Enjoying my morning ritual of reading the New York Times while drinking coffee and eating breakfast, I was taken by an article about the Greek Coast Guard turning back the American boat, Audacity of Hope, and seven other boats setting sail from Greece for Gaza to challenge the Israeli blockade. I could not help but snicker as I wondered how the Greek government could spare the Greek Coast guard in the midst of economic and social upheaval. There were suspicious reports of identical damage on two of the boats with the expected round of accusations, allegations and denials from all sides. I found myself irritated as I read the statements of the activists, many traveling from the United States, Norway, Ireland, Sweden, Canada, Spain and the Netherlands to make the symbolic journey to Gaza, and equally annoyed by the official comments of the Israeli government. At this stage of my life, the grand gestures of outsiders pale in comparison to the daily resistance, courage and struggle required by those who live and remain in the vortex of conflict long after foreign activists return to the comfort of their homes.
Earlier this week a friend sent me an article from the Guardian by Alice Walker explaining her reasons for joining the freedom flotilla carrying letters of support. Walker’s premise was touching, paying tribute Jewish civil rights workers who faced danger, and for an unfortunate few, death to join black people in protests and voter registration drives in the Deep South. She also recounted a story told by her former husband who was harassed and taunted by a gang of boys who took his yarmulke and threw it over the fence. Two black boys came to his rescue, punked out the bullies and made them dust off the yarmulke before placing it back on is head. A more extensive reading on Walker’s blog provides an accounting of her experiences traveling through the occupied territory and Israel. None of it surprised me; I have seen the massive wall, experienced a palpable tension when entering the West Bank and felt myself in the crossfire of a very personal moral and political conflict. I keep up with what seems to be to be a litany of loosing propositions including on and off again peace talks, the continued building of settlements and terrorist attacks on both sides that include the enemy within.
I am not an idealist when it comes to the Middle East, or anywhere else for that matter. There is a level of complexity and historical context that most folks would rather not delve into, and perhaps worse, have no knowledge of. Count me out of the discourse if it omits the remapping of the Middle East masterminded primarily by the British and the French with the Sikes-Picot Agreement in 1917 after the demise of the Ottoman Empire and conclusion of World War I, the carving out of nations that in some cases resembled a “Let’s Make a Deal” for oil and in others a careless line drawn across a play map with the strategic placement of dictators who are only now being deposed. If outrage is restricted to the plight of Palestinians when Israel was established with no mention of the over 800,000 Jews who were driven from the Arab nations they called home for centuries with only the clothes on their backs then I got nothing to say.
I called my friend Kansi on Skype who sent me the Alice Walker article. I needed a face-to-face discussion. Allow for silence. Stare at each other if need be. We are from different parts of the world – he from Senegal and me from America, he is Muslim and I am Jewish. However, we are both artists that share a passion for community art practice. We worked together in Senegal and now he is an Artist in Residence in Mart, Texas where I initiated an arts and humanities project that was in large part inspired by our work together in rural Senegal. There were instances when our beliefs and personalities collided with such intensity we both might have thought about walking away from each other for good. We didn’t though, and I can say with certainty we are better for having held on. Our mutual respect has created a foundation for authentic exchange without fear of reprisal or rejection, with no need for uniform agreement that offers us the opportunity to understand the world from a different perspective.
I told Kansi about the article in the NY Times article and the irritation it provoked towards the saviors from afar, the do-gooders who seem to latch on to causes in remote locations when their house is in need of cleaning. The night before I saw a docudrama about Darfur. During years of mass murder, rape and pillage I didn’t see anyone (including Alice Walker) tripping over themselves to cross the Janaweed to deliver letters. Even with a signed agreement, Sudan continues to be ravaged by murder while just this week China welcomed President Omar el-Bashir, the brute force leading the rein of terror on the African Sudanese and firmly in control of the oil supply. And Sudan is but one example in the African continent where bloodshed and political turmoil have oppressed and suppressed people while dictators treat resources and capital like their personal bank accounts. It seems that black African lives are cheap and expendable compared to the billions spent on so called nation building in Iraq and quelling Al Qaeda in Afghanistan. However, after the fact when genocide subsides, resources pillaged, and mass starvation arrives at a temporary conclusion, we act blindsided and offer feeble apologies. What exactly does “Never Again” mean?
Americans and Europeans do not have to travel to Gaza to battle injustice with so much at play in their own countries. America stands at a crossroads, on the verge of being hurled 40 years backward on hard fought gains such as abortion rights, affirmative action, collective bargaining and worker’s rights, and loss of basic services during a time of record unemployment while the wealthy and corporations pay little or no taxes. We could have used a freedom flotilla when state workers in Wisconsin were protesting the loss of collective bargaining and the Democratic members of the legislature were in hiding across state lines. If President Obama, Democratic leadership in Congress, and progressives don’t pull out all the stops and show some backbone, this will be a nation of the fortunate few in ways we have not seen since robber barons had free rein and the Great Depression gutted the lives of a majority of Americans.
These problems are not America’s alone; we live in an intricately interconnected global economy. The Europeans are eating humble pie after years of criticizing us on racism and the right leaning government polices of Regan, Bush I and Bush II. I even took heat for Clinton’s Bosnia policy when I was in Greece as if I was part of his Cabinet. We are ridiculed for being the only Western industrialized nation that refuses to offer universal health care for all our citizens - and rightly so. Things have changed; however, my European friends whose countries shall remain nameless lament they do not recognize their country anymore as a tide of xenophobia and extremism inches further and further to the right. I would wager a small bet that if the anti immigration folks could, they would build a wall taller and longer than the one in Israel to keep those seeking entry out.
