestry as a means to fortify his life as a black male in the United States. I hoped he would fill in the missing pieces of his story as an individual and part of a collective. What began as a mother’s attempt to provide for her child has evolved to a larger narrative, one that encompasses a tapestry of stories, placeholders of memory, the wonder of the human condition, and the part of the equation only explained by magic. Here in Ghana the unfolding continues with more to come.

Desperado

Last July I began a journey that would alter the course of my life and those closest to me. After 34 years of residence in the San Francisco Bay Area, I moved to Austin with my two Golden Retrievers (Pepsi and Pearl) to begin a PhD program at University of Texas. Driving away from my home of 20 years, terror struck my heart when I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw my kids waving to me in the middle of the street. A flood of memories descended on me, gripping my heart, reminding me of the gravity of this leap of faith at 52 years of age. There was; however, no turning back. I wiped the tears and kept driving. Two days and 30 hours of driving later I pulled up to Cloverleaf Drive, about to find out what it means for a middle age mother to journey to a new life.

Breakthroughs in my life are typically preceded by desperation. Change or die. Going to Greece when my kids were 6 and 10, riding on a motorcycle from New Mexico to California a year later, traveling abroad alone, and driving to Texas with a vision to create an art installation on an overgrown lot were all acts of desperation. One of my friends described my trek to Austin as a “gutsy move”; however, for me it would have required far more not to go. That being said, I was still terrified about entering a PhD program after a 25-year lapse since being a graduate student.

The academic year was intense, challenging, dreadful, stimulating, and in the end, a triumph. My life consisted primarily of my studies. Without Pepsi and Pearl I might have gone crazy. They greeted upon my return and turned their attention to me when I felt myself slipping into the PhD abyss. There were the low points of crying myself to sleep and in the shower before my statistics mid term, the trauma of my second theory paper when I had no one to proof it for me and ran out of time, and feeling as if I could not do anything right in my methods classes. On the other hand, I met a friend for life, the other senior member of my cohort, Diane, and experienced the joy that occurs when you are learning, growing, and unifying your passions.

Solitude has been a necessary ingredient in my life. I travel solo, go to movies and dinner alone, and generally recharge in the quiet of my own company. It has long been my fantasy to move to a new house with only my doggies, a house with hardwood floors and character more suited to my personality. I had grown weary of people constantly coming and going, storing their belongings in my garage, and considering my space the epicenter of their lives. Other than a bed in the guestroom, my house in Austin was empty when I arrived. I shipped paintings and clothes, nothing else. My car was jammed packed with framed paintings, a rug, and personal papers. My intention was a fresh start, literally and figuratively. There would be no clutter in this house. I prided myself on buying only what I needed, feeling satisfied by the fact that the cabinets that lined my garage were practically empty. After my first overnight trip to Mart I anxiously walked into my house and felt a sensation that could only be described as “home”.

Although I relish and require solitude, this past year brought me to a new level of experiencing what it is like to be alone. Coupled with the intensity of school, living by myself felt like I had fallen off the face of the earth. Days would pass when I spoke to only my dogs, and had no social interaction until class on Tuesday. It is difficult to describe what it felt like in those moments. I felt lonely but had no real desire, or perhaps the energy, to call friends or family to chat. When I did speak on the phone I had little to contribute besides a litany of my due dates and my progress or lack thereof. I found little time to cultivate friendships, and truth be told, I lacked the energy for that as well. My night out was a movie alone, or a spontaneous trip to Book People to browse books I had no intention of reading until winter or summer break. My life had become one-dimensional. Sadly, the ability to hang out was a forgotten art.

