A Short Love Story

He entered the bedroom and I looked up from the television screen to acknowledge his presence. We both smiled. I patted the pillow and moved over for him. He cuddled up next to me and tried to acquaint himself with the show I was watching. As I lay in bed with him, I rubbed his head and kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t long before his breathing sounded heavier and his eyes were closed. I watched him sleep. I picked up his limp hand and put it against mine. His hand was so much larger than mine. He was so relaxed that one of his legs slid slowly off of the bed. I struggled to pull his legs back up onto the bed. His legs were heavy and long so it took quite a bit of maneuvering to achieve the task. He repositioned himself while he was still asleep. His new position made it difficult for me to see the television so I made my own adjustment. I took my pillow and propped it up on his back and rested my chin on my folded hands. Now I could see the television. I could feel him breathing. I glanced over at his face—only his profile was visible. I watched him sleep for a few moments and thought about how much I love him. I smiled to myself...inebriated with love. That’s when he walked in…my husband. He looked over at the two of us…the guy occupying his side of the bed and I. He grabbed the remote and headed for his comfy chair. I guess even he knows that there’s no love like a mother’s love for her son.

More Head Coaches, Less Spectators

Last night while watching my younger son practice with his pee wee football team, a group of teenage boys came and sat on the opposite end of the bleachers that my husband and I were sitting on. Within a few minutes more teens had joined the group—as did two more adults. The kids were talking about everything under the sun…especially how one was better, faster or stronger than the other. They cracked jokes on one another, challenged each other to races and tossed a football to showcase their passing or receiving skills. It was a pretty typical group of teenagers, on a pretty typical evening. From their prospective, there was nothing unusual or noteworthy about the day. The problem was, that the most memorable thing about their interactions and discussions was not the activities, or the wise cracks, it was the profanity. Every sentence seemed to begin or end with a curse word. The first few profanity laced sentences grazed my earlobe and I quickly turned to see who did it. I saw him and gazed at him intently for about five or ten seconds, but nothing…he didn’t even feel my piercing eyes staring in his direction.

I turned to watch my son as he learned how to lower his shoulder in order to get around his opponent without being tackled. He lowered the shoulder withstood the impact and my husband mumbled softly “Good, he lowered the shoulder”. Just then, another teen threw a four-lettered expletive at his friend who wasn’t fazed by the comment. I guess I didn’t lower my shoulder, because it hit me right in the gut. I turned again and glared at the perpetrator but to no avail, he was already lining up for the next play. I looked at the woman to my right and she stretched her eyes to signal that she was on my team, but it was clear to me that she was not interested in being on the frontline. I huddled up with my husband and brought the issue to his attention. He’d already noticed, but didn’t let it bother him. I told him that I just couldn’t believe that out of all of the kids on the bleachers, not one of them tried to remind the others that adults were on the bench. Not one of them seemed to care.

We reminisced about our youth and briefly discussed how teens use to respect adults and how we would be quick to excuse ourselves should we realize that an adult had been exposed to our dark side. That’s when our thoughts were suddenly intercepted by a kid who decided to add negative sexual orientation comments to his offensive lines. I sighed loudly, and noticed the woman on the left side of the bleachers shaking her head in disbelief. My husband explained to me that it wasn’t that they were trying to be disrespectful, but that a lot of young people don’t even realize that what they are doing is wrong. He said that they didn’t even see us. Wow, so, now we’re in their world and have to adapt to the changing times huh? Well, not so fast. Since I’m invisible, I decided to draw up a play of my own. I looked at the group again and tried to anticipate how they’d react to what I had planned. My sons practice was just about over so I told my husband to go on the sidelines and help him take off his gear. I was going to be responsible for the outcome—win or lose, this was my game.