Having spent enough time in Europe, with Europeans in West Africa, and as a resident of a country still grappling with a post-colonial country legacy, Kansi knew all too well the mentality I was referring to. The “immigration problem” has the chickens coming home to roost in Western European countries. Their wealth was built on the backs of free and cheap labor as it was in America; the difference being the slave trade they participated in was not evident in plantations and slaves on their soil. The game has switched up though, as people from their former colonies and beyond flow into their borders legally and illegally, seeking a reprieve from the poverty and political oppression they helped create. Karma is a bitch.
Kansi said he understood my irritation, and while he was sympathetic, he also recognized the need to take action against injustice. Life would be so much simpler if the line of demarcation between good guys and villains, right and wrong, and truth and fiction were indisputable. I am in favor of a two state solution in Israel; however, I am not drawing up terms for a peace agreement in a paragraph. The situation is far too complex. And besides, other than express my opinion as a Jew emotionally attached to the survival of Israel who am I to say? My children did not serve in the Israeli military nor does my son get called up every year to ensure the existence of a Jewish state for us to run to in the event Never Again becomes Here We Go Again.
Part of the irritation I felt while reading the Times article had to do with the a sense of entitlement and privilege I have observed with the fixers and rescuers who are often white people with little to loose in the countries they impose themselves on. If we have learned anything from the Arab Spring, it is the power of self-determination with minimal interference. My vested interest in Israel rests on the premise that I have never ruled out a possible reversal of fortune for Jews in America or anywhere else in the Diaspora. My daughter Rena called me today to tell me she was going to synagogue. She shares my political stance for the most part, and though she is critical of Israeli government policy, Israel is the place she feels most comfortable as a black Jew, not the United States of America where she was born and holds citizenship.
In the end Kansi and I concluded that salvaging our humanity is our most important and courageous act, regardless of divergent perspectives or conflict. Walls have been erected and torn down, borders drawn and replaced by new ones. Ultimately we are compelled to extend our reach beyond the confines of predisposed destinies to offer our children and ourselves a more humane and productive existence. I was in Jerusalem in 1977 when Anwar Sadat spoke before the Israeli Knesset. We danced in the streets full of jubilance and hope, witness to what was never thought possible. Flotillas have set sail in every direction, past and present, and they continue to cross the oceans with stories to tell and lessons for us to learn. As the mother of children whose ancestors traveled across the Atlantic from West Africa in slave ships and from Eastern Europe escaping pogroms and oppression on boats packed full with immigrants, I have to sail through my own mental blockade and hold out the possibility that lightening can strike twice. And when it does, I hope it will be Rena in Jerusalem this time, the home of her Jewish soul, witnessing what no one thought possible.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
California Revisited: Tangled Up In The Ties that Bind
I touched down at San Francisco International Airport at 8am, missing my Austin life before I exited the plane. A year had come and gone since my last visit to the Bay Area, a brief stopover before departing for 5 weeks in Ghana. Home for me now is Austin where I live with my two Golden Retrievers in a Windsor Park rancher built in the 1950s with hardwood floors, a studio for me and a large yard for Pepsi and Pearl. I left the Bay Area for Austin to pursue a PhD at 52 years old, leaving behind the home where I raised my kids and lived since 1989. My friend Jerri called it a “gutsy move”; however, my life was going in circles and I considered the move to Texas a last chance to switch up the game before I became too old and tired.
On a July morning in 2009 I drove away with my dogs, paintings stacked in the back seat, and a small suitcase. I shipped clothes, framed paintings, and a few books – perhaps seven boxes total. In retrospect I think I was terrified; however, I was on autopilot having put all my eggs in this PhD basket. I liquidated my fairly insignificant retirement accounts for a down payment and money to set up the new house. In my mind’s eye I can still see my kids and their dad in the rear view mirror, waving to me as I drove off. Tears streamed down my face, though if pressed I could not describe or comprehend the enormity of what it meant to leave the familiar for uncharted waters at the ripe age of 52, a leap of faith that felt more like an ultimatum – change or die.
Other than the clothes and framed paintings shipped to Austin, I left the house in Pinole as if I were going away for a long weekend. In a game of musical houses, Tommy moved in and took over the mortgage, Jonathan stilled lived there then, and Gene moved into Tommy’s condo. Rena was in Berkeley headed to Washington D.C. in a matter of months. I arrived in Austin to an empty house and spent the better part of two weeks chasing down Craigslist ads and shopping for new when my attempts to buy used were exhausted. When school began in late August I had made a home well suited for my doggies and myself. There would be no dropping off of “stuff” to clutter the garage after I just cleaned it, closets overflowing with papers, journals, VHS tapes, clothes not worn in decades, old computers, and an accumulation of art work including large paintings on rolls of paper 30 feet long. Austin was my clean slate, a chance to do it my way without accommodating the needs and possessions of others. The daunting task of a PhD program entitled me to a quiet, clean space that would restrict entry to a chosen few.
Two years later my coursework is completed, leaving a comprehensive paper and dissertation to be written to put those three letters behind my name. The Mart Community Project I began three years ago has received six grant awards, including a National Endowment of the Arts awarded Mart a grant for a Rural Citizens Design Workshop, one of three in the nation that will be facilitated by leading folks in design and architecture. Twenty University of Texas undergraduate and graduate students worked on projects in Mart as part of a course I co-taught over two semesters. The summer program is off and running with artists and UT graduate students in residence. Despite being exhausted and a bit distorted from the intensity of the doctoral program, I am grateful to be executing visionary work that represents my long held passion for art and social justice. In my less modest moments I allow myself to feel enormous pride at what I have accomplished in a relatively short period of time, particularly when students, faculty and staff at the university, and those on a national level at numerous conferences and presentations respectfully acknowledge the innovative work underway in Mart. I sometimes pinch myself when I think of how the growing momentum in Mart began with an art installation on an overgrown lot where the Davis family home once stood. We must never underestimate the magic generated from following a vision.