I came to appreciate the visits of Gene, my kids, Tommy, and the few friends who made it to Austin. Being able to get up after hours on the computer to chat about anything other than schools was a treat. When Rena surprised my on Mother’s Day I was ecstatic. While studying for my statistics final in my office, I heard her empty the dishwasher without my asking, bringing tears to her mother’s eyes. Gene would take Pepsi and Pearl for long walks, tidy the house, and surprise me with a lemon meringue cupcake from Quacks. Tommy raked bags of leaves and cooked for me. Jonathan made BBQ and managed to put his arm around me at just the right time. Karen helped landscape my front and backyard, created a vegetable garden, and Pamm took me shopping and had me in stitches with her humor. Those interludes of companionship broke the density of my solitude and school driven life.

The transition from life in the real world to PhD student is akin to learning a new language and culture. Being self-made, I had to learn when to conform and when to hold my ground. I had the opportunity to do both, relying on wisdom and years of experience to guide me. I did not come to the program to loose myself or be remade in someone else’s image; on the contrary, my intention was to realize my potential and passion. In my qualitative research method class, Dr. Bell gave me the support and leeway to develop a method of visual analysis using collage portraits created from interviews I conducted in Mart. In Dr. Gilbert I found a mentor and colleague, developing a course with Mart as the designated site for service learning projects. I was guided with patience into my first semester methods class by Dr. von Sternberg who seemed more pleased with my mid term grade than I was. I found refuge in the art department with Dr. Adejumo, and in the history department with my dear friend Dr. Walker.

It was my advisor, Dr. Schwab, whose door was always open and provided a safe place for me to vent, cry, and receive sage advice when things got sticky. As my statistics professor he watched me transform from a fear stricken student to one who challenged a question on the final exam about the difference between binary and multinomial logistic regression. With his dry humor, he leaned back in his chair and wistfully joked about turning the clock back to the old Paula who never thought she would ever be able to master statistics. She has been replaced I insisted, and as we both laughed, I wasn’t sure which one of us was prouder.

I write these words from Ghana, where I am a teaching assistant for a Maymester course of 22 students from University of Texas. Inadvertently Ghana played a large part in my decision to return to school. When Jonathan and I visited Ghana three years ago I was exposed to the possibility of teaching and research as a vehicle to pursue my passion for art and social justice. I met people doing exciting projects in Ghana, Senegal, and the U.S. who felt my work was valuable, and encouraged me to apply to school and continue to develop my art projects. My Ghana series articulated a story I felt attached to through my children and launched me toward new partnerships in Senegal and provided the inspiration for the work in Mart that has taken on a life of its own. We recently received a grant for $20,000 for a community art program, community garden, and digital media project. And this is in addition to our black history and oral history teacher training projects funded by Humanities Texas. The lesson affirmed is not to ignore the visionary that resides in all of us - nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Being a desperado has its upside.
In my particular journey desperation is my partner in crime, causing me to venture to places easily avoided when comfort has a hold on my soul. I was driven to explore visual analysis by frustration with traditional narrative coding of the interviews I conducted. The despair and doubt I felt was rewarded with the rapture that accompanies creating art. No matter how many times I experience a break though preceded by what feels like a fatal desperation where I am cornered with no where to escape, I am compelled to learn the same lesson over and over again. When things felt most grim, Dr. Bell insisted I “trust my process”. What process I wondered? How quickly we forget. I had to remind myself that same process guided me through 28 years of parenting, creating artwork, building friendships in all corners of the world, and making leaps of faith inspired by my doubters as much as my supporters. With one year down, this middle age mother’s journey to a new life adds to the mounting evidence that even a desperado is capable of the respectable, otherwise known as the future Dr. Gerstenblatt. Just try and stop me.

The Death of Me

I attended the funeral of my friend Diane's mother last week. Myra McDaniel was a larger than life figure, and much to my dismay, I only met her once. As a new arrival to Austin, Thanksgiving away from my family was not a joyous prospect. With assignment deadlines looming I decided to spend the day studying, taking comfort in the the amount of work I would complete. Diane, my new friend and cohort buddy, invited me to her parent's house for dinner. When the newness of Austin and my PhD program provoked despair and panic, Diane was my anchor. As older students and artists, we reached common ground rather quickly, becoming fast friends and allies. Diane's mother and mine began chemo and radiation around the same time . While my mother is cancer free thus far, Myra was not as fortunate.