I walked over and sat in the middle of their group. A few guys were standing around talking (and cursing) and hadn’t noticed my new position. I summoned them to come over and have a seat. Many looked confused and tentative, but every one of them complied. In fact, the one who had used the most profanity was the first one to acknowledge my presence. I started with a question…”Can I talk to you guys for a second”? “Yes ma’am” he replied. “Yes ma’am” can you believe it??? I’d finally been acknowledged as an adult who deserved respect. I talked to them for about five minutes. I was respectful and considered my tone and chose my words very carefully. I told them that I was disappointed by their actions because I was certain that their choice of words did not reflect who they were. I let them know that I too was a teenager and was far from perfect. I asked them to do me a favor and think about how their parents, aunts, uncles or other adults whom they respect would feel if they were in the park. I told them that I too have a teenage son and would not want him to use that type of language at all…but especially not in the presence of any adult. I noticed a few of these kids nodding their heads in agreement. Others hung their heads, while some looked at me with apologetic eyes. I asked them to be responsible for their words and actions, and to be aware of the adults in their presence. I reminded them that they represent their parents everytime they leave home, and asked that they take that seriously. I thanked them for listening, and some of them thanked me for talking. No one was disrespectful.

As the adult in this situation, I had a choice to make. I could sit there on the side line and complain about how awful kids are today, or I could get involved. Those kids didn’t need to be knocked down; they needed to be picked up. I was offended, but it wasn’t about me. It was about them. If they are our future, then it is up to us to teach them. Life is not a spectator sport; we have got to be willing to get involved. We’ve got to be willing to get in the middle of the huddle and call the play. As I walked off the field, one of the women who sat on the bleachers jogged over and stopped me. She commended me for doing something that she too could have done, but probably was too afraid to tackle the situation. I’d like to think that every one of us (kids and adults) learned a lesson or two from that encounter. I hope you do too.

The "N" Word...

“Nigga ain’t the same as Nigger”. How you figure?

Many have tried to explain the NONsense, but I guess I’M dense, ‘cause it don’t make No sense, to me.

Probably not to the slave that hung in the tree, who was being called the “N” word as he struggled to breathe. Sure he didn’t ask if they meant N-I-G-G-A or N-I-G-G-E, --R you kidding me?!?

I pity the one with eyes who refuses to see. Shame on the lame with no brain for taking no responsibility. *SMH* at the one who doesn’t use his head, but instead follows the majority.

Nigga ain’t nuthin’ but a word? Word? That’s absurd! Makes me want to flip somebody the bird! But that would just be my third…finger up in the air. They wouldn’t get it or just wouldn’t care. It seems if it ain’t rough, raw, or hardcore, it just don’t matter anymore. But if you change the letters in THEIR name, spelling it different, but sounding the same…then they wanna complain…how lame! But the word “NIGGA”? That’s just a word…that’s His Story and he’s not gonna change. As for me, because of the history, N-I-G-G-A and N-I-G-G-E…R not in my vocabulary.

Talk is Cheap

Everyone who knows me knows how much I hate texting. I mean, what did we do before texting? Did we actually use our cell phone to dial a number? Yes, indeed we did. What did we do before cell phones? Did we have to wait until we returned home to check our messages or call the person we wanted to speak with? Ding…you guessed it, we certainly did. There were definitely emergencies that required one to make a call immediately. For that, there were the pay phones, and we’d walk from block to block to find one that worked. Sometimes, there was no working pay phone in sight and that meant you’d have to wait until you got home to handle the emergency.

Somewhere along the way, we decided that we didn’t want to stick our finger in the circle and drag it around at least seven times to make a call, so we eagerly embraced touch tone dialing. Then, we decided that we didn’t want to hear a busy signal any longer. We wanted to be able to connect with the person we were calling or the person who was calling us, even when we were in the middle of a conversation with someone else. So we celebrated the birth of call waiting. Well, of course, that just wasn’t enough…we wanted to be able to talk to more than one person at a time. So, naturally, we jumped at the chance to subscribe to three-way calling.

Ah, finally, we had exactly what we wanted…the opportunity to talk to our friends and family whenever we wanted to. Then, we decided we didn’t want to talk to them anymore. So we scrambled to get caller I.D. Well, then we didn’t want people to know that we were calling them anymore, so we started using features like *67. But, on the off chance they didn’t want us to know they were calling us, or if they hung up without leaving a message, we wouldn’t hesitate to use the feature *69 to call the last number that dialed our phone. “Yes, did you just call here? Somebody from this number just called me”. Yep, you do remember that, don’t you?