The velocity of my life in Austin did not allow for holidays other than work related trips. I presented papers in New Orleans, Atlanta, Seattle, and recently in Paris where I extended my stay for 10 days. Rena joined me for five days along with Yvonne and her girls, and after they left I returned to my artist self that wandered the streets of Paris in happy solitude on frequent visits. I was fortunate to have my best Austin friend Diane present with me on the panel, and when I felt like breaking the quiet I spent time with her and her husband Mike. The unseasonably warm temperatures and beauty of Paris seduced me once again, rekindling a desire to live there, if only for the privilege of walking the streets, and sitting at cafes watching other people’s lives while pondering the mystery of my own.
Going back to the Bay Area was carefully avoided for several reasons including the pressure of running around trying to see too many people in too short a time, cleaning the house to my standards, and the inevitable and confusing collision between my old and new life. In Austin I experienced intermittent longings to dive into the Pacific at Muir Beach, visit the folks at China Camp, and spend time with my friends; however, every time I considered a trip back, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the energy drain before I could pack a bag. I excused my absence with mounting assignments, teaching, and unending Mart Project work. My PhD pass offered me latitude I had never been entitled to before, and I did not hesitate to use it as a reason to stay put in Austin, excuse myself from phone calls, and refuse company.
In November of 2008 I tore my meniscus running at Point Isabel with my dogs, ending a 30-year running career. It was decided in March 2010 I needed arthroscopic surgery; however, I delayed the surgery for over a year. I was busy, and then it seemed to get better, besides, taking two weeks out of my schedule would undoubtedly set me back on my plan to graduate in record time. I was forced to reconsider when I was unable to travel on foot in Paris and walk my typical hours on end. Rena and I took advantage of a Paris bike rental program, and after she left I continued to bike around the city, covering ground without the subsequent pain.
When I returned to the States I called my surgeon in California and scheduled surgery for the first available date. I pieced together a plan for dog sitting; Tommy was on duty the first week, then Lauren and Diane the remaining time. I packed a hefty bag of books with the intention of working everyday after the surgery. Reluctantly, I left my beloved Peps and Pearl and boarded a 6am flight to California. Whereas once the breathtaking descent into San Francisco would make my heart skip a beat, I felt nothing but irritation as the landing gear dropped for arrival. When I turned on my cell phone I was greeted by text messages from my kids welcoming me home. I texted back “This is not my home”.
I arrived in San Francisco at 8am and caught BART to avoid the predictable gridlock traversing the Bay Bridge in both directions. On the train I finished reading the biography of President Obama’s mother, A Singular Woman, my eyes filling with tears as I read about her sometimes strained relationship with her son and the last days of her loosing battle with cancer. If I hadn’t been on a BART train I would have sobbed uncontrollably, though uncertain of the cause for my tears. Was it that she and I were both white mothers of black males who needed their blackness in ways that may have eclipsed our significance? Or perhaps it was our marching to the beat of a different drummer, the perceived unreasonable expectation of greatness much to the dismay of our children when all they wanted was to be normal and to blend in.
During my two years in Austin I felt my son slipping away, gradually at first, and then into an abyss of silence for months at a time. There were moments I missed him so much it physically hurt. Although I was incredibly busy and overwhelmed with school, it was not the reason I kept my distance. I wondered if I had crowded him to the point where he was relieved to be rid of me, suffocated by my support and unflappable belief in his talent, potential and unique abilities. I was aware that what I considered encouragement could be interpreted as overbearing and burdensome regardless of my intentions. Whatever the reason for the growing distance between us, reading about Ann Dunham’s relationship with Barak Obama rendered a sorrow and anxiety about my relationship with my own son. We are given one chance to parent our children. What if my missteps had brought us to a point of no return?
Focusing on my studies and project work in Mart absorbed my energy and helped me avoid troubling questions of this sort. When I was not studying or writing, I could be found at home with the doggies, occasionally going to a movie solo or with friends. The intensity of a PhD program has the potential to warp a person, and I was no exception. Until my trip to Paris in April I had forgotten what it was like to float in time under the guise of anonymity, an observer of life and the living without a preoccupation about school. It was blissful – napping in the Place De Vosges on a warm sunny afternoon, riding my bike through the Tuileries, shopping for pastels at the Sennelier art store, strolling along the St. Martin Canal with Rena, revisiting her old street, walking arm and arm with Yvonne in the city we became family, and reconnecting with myself as I retraced my Paris steps over the years.
When I returned to Austin the Paris spell was broken and the PhD spell recast. In a matter of days I was wound up like a clock trying to exit the semester in one piece. The thought of two weeks confined to my old house with my leg elevated staring at the ceiling or TV; dependent on others filled me with dread. As much as I tried to focus on the upside (seeing family, friends, getting work done) I remained unconvinced. I could not shake an ominous feeling that loomed large and constant.