I did not know Myra well enough to pay her a deserving tribute. That was articulated by the overflowing crowd at her funeral, and words of love and admiration spoken by those intimate with her and her accomplishments. Myra's legendary life is well know in Austin, and Texas, as the first black Secretary of State, prominent lawyer, and recipient of many honors and awards. I was not acquainted with Myra though her public persona, rather, though the heart of her daughter and grandchildren. She welcomed me into her fold for Thanksgiving as if I had a been a part of the family for years, cushioning the blow of being alone on a day traditionally spent with loved ones.

Dreams of loss followed the news of Myra's death. I awoke in a panic one morning, baffled by a dream about my daughter Rena. She was a toddler in the dream, and the second Rena of two children I had given birth to, the first one having died. It was as many dreams are, shrouded in symbolism that reveals itself in connection to seemingly unconnected events and conversations. Later that day, I spoke with my mother and the mystery of my dream was solved. In a discussion about a friend of hers, she expressed the opinion that the source of her friend's discontent was a lack of appreciation of her life. My mother spoke of her gratitude for her relationship with her grandchildren and children, her friends, a lovely apartment by the sea, and joy in her jewelry making. She refuses to succumb to despair or guilt about the fate of her marriage or my father's passing. Their stormy life together was no secret, and from my perspective her peace is well deserved; however, my fall from grace with my father is a tragic story of its own.

The part of the conversation that gripped my heart was not about my father, we have been over that road before. It was the mention of my sister, Sissy as she was called, that pierced my heart. Faith Rena Gerstenblatt died before her fourth birthday, leaving her mother, father, big brother and little sister behind. We were stair step kids, a year apart. My memory begins after her death, a Rolodex of crisp and clear recollections. Throughout childhood, I constructed a fantasy life that would have come to be had she lived. No feeling on my own, my sister would have been a friend and ardent defender to show me the ropes. The gaping hole left behind is not always visible. I see it in Diane's face; however, in my family we did our best to turn away from the grief. That's how it was in those days, no grief groups or talk of the five stages of grief to explain our fumbling in the dark, desperately seeking light. Some holes are too big to fill as a part of us continues to be swallowed up.

My mother reluctantly spoke of her guilt about my sister after I probed. We rarely speak of her, either in fond recollection or of our loss. Perhaps our prolonged sadness smolders any embers of joy. My mother described the time Sissy emptied her makeup and the guilt she still feels about spanking her. Trailing into tears, she spoke of her nagging doubt that perhaps she could have done more to prevent her death. Sadly, had Sissy born in today's era of miracle medicine, her heart defect would not have been lethal. That is not the fault of my mother or father, just timing. Little good that does to ease the ache of surviving your child.

The image of my mother and sister remained fixed in my mind hours after our conversation. As Gene and I pulled into the parking lot of the pet store I began to sob uncontrollably. Terrified and concerned by my sudden outburst, he asked me repeatedly what was wrong. I could barely utter words through my tears. My mother I told him, the thought of her carrying this enormous burden of loss and pain in combination with guilt over a response many mothers have experienced with their child. As a parent, I get the guilt all too well with stories far worse; however, I simply cannot get my arms around that kind of loss. My dream was clear, the Rena before my daughter was my sister. The disguise of the characters was lifted. We named Rena after Sissy, and the figure I identified as Tommy, Rena's father, wore a suit that was unmistakeably my father's. I screamed in the dream, warning him I could not bear to loose this Rena as we had lost the Rena before her. In an attempt to replace and recapture we create namesakes, convincing ourselves we are bestowing honor upon the memory of a loved one. Perhaps this ritual is a combination of both; however, our intentions have double meaning. In my dream the two Renas became intertwined, and my loss renewed.

