Hannibal The Conqueror

Hannibal The conqueror has always intrigued me, and I am about to take a vacation to follow in his footsteps. I look forward to it as I have pursued many travels to follow and investigate the history of people and places I have admired. Nelson Mandela of South Africa and the Pharaohs of Egypt and the paintings of France have all intrigued me and I have traveled to their lands to try to understand what would foster such beauty.

I am looking forward to being in Tunisia, Africa and Palermo, Italy as they are the lands Hannibal traveled when questing to overthrow a land.

I desperately need a vacation from the life I live here in NYC. It has been exactly a year since my last vacation of sightseeing in South Africa. I am always nervous when going on a trip as I don't know what to expect. It is a good type of nerves as it is one that is anticipating the discoveries of lands I never imagines I would reach as a girl. I hoped to reach them, but thought that it wouldn't happen. Of late, I got that attitude out of my mind and went on my own quest to visit these lands I dreamed of as a child. I also vowed to do these explorations on my own, with no one to accompany me, as that adds to the exhilaration of discovery. I was able to travel great distances and did it alone. On my travels I have met many women who are also traveling alone to these far off places. And we give each other a knowing look. We did it on our own. It is often that friends are asked to accompany such woman on these trips but many excuses are made, some viable and some just make you scratch your head. What is one to do when all who are asked do not want to make the effort to go on a monumental excursion? Do you stay home and hope next year or the next decade is the time when said friend or other friends or family members will go with you or do you take the plunge and do for yourself? I say go for it, and go for it I have.

I am nervous and I am happy to be nervous because I have achieved a dream. I have reached a goal. I'm already thinking about next year's travel. So here's to rejuvenating experiences and here's to achievements!

Aug. 28th I return to The States for more vacation (downtime at home with the family), and then to work September 7th and the dichotomy of my life.

Voting

The Democratic Convention is happening in Boston and I am not as excited as I usually am at the prospect of voting for a new President of The United States. When I was 15 I attended a camp for girls of that age who were elected to attend from schools throughout the state of NY because they displayed leadership qualities. We were thought to be the best of the best. The camp was located in Albany and I had to travel from my home to 42nd Street and Vanderbilt to get on a chartered bus that would take me to upstate NY. Me and about 30 other young women were driven to SUNY Purchase University Campus, and it is at this site that I learned about the electoral process of running a government. There were about 350 girls from all over NY State and I was one of about 10 from the NYC area. It was a week that lives on in my mind as it invigorated me into believing in government as a tool that can bring about change. The camp's duration was a week, and during that time we were taught how a state government and electoral process was run. It was interesting to all who attended and allowed for camaraderie between girls from vastly different cultures. Most of the young women I encountered were very nice and accepting of the vastly different cultures of the people the met, and for some, I gathered, it was their first time encountering cultures of people different than their own. One of my experiences at this camp was not my first encounter with racism. I was asked were I was from by an upstate NY young woman, and when I replied NYC she further inquired what part, and when I told her Harlem she stated I didn't act like someone from Harlem. I asked incredulously how is one from Harlem supposed to act. She blushed, and I just stared at her and blinked in anger, and then I just turned and left the area. Mario Cuomo, the then Governor of New York State came to the camp and gave a rousing speech on the electoral process of NY State and his commitment to it and the young ladies he was addressing. He admonished us to become a part of the process by believing in the system as he, the son of an Italian immigrant, had. He beat racism by being a part of the system. He talked powerfully of being thought as less than because of his heritage, and beating the odds to become the person he was before us: an elected official who could go on to being The President of The United States. He changed the system and the government with his being a part of the process. He voted at eighteen and got involved with the political process. And he wanted us to do the same. His speech really awakened a light, a fire, a torch, in me, and I have never forgotten his words. I and everyone else in that auditorium gave him a standing ovation at the conclusion of his speech. During that week not only did I learn about the running of a government, but how to deal with persons diplomatically. It was a camp that I profited from because I took so much from it. It allowed me to learn about the electoral process we, as American, hold so dear to us, and exposed me to its mechanics. I learned from that experience to appreciated and respect the process of government. And to utilize it for change.