I dropped my bags in the entry of the Pinole house at 10am, changed into sweats and a t-shirt, and began cleaning and organizing well into the evening. I was expected at the hospital at 2pm the following day; however, when Gene pulled up at 1:30 to pick me up I was on a ladder trimming vines. He cautioned me the universe was arranging for me to slow me down and I ought heed the warning. Rena once described me as a serial giver, though I would describe myself as over responsible. Rather than dwell on why I feel as if I affect every outcome, I try to temper the condition. Overextending myself emotionally, financially, and physically has worn me thin and forced me to start drawing lines. Although the Mart summer program began the week I departed, rescheduling my surgery was not an option. Uncharacteristically I took myself out of commission, expressed confidence in the staff, and delegated judgment calls to my colleague and partner in crime, Sean. A successful program is one that outlives the initiator. If the surgery had an unanticipated silver lining it was for me to let go, step back and let others execute their visions and passion.
Rena says I tend to minimize and this surgery was no exception. I was convinced I would bounce up the next day, put pressure on my foot, and basically become mobile right away. What was the big deal, arthroscopic surgery is not exactly a knee replacement? However, general anesthesia is serious business regardless of the surgery, and the side effects remain in your system for several days producing a fatigue, subtle nausea and distaste for most foods. I went under within minutes of being rolled into the operating room and awoke disorientated. Being the last scheduled surgery, I was the sole patient in recovery, and for reasons unknown, perhaps the morphine, I found myself weeping. In my semi-sedated state I knew I had underestimated the surgery, and the duration and severity of my recovery. I was stuck, and there would be no escape anytime soon, as far away from my life in Austin as I could get. I felt empty and out of place, with the ominous feeling that lingered for weeks beginning to reveal itself. What I had managed to avoid for two years was staring me smack in the face. Welcome home indeed.
The first days after surgery were a blur. I slept on and off, and when I was awake I tried to manage the pain and nausea while elevating my leg in bed or on the couch watching mindless television. Being dependent on other people for basic needs does not suite me though I was lucky to have Gene by my side. When I was alone in the house I went down the stairs on my bum with crutches in hand. A simple trip to the bathroom exhausted me. I never cracked open a book or wrote a sentence. Everywhere I turned the past haunted me. Memories were everywhere I turned. In the dinning room I saw Tommy wink across the table at me the first time we had friends over for dinner when the house was brand new. I remembered blushing and feeling like the luckiest person in the world surrounded by my family and good friends. That friendship soured in time, and I became a conflicted wife who was ready to spread my wings beyond a 12-year marriage choking on guilt and doubt, spending months frozen in fear for myself and my children.
The many versions of my former self soon became a gang of ghosts joining me in my recovery, an unrelenting reminder of 20 years of lived moments in a structure commonly known as home. In the aftermath of my divorce I sought to establish myself as both artist and mother, working day jobs for the chance to travel one month a year to paint and bring back the momentum for as long as possible before I took on a familiar look of resignation and surrender. I fought back as hard as I could, painting on paper, old doors and windows, writing poetry, and exhibiting whenever possible. I wrote most days, filling a box of spiral notebooks that remain in the hall closet. I opened the door one afternoon, gazed into the archives, considered pulling them out and quickly shut the door at the thought of diving head first into the intricate details of my daily existence during a time when I desperately sought the love and approval of men who would never be for me what I needed to be for myself, a narrative of constant yearnings to paint full time, and my angst as a mother trying to do the best for my kids and falling short more often than not. I still saw my 37-year-old self painting and writing along a 30ft. scroll of paper in the upstairs hallway, full of rapture and possibility with everything before me, all the things I know of now that hadn’t happened yet. If I had the energy to start a fire in the fireplace, I would have, with the journals the first to go.
Bumping into memories was not confined to my former selves. There were sightings of my father who always brought a complicated mixture of joy and turbulence during his visits, and who I never reconciled with before he died. My cousin Kelly was a regular with her son before she died, and if I listened carefully I could still hear her laughter reverberate. There were flashes of Rena and Jonathan as children playing with their friends, laying on the bed as I read to them, Davien huddled with us before a fire on a cold winter night as I told them ghost stories, painting together, watching movies, and making cookies. There were tea parties with Rena as we pretended to be strangers randomly meeting at a teashop when I asked her to be my daughter (she always accepted), and hours of looking through books with Jonathan about the rain forests and deserts as he told me everything there was to know about climate, animals, and geography. They never ceased to dazzle me with their talent and brilliance, my hopes and dreams for them growing daily. On mornings I could not bear to face the world, I announced a school and work free day for painting and playing at home. I tried to balance reality, responsibility, and freedom. As the mother of young children who seemingly adored me, I had no idea what lay ahead, that in adolescence and beyond it was possible to have my best attempts as a mother thrown up in my face. I would sit through hours of recrimination and accusations with tears streaming down my face, no defense offered, feeling as if I deserved to be lambasted. Tea parties and tirades, hugs and rebuffs, moments of joy and profound despair, all falling on top of me as I lay on the couch plotting my escape back to Austin by plane, train, or magic carpet if necessary.
I gradually regained my strength and was able to get around on crutches and drive. I met with friends, had my haircut, went to the movies, and ecstatically put my feet in the Pacific Ocean at Fort Cronkite. I spent an afternoon at China Camp chatting with the sole China Camp resident Frank Quan, his cousin Georgette who runs the snack bar, and old friend Tommy Dwyer. I passed by the picnic table where we celebrated Jonathan’s third birthday, walked on the beach where my kids and I spent most weekends over the course of several years swimming, eating on our blanket, and the kids running up a tab at the snack bar while I painted on large rolls of paper. Jonathan would spend hours on the rocks looking for creatures and if he ventured out too far when he swam Georgette would come out of the snack bar to call him in. Several times both my kids walked along the water and rocks to McNear’s Beach and I had no idea where they disappeared.