I often cautioned my kids before they went out with their friends to be careful. Shrugging off my pleas, they humored me with assurances - and seemed irritated by my worry. No really I tell them, if you don't want me to be a bag lady walking around Union Square in San Francisco mumbling to myself because grief tipped me over the edge into insanity, you will take extra precautions to arrive home safe and sound. They became less cavalier as friends died in drive by shootings, car accidents, and cancer. My friend Phil's son Gabe died of cancer in his twenties and I continue to marvel at his capacity to feel joy. Gabe and Phil were a team for years, the single dad and his toddler son with the raspy voice and big eyes. His grandchildren light up his life these days, and it would not surprise me to see him walking hand in hand with them as he once did with Gabe.

Life has the power to endow and rob us at the same time. We are left reeling and astounded, perplexed and certain, confounded by the mystery of it all. Our lives are punctuated by love and loss, redemption and transformation, faith and doubt. Dissonance is abundant, yet somehow we reconcile ourselves to put one foot in front of the other. Move your feet and your heart will follow. That is the hope anyway. And for those whose pain is too much to shoulder, we bear a responsibility to lighten their load. To my mother I say this: you loved your daughter beyond measure, and she felt it every time you rode in the ambulance with her, sat by her hospital bed, held her steady at the Narragansett shore as she squealed in delight while waves tickled her feet.

A few months ago I told my mother I wanted to be buried beside my sister in Rhode Island, across the country from where my children live. She was taken aback. In my mind's eye I see Sissy's small gravestone, and although my grandparents are buried nearby, I feel her alone. Despite her illness, she was known for a tough character, fearlessness, and protecting my brother and I instead of the reverse. When my passing comes to be, those who loved me will have had ample time in my presence. It will be Sissy's and my turn to be together, two sisters who never had the opportunity to compete or get on each others nerves, share secrets or inside jokes, and have each other's back as only sisters do. Some holes can only be filled in another dimension. In the meantime, life awaits us everyday, offering yet another chance at grace. Let's try not to squander it.

Sliding into Home

Six months after moving to Austin from the Bay Area, I mustered the will to make the trek home. I use the term home loosely since I am confused about its application to my life. I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area since 1975, moving from Southern California after one unremarkable year immersed in beach culture to attend San Francisco Art Institute. Northern California quickly became home, my childhood and teen years spent in New England faded against the breathtaking backdrop of San Francisco. Although I frequently roamed the globe, each time the plane circled over the Golden Gate prior to landing, I felt fortunate to claim the Bay Area my home base.

Home transcends geography or a physical location, it is an emotional destination. Home is a vessel of memory, a way to trace the contours of our lives. In my youth, we moved frequently, our wandering a hallmark of my father's discontent. The early years of my marriage replicated the 3 year residency cycle until we bought the house in Pinole, the home my kids grew up in and still call home 20 years later. I reluctantly moved to the suburbs after 13 years in Oakland. My preference was Seattle, then a still undiscovered real estate market; however, my husband's job security and rock solid pension determined we remain Bay Area residents. I was depressed when we bought the Pinole house, retreating in defeat after my cousin's death and my best friend moving to Seattle with her family. The place I introduced her to became her home, and the large house in Green Lake with the hardwood floors and old world detail I yearned for was hers, while my fate was a tract house with a postage stamp yard.