I remember when I turned 18 I was so excited and dutifully cast my first vote. I envisioned things changing because I and many other had cast our votes and we would be heard. Some 20 years later, I don't believe the theory has not panned out, and things seemed to have not changed. Nothing has changed. I was driven home a few night ago by a co-worker who has a nice car. It was not late and there were many people outside as it was a warm summer night. When we pulled up in front of my building, we noticed a police car had been following us for 20 feet, and was inputting the license of the car we were in into their on board computer. The people on the sidewalk and we the occupants of the car went into high alert. I departed from the car and my co-worker departed from the street leaving behind the cruser. I stopped in front of my building with some of the older neighbors of my building who discussed with me, perplexed, why the police were not out and about looking for real criminals and instead were bothering two women who work six days a week, who were not criminals, but were profiled as such because they were in a nice car. I knew that something is wrong with the system, and it has been for a long time. Many nights when walking home from the train I see all kinds of crimes being committed in my neighborhood such as the sale of drugs, prostitution, etc, but I often don't see the police who could stop such things from happening when I am forced to witness such indignities. Crime has been a persistent element in my neighborhood. It has ebbed and flowed, but essentially I have seen the same conditions in my neighborhood. Many who are more knowledgeable in the undercurrent of crime say there is much more crime than I will ever know going on in my neighborhood as I am someone who does not mix with that type of crowd, and that should I ever know the extent of the crime involved, I would be shocked. Much of this crime grows from people who are disillusioned, unemployable, and without hope. I do not condone the actions of the person committing these crimes because of the qualities of their lives. I do however understand that much has not happened to make people more hopeful.

Many are doubled and tripled up in apartments. It is common to have three families, many inter-related, living in a two bedroom apartment, many short on food, and hope. The schools in my area are such that I take my children on a 12 mile trek to school in Manhattan as my Bronx schools are horribly inadequate. At one point because they were all too young to travel by themselves, it was a 4 hour round trip, every day 5 days a week, for me or their father to get our children to school. And we did this trek for 6 years.

I voted that first time, many years ago, to change these types of inadequacies: overpriced housing leading to tripling up of occupants, no jobs leading to people going hungry, taxes inappropriately assessed and distributed leading to underfunded schools. All of these inadequacies ultimately lead to people committing crimes. Is it right that someone that is poor commits crime to thwart the ill effect of not having money? No. However all can understand the origins of the thought that begat the crime. If people don't think they have hope, they will not do hopeful things. A person not believing in the greatness he was born with will try to snuff out that greatness in someone else. He will steal from his neighbor because he has no respect for anyone or anything. I voted that first time to change our government for the better. I voted that and many other times thereafter to bring about change of a flawed system. Today I am not enthusiastic about voting. The system has not brought about change, and there seems to be more despair. The system continues to be flawed.

My daughter asked recently if I will vote, and I told her I don't know. She was shocked and said that she knows I always vote. I replied that for the first time since I've been eligible to vote, I have thought perhaps I will not. Maybe I will take a pass this go around because the government and the power of its constituents that Mario Cuomo told me they have has not been witnessed by me. She said to me she wanted to learn how to vote and asked if I could take her with me to the booth when I voted. I agreed. I never thought those years ago at that camp, when I was filled with the spirit of citizenship, that I would ever be so disillusioned that I would not want to vote. I am surprised that I will only vote to show my daughter how to, and not foremost, to participate in the process of improving and changing the system. I want to pass on the torch of enthusiasm of citizenship to my daughter, and hopefully she can bring back the fire, as mine has diminished greatly.