We were part of the fortunate few invited to attend pot-luck BBQs after park hours, Frank grilling while the extended China Camp family chatted as dusk colors created a backdrop of surreal beauty. I missed seeing Art listening to Giants games on his old transistor radio with the leather cover, eager to see Jonathan so they could discuss the team’s prospects for the season. Art, the child of immigrants from the Azores, worked and lived at McNear’s Brick Factory his whole life and grew up playing with Frank Quan at China Camp. He passed several years ago; however, each time I come to China Camp I expect to see him, grinning ear to ear as he says to Jonathan, “How about those Giants or 49ers?” Art once asked me to promise that I would help China Camp stays as it is and not fall prey to developers. China Camp was where I was reborn as an artist, where my kids experienced the kind of childhood I did on the shores of Narragansett, R.I., and where we are still welcomed with open arms no matter how long the absence. It was the first time I felt a reluctance to leave since arriving in California. If I could live at China Camp I might be tempted to stay.
I am certain it is easier and less confusing to move forward if you are not a repeat visitor in the home you once lived that is no longer yours. I am not referring to property title, the house remains in my name and since there are no plans to sell, it most likely will for years to come. The thought that this is not my home anymore ran across my brain like a ticker tape during my stay in California. The collision of past and present brought a forced reflection of my past that was not particularly welcome, and in many ways painful. My reality was grounded in Austin; however, I could not deny the hold the place had on me, even if to provoke irritation and sadness on a number of different levels. One morning I began to plow through drawers full of paintings, hoping to bring some back to Austin. I was overwhelmed at the sheer volume of the collection, paintings from the 1975 to 2009, many I could not remember painting. A friend asked if I had gotten to the scrolls and series of windows painted in the 1990s, those buried in the closet under the stairway. No way I replied, I didn’t dare open the door to that closet or I may have ended up in there for days. As it was I never got through the ten drawers upstairs, quitting once I had a stash that would fit in an old suitcase to bring back to Austin.
As I navigated through a dense forest of memories, I thought about how I transformed in the process of leaving and spending two years immersed in a doctoral program. I felt hardened, and wondered when exactly tenderness stopped mattering as much. And was it really attributed to a doctoral program, my particular journey, or a time of life? Can I blame a house for stirring a pot that exists one way or the other? Our lives are comprised of layer upon layer, each one forming the contours and innards of our existence, so who is to say that a selective dissection will ease or recreate a more palatable reality or recourse? We are not reconstructed by a confrontation with our many selves and a string of memories that constitute our life, though quite possibly redeemed if we exercise grace and compassion to forgive others as well as ourselves.
I was happy when my doctor gave me the go ahead to fly two days early, I missed my dogs and my house, and the chance to get started on what the surgery had delayed. I had not accomplished all that I hoped during those two weeks – not a word written on my comp paper, the closets and garage were still a mess, and I was unable to see several friends. I did; however, halt my frenetic pace to have much needed surgery, visit with dear friends, raise my arms in celebration of beauty as the chilly water of the Pacific foamed at my feet, felt the love of my China Camp family and the peace the China Camp never fails to deliver. Perhaps most important, I realized the pathway I created to Austin was forged by my past, complete with dashed hopes, missteps, circles of love, unresolved issues, and a determination to keep trying no matter what. The house I had intentionally avoided had afforded me all that and more.
I arrived home in Austin at midnight. Jonathan left the car was in long term parking the day before. I struggled with my luggage, the old suitcase containing paintings pulled by a strap like the old days. No matter, I made it to the car. When I walked into the house I was greeted by Pepsi and Pearl, a reunion I eagerly anticipated for days. I hastily unpacked, played with the dogs outside as a warm and balmy wind tossed my thoughts about. The modern world allows us to travel great distances, create many versions of home, and form new iterations of family in the process. I have done all of the above while tethered to a center that defies definition. Although material objects serve as reminders, the complex and mysterious web of emotions, relationships, and natural wonders that constitute a life reside in a more magical and ethereal space. I am not Dorothy clicking her heels, repeating there is no place like home until I am safely delivered. To reach home all I have to do is close my eyes and I see Jonathan and I walking along the Bay trail sharing a set of headphones listening to Maria Callas, Rena and I strolling arm and arm in Paris or Pinole, the loves of my life in our brilliant shinning moments, the rapture of painting for hours on end in a multitude of locations, fleeting images of my sister before her death, all my beloved doggies, the spires of Monument Valley, vistas in nature too magnificent to comprehend, and memories too many to unravel in one sentence. When my children expressed their fear of my death I assured them I would always be with them – in every beautiful sunset, when joy abounds and in their most pressing despair. Love is our home, and lucky for me there is plenty to go around.
On a July morning in 2009 I drove away with my dogs, paintings stacked in the back seat, and a small suitcase. I shipped clothes, framed paintings, and a few books – perhaps seven boxes total. In retrospect I think I was terrified; however, I was on autopilot having put all my eggs in this PhD basket. I liquidated my fairly insignificant retirement accounts for a down payment and money to set up the new house. In my mind’s eye I can still see my kids and their dad in the rear view mirror, waving to me as I drove off. Tears streamed down my face, though if pressed I could not describe or comprehend the enormity of what it meant to leave the familiar for uncharted waters at the ripe age of 52, a leap of faith that felt more like an ultimatum – change or die.
Other than the clothes and framed paintings shipped to Austin, I left the house in Pinole as if I were going away for a long weekend. In a game of musical houses, Tommy moved in and took over the mortgage, Jonathan stilled lived there then, and Gene moved into Tommy’s condo. Rena was in Berkeley headed to Washington D.C. in a matter of months. I arrived in Austin to an empty house and spent the better part of two weeks chasing down Craigslist ads and shopping for new when my attempts to buy used were exhausted. When school began in late August I had made a home well suited for my doggies and myself. There would be no dropping off of “stuff” to clutter the garage after I just cleaned it, closets overflowing with papers, journals, VHS tapes, clothes not worn in decades, old computers, and an accumulation of art work including large paintings on rolls of paper 30 feet long. Austin was my clean slate, a chance to do it my way without accommodating the needs and possessions of others. The daunting task of a PhD program entitled me to a quiet, clean space that would restrict entry to a chosen few.