I lost and regained my life in the Pinole house. After my divorce, I vowed to sell it as soon as Rena graduated high school. Jonathan and I would return to Oakland or Berkeley when Rena unpacked her first trunk in her collage dorm room. The universe had something different in store for me; however, and I remained in Pinole, eventually making the house my home. A five minute proximity to a trail along the San Pablo Bay was my salvation. Fields of green in spring and mustard yellow in summer, tidal shifts resulting in a sea of glass or choppy waves, the morning sun blazing and bright, and the muted late afternoon tones inspired paintings and poetry while soothing my heart. I jogged along the bay trail for years, and prior to its paving, I ran through a worn path of wildflowers, greeted every morning by a red tail fox who locked eyes with me before scurrying into a cluster of woods. Jonathan rode his bike beside me as I walked,us listening to Maria Callas sing opera though shared earphones as the sun gradually fell behind Mt. Tamapias. When Pepsi was a puppy, her first taste of swimming was in the bay, establishing her love for water. I met a group of dog walkers, and we formed a pack of dog and people friends. One of the pack was Cecelia and her Golden Retriever Maddy, and the four of us became fast friends. Pepsi and Maddy had an uncanny relationship, a unique bond between two dogs. When Maddy died unexpectedly, the grief swallowed us up, though perhaps it was Pepsi who had suffered the most profound loss, her Maddy girl no longer romping with her or sitting next to her in the backseat en route to Pt. Isabelle for Sunday morning swims. The bay trail is a kaleidoscope of magical moments and memories embossed in my heart.

I came to love the Pinole house and the safe harbor it provided my family. I mortgaged it to pay for college and get us through many hard times. It was remodeled to reflect my persona after years of wear and tear, and just when it seemed complete, Pepsi and Pearl came along to chew pieces of baseboards, sheet rock and carpet. The garden I lovingly tended was dug up. The next iteration of the house on Dohrmann Lane was underway with puppy love. I was tempted to sell when Bay Area home prices soared, looking at condos and duplexes in Oakland, fantasizing about empty nesting. Pepsi put an end to that plan when I set on eyes her as a five week old ball of fur. I was a mom again, my house overflowing with commotion and chaos. Life has a way of switching gears without warning, and when the deed is done there is nothing more right, the previous plan fading to the distance without a regret. Pepsi brought joy and light to my life, and in the aftermath of Maddy's death, Pearl cushioned our grief.

I was ready for a change, and when applying to PhD programs, Berkeley was not a consideration. There seemed no way to focus and match the rigor of doctoral study in Pinole with the distraction of my family in such close proximity. Out of sight is not necessarily out of mind; however, it prevents me from inserting myself when backing off is best for everyone. I fell in love with Austin on my first visit, feeling this city could be home. I found a wonderful mid century house with hardwood floors and a large yard for the doggies. The neighborhood was established, within biking and walking distance of cafes, bars and shopping, and better yet, three miles from campus. This was the life I had longed for, and although I would miss the bay trail, Red Bud Island and Barton Springs compensated the loss. When asked if I missed the Bay Area, I answered in the negative with true conviction. Austin offered me all I needed, and with the demands of a doctoral program, I have yet to take advantage of Austin's attributes.

Six months passed quickly. When the semester ended, I was exhausted, satisfied to stay tucked away in my house watching HGTV in my pajamas until noon. The thought of getting on a plane to the Bay Area was not tugging at my heartstrings. People asked if I intended to go home, yet home had shifted to Austin, the place I lived with my dogs and welcomed my family on their visits. The house in Pinole was out of my hands, it was Tommy and Jonathan's home and no longer reflected my presence. Returning meant helping get the house together, cleaning the garage and making people feel slighted no matter how hard I tried to allocate my visits equitably. Filling my days in Austin reading novels, watching stupid TV shows, sleeping late and going to the gym at 1pm was blissful in comparison to going to the Bay Area and working harder then I have since I put my Austin house together on my own. I delayed a decision as long as I could, or until my reoccurring knee pain became so severe I could no longer avoid an MRI. The logical choice for continuity of care and expediting an MRI request meant returning to the Bay Area. I had postponed the inevitable long enough, it was time to go home, or at the very least, to the house that was home for 20 years of my life.