What started out as a better way to communicate quickly became a means of alienation. How many times did you look at caller I.D. and warn everyone in the house not to answer the telephone because it was someone you just didn’t feel like speaking to? We couldn’t see it then, because each new option seemed like the best invention since toilet paper. Today, our phones can do more than we could ever have imagined. We use phones to take pictures, videotape events, set reminders, update our schedule, plan our day, check email, browse the internet, update our Facebook status, download, upload, and overload! We use our telephones for everything under the sun—except talking to each other.

Technology has quickly dehumanized and handicapped us. If you don’t agree, just think about this…What happens if you forget your cell phone at home? What if your cell phone malfunctions and you can’t see your contacts or their telephone numbers? How many times have you had to borrow a charger or plug your phone up at a public location (or friend’s house) because you were losing power? How many times did you send out one of those generic messages to everyone you know to avoid having to actually dial each of them just to say something unimportant like “Merry Christmas”? Ever sent out the “Happy Birthday” or the “I’m Sorry” text? Yes, most of us have stopped connecting on a personal level, opting for the generic and impersonal forms of communication. Umm, and for those of you who have found yourselves looking for your cell phone, only to find that you are talking on it…well, it may be time for you to put down the cell phone and connect with your loved ones around you.

So, for today—at least today, take a few minutes and talk to someone…without using any form of technology. It’s not going to cost you one red cent to use this option. So go ahead, have a good old fashioned conversation. You may be surprised to find out how rewarding a good “talk” can be.

The Apprentice and The Craftsman

Room 5-313. That’s where the magic happened. It was in this room that I learned to truly express myself. I opened up completely, tried things that I’d never done before, learned a few tricks of the trade…lost my inhibitions. I blushed innocently when told that I had not only met expectations, but exceeded them. It was in this room that I felt the need to do more and give more…because I liked the feedback that I was getting. It was here that I fell in love with… creative writing.

I think we all did—the entire class. Ms. Stanicic had a way of making every assignment interesting, and getting us interested in every assignment. Her lessons were engaging and offered hands-on learning opportunities. She had a way of turning the most challenging work into child’s play. She shared her time with the students fairly, making each one of us feel like we were her favorite. I’d still like to think that I was one of her favorite students, and I’d bet that hundreds of others who were lucky enough to occupy a chair in room 5-313 still think that too. It wasn’t just a class, it was a team. We all shared a bond with her. She believed in us and made us feel as though we could do anything. She celebrated our successes, and provided constructive feedback to help us overcome our setbacks. She supported and encouraged our participation in school activities, accepted nothing less than our best effort, cheered us on in our victories, and picked us up in our defeats.

She was concerned about my well-being and found a way to connect with me on a personal level. I remember being dressed in a red blouse with huge ties that my mom had carefully joined together to make the perfect bow for picture day. Somewhere between leaving home and lining up for pictures, the bow had unraveled. I pressed my chin against my neck, tied the bow as best I could, and headed over to take my picture. Ms. Stanicic watched intently as the camera man positioned me for the perfect shot. Then she noticed the bow. She hurried over and interrupted the camera man so that she could fix my bow. When she finished tying it, it looked just like my mother’s…perfect, picture perfect.

Ms. Stanicic didn’t do these things for recognition, extra pay, or a promotion. She did them because she loved her job. She absolutely loved being my teacher…and I knew it. Her enthusiasm, commitment, skill, and motherly ways made me enjoy coming to school. She made me want to work hard. She made me want to do my best. There were times when I lacked confidence or felt a bit inadequate, but she made me believe that I was smart, talented, and special. She inspired me to write. My experiences in her class helped to shape who I became and I am forever grateful for the privilege of occupying a seat in room 5-313. For me, that’s where the magic happened.