Two years later my coursework is completed, leaving a comprehensive paper and dissertation to be written to put those three letters behind my name. The Mart Community Project I began three years ago has received six grant awards, including a National Endowment of the Arts awarded Mart a grant for a Rural Citizens Design Workshop, one of three in the nation that will be facilitated by leading folks in design and architecture. Twenty University of Texas undergraduate and graduate students worked on projects in Mart as part of a course I co-taught over two semesters. The summer program is off and running with artists and UT graduate students in residence. Despite being exhausted and a bit distorted from the intensity of the doctoral program, I am grateful to be executing visionary work that represents my long held passion for art and social justice. In my less modest moments I allow myself to feel enormous pride at what I have accomplished in a relatively short period of time, particularly when students, faculty and staff at the university, and those on a national level at numerous conferences and presentations respectfully acknowledge the innovative work underway in Mart. I sometimes pinch myself when I think of how the growing momentum in Mart began with an art installation on an overgrown lot where the Davis family home once stood. We must never underestimate the magic generated from following a vision.
The velocity of my life in Austin did not allow for holidays other than work related trips. I presented papers in New Orleans, Atlanta, Seattle, and recently in Paris where I extended my stay for 10 days. Rena joined me for five days along with Yvonne and her girls, and after they left I returned to my artist self that wandered the streets of Paris in happy solitude on frequent visits. I was fortunate to have my best Austin friend Diane present with me on the panel, and when I felt like breaking the quiet I spent time with her and her husband Mike. The unseasonably warm temperatures and beauty of Paris seduced me once again, rekindling a desire to live there, if only for the privilege of walking the streets, and sitting at cafes watching other people’s lives while pondering the mystery of my own.
Going back to the Bay Area was carefully avoided for several reasons including the pressure of running around trying to see too many people in too short a time, cleaning the house to my standards, and the inevitable and confusing collision between my old and new life. In Austin I experienced intermittent longings to dive into the Pacific at Muir Beach, visit the folks at China Camp, and spend time with my friends; however, every time I considered a trip back, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the energy drain before I could pack a bag. I excused my absence with mounting assignments, teaching, and unending Mart Project work. My PhD pass offered me latitude I had never been entitled to before, and I did not hesitate to use it as a reason to stay put in Austin, excuse myself from phone calls, and refuse company.
In November of 2008 I tore my meniscus running at Point Isabel with my dogs, ending a 30-year running career. It was decided in March 2010 I needed arthroscopic surgery; however, I delayed the surgery for over a year. I was busy, and then it seemed to get better, besides, taking two weeks out of my schedule would undoubtedly set me back on my plan to graduate in record time. I was forced to reconsider when I was unable to travel on foot in Paris and walk my typical hours on end. Rena and I took advantage of a Paris bike rental program, and after she left I continued to bike around the city, covering ground without the subsequent pain.
When I returned to the States I called my surgeon in California and scheduled surgery for the first available date. I pieced together a plan for dog sitting; Tommy was on duty the first week, then Lauren and Diane the remaining time. I packed a hefty bag of books with the intention of working everyday after the surgery. Reluctantly, I left my beloved Peps and Pearl and boarded a 6am flight to California. Whereas once the breathtaking descent into San Francisco would make my heart skip a beat, I felt nothing but irritation as the landing gear dropped for arrival. When I turned on my cell phone I was greeted by text messages from my kids welcoming me home. I texted back “This is not my home”.
I arrived in San Francisco at 8am and caught BART to avoid the predictable gridlock traversing the Bay Bridge in both directions. On the train I finished reading the biography of President Obama’s mother, A Singular Woman, my eyes filling with tears as I read about her sometimes strained relationship with her son and the last days of her loosing battle with cancer. If I hadn’t been on a BART train I would have sobbed uncontrollably, though uncertain of the cause for my tears. Was it that she and I were both white mothers of black males who needed their blackness in ways that may have eclipsed our significance? Or perhaps it was our marching to the beat of a different drummer, the perceived unreasonable expectation of greatness much to the dismay of our children when all they wanted was to be normal and to blend in.
During my two years in Austin I felt my son slipping away, gradually at first, and then into an abyss of silence for months at a time. There were moments I missed him so much it physically hurt. Although I was incredibly busy and overwhelmed with school, it was not the reason I kept my distance. I wondered if I had crowded him to the point where he was relieved to be rid of me, suffocated by my support and unflappable belief in his talent, potential and unique abilities. I was aware that what I considered encouragement could be interpreted as overbearing and burdensome regardless of my intentions. Whatever the reason for the growing distance between us, reading about Ann Dunham’s relationship with Barak Obama rendered a sorrow and anxiety about my relationship with my own son. We are given one chance to parent our children. What if my missteps had brought us to a point of no return?
Focusing on my studies and project work in Mart absorbed my energy and helped me avoid troubling questions of this sort. When I was not studying or writing, I could be found at home with the doggies, occasionally going to a movie solo or with friends. The intensity of a PhD program has the potential to warp a person, and I was no exception. Until my trip to Paris in April I had forgotten what it was like to float in time under the guise of anonymity, an observer of life and the living without a preoccupation about school. It was blissful – napping in the Place De Vosges on a warm sunny afternoon, riding my bike through the Tuileries, shopping for pastels at the Sennelier art store, strolling along the St. Martin Canal with Rena, revisiting her old street, walking arm and arm with Yvonne in the city we became family, and reconnecting with myself as I retraced my Paris steps over the years.
