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.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
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
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 5, 2010
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.
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.
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