Love is a Fairytale

My first teenage relationship ended when I learned that an acquaintance was weeks away from having his baby. That was in my senior year in high school. It was devastating, but I got over it. A few months later, my father drove me to my high school prom because my date didn’t show up. My face displayed confidence and pride, but inside, I was crushed. If that wasn’t enough, while at college I discovered that the guy I was dating was sleeping with a friend who I knew before I was even in first grade. All of this before I turned 19. Luckily, I had a pretty high self-esteem.
Well, after kissing those frogs, I realized that finding “Prince Charming” wasn’t quite as easy as it seemed in the fairytale. So, I decided it was best if I waited until after college to get in another serious relationship…obviously it wasn’t working out for me. To say that I was leery when the next guy showed up is the understatement of the century. I reminded myself of the pact I had made (with myself) and tried to find all of the reasons why I shouldn’t even consider changing my mind. First of all, he was new on campus, so he was obviously too young for me. Then there was the odd circle of friends he hung out with—sort of Woodstocky. Plus, I needed to focus on my grades.
Fast forward to a couple of months later and “Mr. Woodstock” was my steady boyfriend. He was well-rounded, smart, stubborn, a little older than me, and just as complex. He had a tough exterior as a result of experiences that caused him to make his own pact (he wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to cause him to act based on emotions). Then came “we” and I learned that underneath the surface was a sensitive, passionate, vulnerable young man. I loved him completely.
Four and a half years later, I was walking down the aisle towards my husband-to-be, to pledge my love and commitment. The ceremony was drama-free. No one stood up to announce their disapproval of our union, he didn’t leave me standing at the altar, and there were no ugly stepsisters trying to fit into my glass slipper. That was sixteen years ago. Today, I can honestly say that after twenty years, I am still in love with my college sweetheart. Although our relationship has not been without trials, we grew up together and learned that love is about giving without expectation, compromising—even when you end up with the shorter end of the stick, respecting one another, acceptance, giving each other space to grow, connecting (mentally and physically), and supporting and protecting each other. Through the years, I’d have to say that the most important thing we’ve learned about love is that it is unconditional.
There was a time when the dating scene was just one nightmare after another for me. However, just when I began to think that love was a fairytale—something that only existed in a girls childhood dreams, I saw him. Then he saw me, and over time, we defined love. So, I guess when I thought love was a fairytale, I was right—for he is my happily ever after.

Imagine (A poem suitable for Black History Month)

I thought I'd share a poem I wrote several years ago. Feel free to share your thoughts.

Imagine

Imagine if the odds were against you at conception, simply because of the color of your skin.
Imagine if you had to fight a battle, but no one really expected you to win.
Imagine being given second hand tools and asked to carve your future, without fully understanding your past.
Imagine if you deserved first place, but always had to settle for last.
Imagine being called to complete an ambiguous task and learning that others faltered in their quest.
Imagine if you gave your all, but could never be more than second best.
Imagine inheriting the responsibility of ancestors, who fought to secure your place.
Imagine what it’s like to be born indebted to your entire race.
Imagine looking for your history, but not finding it in the book you’re required to read.
Imagine if your lineage were a mystery that you had to solve in order to succeed.
Imagine being told you could soar, but learning you could only go so far.
Imagine if you exceeded every expectation, but someone always raised the bar.
Imagine being taken from your country, to a place where the customs are not your own.
Imagine giving away all that you’ve worked for, and never reaping what you’ve sown.
Imagine having intelligence beyond measure but being denied the chance to grow.
Imagine caring for your enemy; imagine being raped by your foe.
Imagine giving birth to children and being forced to relinquish parental rights.
Imagine starting a revolution only to find you couldn’t win the fight.
Imagine if you mastered your native language, but were forced to speak in another tongue.
Imagine daily torture and mental anguish; imagine being lashed until you’re numb.
Imagine if you could be killed just for reading, because education was not allowed.
Imagine if you were used for breeding, or sold to the highest bidder in the crowd.
Imagine if you prepared a feast for others, but had to make your meal with the scraps they gave.
Imagine if the Queen of the Earth was your mother, but you had to live and die a slave.
Imagine risking everything, just for the chance to be free.
Now imagine, just imagine, what change means to me.

Melanie Geddes, written February, 2003