When I returned to Austin the Paris spell was broken and the PhD spell recast. In a matter of days I was wound up like a clock trying to exit the semester in one piece. The thought of two weeks confined to my old house with my leg elevated staring at the ceiling or TV; dependent on others filled me with dread. As much as I tried to focus on the upside (seeing family, friends, getting work done) I remained unconvinced. I could not shake an ominous feeling that loomed large and constant.
I dropped my bags in the entry of the Pinole house at 10am, changed into sweats and a t-shirt, and began cleaning and organizing well into the evening. I was expected at the hospital at 2pm the following day; however, when Gene pulled up at 1:30 to pick me up I was on a ladder trimming vines. He cautioned me the universe was arranging for me to slow me down and I ought heed the warning. Rena once described me as a serial giver, though I would describe myself as over responsible. Rather than dwell on why I feel as if I affect every outcome, I try to temper the condition. Overextending myself emotionally, financially, and physically has worn me thin and forced me to start drawing lines. Although the Mart summer program began the week I departed, rescheduling my surgery was not an option. Uncharacteristically I took myself out of commission, expressed confidence in the staff, and delegated judgment calls to my colleague and partner in crime, Sean. A successful program is one that outlives the initiator. If the surgery had an unanticipated silver lining it was for me to let go, step back and let others execute their visions and passion.
Rena says I tend to minimize and this surgery was no exception. I was convinced I would bounce up the next day, put pressure on my foot, and basically become mobile right away. What was the big deal, arthroscopic surgery is not exactly a knee replacement? However, general anesthesia is serious business regardless of the surgery, and the side effects remain in your system for several days producing a fatigue, subtle nausea and distaste for most foods. I went under within minutes of being rolled into the operating room and awoke disorientated. Being the last scheduled surgery, I was the sole patient in recovery, and for reasons unknown, perhaps the morphine, I found myself weeping. In my semi-sedated state I knew I had underestimated the surgery, and the duration and severity of my recovery. I was stuck, and there would be no escape anytime soon, as far away from my life in Austin as I could get. I felt empty and out of place, with the ominous feeling that lingered for weeks beginning to reveal itself. What I had managed to avoid for two years was staring me smack in the face. Welcome home indeed.
The first days after surgery were a blur. I slept on and off, and when I was awake I tried to manage the pain and nausea while elevating my leg in bed or on the couch watching mindless television. Being dependent on other people for basic needs does not suite me though I was lucky to have Gene by my side. When I was alone in the house I went down the stairs on my bum with crutches in hand. A simple trip to the bathroom exhausted me. I never cracked open a book or wrote a sentence. Everywhere I turned the past haunted me. Memories were everywhere I turned. In the dinning room I saw Tommy wink across the table at me the first time we had friends over for dinner when the house was brand new. I remembered blushing and feeling like the luckiest person in the world surrounded by my family and good friends. That friendship soured in time, and I became a conflicted wife who was ready to spread my wings beyond a 12-year marriage choking on guilt and doubt, spending months frozen in fear for myself and my children.
The many versions of my former self soon became a gang of ghosts joining me in my recovery, an unrelenting reminder of 20 years of lived moments in a structure commonly known as home. In the aftermath of my divorce I sought to establish myself as both artist and mother, working day jobs for the chance to travel one month a year to paint and bring back the momentum for as long as possible before I took on a familiar look of resignation and surrender. I fought back as hard as I could, painting on paper, old doors and windows, writing poetry, and exhibiting whenever possible. I wrote most days, filling a box of spiral notebooks that remain in the hall closet. I opened the door one afternoon, gazed into the archives, considered pulling them out and quickly shut the door at the thought of diving head first into the intricate details of my daily existence during a time when I desperately sought the love and approval of men who would never be for me what I needed to be for myself, a narrative of constant yearnings to paint full time, and my angst as a mother trying to do the best for my kids and falling short more often than not. I still saw my 37-year-old self painting and writing along a 30ft. scroll of paper in the upstairs hallway, full of rapture and possibility with everything before me, all the things I know of now that hadn’t happened yet. If I had the energy to start a fire in the fireplace, I would have, with the journals the first to go.
Bumping into memories was not confined to my former selves. There were sightings of my father who always brought a complicated mixture of joy and turbulence during his visits, and who I never reconciled with before he died. My cousin Kelly was a regular with her son before she died, and if I listened carefully I could still hear her laughter reverberate. There were flashes of Rena and Jonathan as children playing with their friends, laying on the bed as I read to them, Davien huddled with us before a fire on a cold winter night as I told them ghost stories, painting together, watching movies, and making cookies. There were tea parties with Rena as we pretended to be strangers randomly meeting at a teashop when I asked her to be my daughter (she always accepted), and hours of looking through books with Jonathan about the rain forests and deserts as he told me everything there was to know about climate, animals, and geography. They never ceased to dazzle me with their talent and brilliance, my hopes and dreams for them growing daily. On mornings I could not bear to face the world, I announced a school and work free day for painting and playing at home. I tried to balance reality, responsibility, and freedom. As the mother of young children who seemingly adored me, I had no idea what lay ahead, that in adolescence and beyond it was possible to have my best attempts as a mother thrown up in my face. I would sit through hours of recrimination and accusations with tears streaming down my face, no defense offered, feeling as if I deserved to be lambasted. Tea parties and tirades, hugs and rebuffs, moments of joy and profound despair, all falling on top of me as I lay on the couch plotting my escape back to Austin by plane, train, or magic carpet if necessary.