It was as I expected. I spent the better part of five days cleaning, arranging, and putting things in good order. The cloud looming overhead disappeared, making way for future visits without a work agenda. I did what I came to do, wrapped up unfinished business and felt the better for it. The realization that I drove away from a 20 year life on a July morning, my last glimpse of my family waving goodbye from my rear view mirror established a permanent place in my chronological past. There was a familiarity in simple gestures such as raising the blinds each morning, wiping the kitchen counters, folding clothes on the floor outside the laundry room. Fleeting glimpses of past days flooded my heart and mind. Cracks and crevices filled to the brim with memories. I saw my former self, the mother of young children making misstep after misstep. My son pounding a pillow in tears when we informed him of our impending divorce, my kids sitting side by side on the couch being lectured by their father after he rushed over to avert a crisis, letting them know in no uncertain terms that if something happened to him, and given the life expectancy of black males it could be sooner rather then later, I was their best shot and they better not forget it. Those moments have a way of making my heart stand still and blanket me with sadness.

There were many happy recollections as well. The days we stayed home from school and work to make art, laying in bed together at night reading Run Away Bunny, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Angela's Ashes. My kids were allowed to draw on the walls,we turned up the music and told ghost stories in front of the fireplace on winter nights. The steady stream of my kid's friends spending nights. I remembered those who passed; our Golden retriever Molly, Kelly's weekend visits filled with rambunctious episodes to say the least, and my father's bittersweet presence. The screaming fights, tears, laughter, and good times are all part of what constitutes home.

My house in Austin is unblemished compared to the Pinole house. My desire to start from scratch with only my paintings and a rug was intentional. There was no space for crowds of memories, boxes spilling over in the garage, or the constant coming and going of footsteps through my house. I needed a clean slate to begin this next chapter and brace myself for the challenge of returning to school after a 23 year absence. I had no way to predict the waves of of loneliness that would wash over me when things were toughest. I would have paid any sum of money for someone to hold me close and assure me I would make it through the semester. In the middle of a city, a neighborhood, and a doctoral program, I felt as isolated as if I were on the North Pole. If not for Pepsi and Pearl, and Diane, my friend and other senior member of the cohort, I might not have made it.

For some unknown reason, I have always felt my kids and I would be okay. I have no rational basis for this belief; however, it has sustained me during many trials and tribulations, and to this day it seems for the most to be well founded. When my life resembled a daily cliff walk, I had a context for the notion that this too would pass. After all, no matter how bad things got, we always had safe shelter with nature just minutes away from our doorstep. The house represents our lives, slightly worn and frayed at the edges, though ready to stand the test of time with a bit of polish now and then. It serves a reminder of things we would rather forget and of memories we cherish most dearly. When we are lost, it reclaims us as more than a place, rather, an emotional touchstone, filling holes in our collective memory. It will always be home, the place where the Davis family was one, came of age, and branched out.

On my way to the San Francisco airport I tried to sort some concluding thoughts on the concept of home. Driving away from the house I felt neither visitor or resident. Home is pieces of us scattered across the universe. We can be found in the brief and long lasting encounters that take place over a lifetime, in a gust of wind blowing across the desert to the sea, in a silhouette that frames a windowsill, in the utterances of our children, the twinkle of an eye, and a fading sun setting against a beloved bay trail. We are everywhere we spread our love and contagious joy, where we demonstrate humanity and compassion, and redeem ourselves over and over as we grapple with life's lessons. In the end it comes down to just that, and four walls of any size and scope are not capable of containing our souls.

Crossing through the threshold of my Austin house I was greeted by Pepsi and Pearl. I missed them and the life we constructed in Austin. A new semester is days away, promising a most certain set of challenges. I have no doubt swells of loneliness are ready to pounce at the first sighting of trouble. Lucky for me, I have become adept at recognizing that storms eventually pass, and take solace in the quiet rather than be terrified by it. I lean on memories packed tight in a tract house filled with boxes of photos, children's drawings, stuffed animals, and other remnants of a family that continues to compile, collect and fulfill its promise. The ability to store the overload is what frees me to create new spaces, allowing me to slide into home base safely.