I gradually regained my strength and was able to get around on crutches and drive. I met with friends, had my haircut, went to the movies, and ecstatically put my feet in the Pacific Ocean at Fort Cronkite. I spent an afternoon at China Camp chatting with the sole China Camp resident Frank Quan, his cousin Georgette who runs the snack bar, and old friend Tommy Dwyer. I passed by the picnic table where we celebrated Jonathan’s third birthday, walked on the beach where my kids and I spent most weekends over the course of several years swimming, eating on our blanket, and the kids running up a tab at the snack bar while I painted on large rolls of paper. Jonathan would spend hours on the rocks looking for creatures and if he ventured out too far when he swam Georgette would come out of the snack bar to call him in. Several times both my kids walked along the water and rocks to McNear’s Beach and I had no idea where they disappeared.
We were part of the fortunate few invited to attend pot-luck BBQs after park hours, Frank grilling while the extended China Camp family chatted as dusk colors created a backdrop of surreal beauty. I missed seeing Art listening to Giants games on his old transistor radio with the leather cover, eager to see Jonathan so they could discuss the team’s prospects for the season. Art, the child of immigrants from the Azores, worked and lived at McNear’s Brick Factory his whole life and grew up playing with Frank Quan at China Camp. He passed several years ago; however, each time I come to China Camp I expect to see him, grinning ear to ear as he says to Jonathan, “How about those Giants or 49ers?” Art once asked me to promise that I would help China Camp stays as it is and not fall prey to developers. China Camp was where I was reborn as an artist, where my kids experienced the kind of childhood I did on the shores of Narragansett, R.I., and where we are still welcomed with open arms no matter how long the absence. It was the first time I felt a reluctance to leave since arriving in California. If I could live at China Camp I might be tempted to stay.
I am certain it is easier and less confusing to move forward if you are not a repeat visitor in the home you once lived that is no longer yours. I am not referring to property title, the house remains in my name and since there are no plans to sell, it most likely will for years to come. The thought that this is not my home anymore ran across my brain like a ticker tape during my stay in California. The collision of past and present brought a forced reflection of my past that was not particularly welcome, and in many ways painful. My reality was grounded in Austin; however, I could not deny the hold the place had on me, even if to provoke irritation and sadness on a number of different levels. One morning I began to plow through drawers full of paintings, hoping to bring some back to Austin. I was overwhelmed at the sheer volume of the collection, paintings from the 1975 to 2009, many I could not remember painting. A friend asked if I had gotten to the scrolls and series of windows painted in the 1990s, those buried in the closet under the stairway. No way I replied, I didn’t dare open the door to that closet or I may have ended up in there for days. As it was I never got through the ten drawers upstairs, quitting once I had a stash that would fit in an old suitcase to bring back to Austin.
As I navigated through a dense forest of memories, I thought about how I transformed in the process of leaving and spending two years immersed in a doctoral program. I felt hardened, and wondered when exactly tenderness stopped mattering as much. And was it really attributed to a doctoral program, my particular journey, or a time of life? Can I blame a house for stirring a pot that exists one way or the other? Our lives are comprised of layer upon layer, each one forming the contours and innards of our existence, so who is to say that a selective dissection will ease or recreate a more palatable reality or recourse? We are not reconstructed by a confrontation with our many selves and a string of memories that constitute our life, though quite possibly redeemed if we exercise grace and compassion to forgive others as well as ourselves.
I was happy when my doctor gave me the go ahead to fly two days early, I missed my dogs and my house, and the chance to get started on what the surgery had delayed. I had not accomplished all that I hoped during those two weeks – not a word written on my comp paper, the closets and garage were still a mess, and I was unable to see several friends. I did; however, halt my frenetic pace to have much needed surgery, visit with dear friends, raise my arms in celebration of beauty as the chilly water of the Pacific foamed at my feet, felt the love of my China Camp family and the peace the China Camp never fails to deliver. Perhaps most important, I realized the pathway I created to Austin was forged by my past, complete with dashed hopes, missteps, circles of love, unresolved issues, and a determination to keep trying no matter what. The house I had intentionally avoided had afforded me all that and more.
I arrived home in Austin at midnight. Jonathan left the car was in long term parking the day before. I struggled with my luggage, the old suitcase containing paintings pulled by a strap like the old days. No matter, I made it to the car. When I walked into the house I was greeted by Pepsi and Pearl, a reunion I eagerly anticipated for days. I hastily unpacked, played with the dogs outside as a warm and balmy wind tossed my thoughts about. The modern world allows us to travel great distances, create many versions of home, and form new iterations of family in the process. I have done all of the above while tethered to a center that defies definition. Although material objects serve as reminders, the complex and mysterious web of emotions, relationships, and natural wonders that constitute a life reside in a more magical and ethereal space. I am not Dorothy clicking her heels, repeating there is no place like home until I am safely delivered. To reach home all I have to do is close my eyes and I see Jonathan and I walking along the Bay trail sharing a set of headphones listening to Maria Callas, Rena and I strolling arm and arm in Paris or Pinole, the loves of my life in our brilliant shinning moments, the rapture of painting for hours on end in a multitude of locations, fleeting images of my sister before her death, all my beloved doggies, the spires of Monument Valley, vistas in nature too magnificent to comprehend, and memories too many to unravel in one sentence. When my children expressed their fear of my death I assured them I would always be with them – in every beautiful sunset, when joy abounds and in their most pressing despair. Love is our home, and lucky for me there is plenty to go around.
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