World Trade

September 11, 2001. The day of terror found me watching the news as I always do because I can't go back to sleep so quickly after the children go off to school and I see that a special report is on all the stations about a plane accidentally flying into one of The Towers. While I'm watching and the newscaster are having conversations that seem mindless, I see another plane plow into the other Tower, and the newscasters don't see that happen. I am stunned because I saw it, but think perhaps I didn't because no one on the news has mentioned it. It never occurred to me that it was a terrorist attack because it was stated that the initial plane's collision with the Tower was speculated to be accidental, but when I see the another fly into the other Tower I know it is a terrorist's attack. I am a typical New Yorker and worry about how this will affect me monetarily. Will I be able to go to work today or will they shut down? The Towers are less than a quarter mile from my job. I ponder how this tragic turn of events will affect me.

It is then that I call the job to ask if there will be a shift tonight, and I am told no, and that the building is being evacuated. I am not pleased because my check is not going to have overtime hours on it because of this. And then it happens before my eyes on the television screen. People are floating out of the windows of The Towers. What!!! My mind cries. They are stepping out, some quite dignified, as if they are taking another in a succession of steps on a sidewalk, but this step is in mid-air. One woman holds down her skirt when the air hits it and makes it balloon. She is modest when knowing she will die. These are people who have chosen to die this way. The planes have hit the floors below them, and they are trying to escape what I know must be hellish heat. What!!!!!! I can't believe my eyes and I am upset that I am seeing these images. I call a co-worker that works another part time job on 14th street during the day and works my night job with me and tell her the news that our job, her other job, will not be open, and we both commiserate about it screwing up our overtime, and then it happens. The first Tower collapses before my eyes on the screen and we both gasp on the phone.

There are sirens going all over my Bronx neighborhood and I surmise they are fire engines racing the 12 miles to downtown Manhattan with the hopes of helping out. What is going on! I just had lunch at the book store in Tower One. Every other Tuesday go to work early to get my check, make a quick U turn out of the office, cash my check, leisurely stroll over to The World Trade from the bank, go up to Borders Bookstore, get lunch, and because I have a whole paycheck in my pocket, fantasize about buying any and all of the books that I want, but usually don't because I am on a tight budget, but love the thought of the possibilities as this excursion to a fantasy land of books relaxes me and prepares me to deal with the world. And it is now gone as are many of the people who have occupy the Tower. Something is wrong with my world!

I think to myself that I have to get the children from school because stuff is not quite right with the world. I must have them close to me. My youngest is home with me. My other son's school was dismissed and he's coming home, but I must get my daughter. The trains are working uptown and I get to 116th street in Manhattan with no problems. I look across second avenue and am in sensory overload. I see down the hill about 20 blocks and on the horizon I see smoke and hear sirens. Is that smoke from the World Trade? Yes, I say to myself, it is. It has wafted uptown. The smell is indescribable. Acrid, plastic. I must get my daughter. She is the only child in her class as other parents have picked up their children. She is somewhat oblivious to the tragic events taking place, and is helping her teacher clean up the classroom. We walk to the train, and she asks about the plume of smoke she sees downtown and I tell her the truth. We are both quiet. We board the #6 and connect to the #4. The trains uptown are still working well in the uptown area and arriving home is effortless, but I am weighed down by what I have seen on TV. When I get home, my son had arrived before me and is safe. Hubby gets home shortly after and my immediate world is safe and correct. All the most important people are with me in the place I call home, and this bolster me into a state that allows me to think about the tragic events that have happened.

I know one of my best friends works across from the WT and her boyfriend works in it at The Mercantile Exchange. I worry about them, but know, in my heart, that they both, upon hearing the first plane hit, would have left immediately. I talked to her that night and she is calm and we discuss that she and her boyfriend are safe. We discuss the enormity of what has happened and I tell her I am glad she and her boyfriend are safe.

Some days after the attack I tell her I am having horrible nightmares, and can't understand why? I was not in the midst of the destruction. I was home. Why am I acting this way? It seems so ridiculous. She, in her wisdom, tells me that I have watched many minutes, hours, of people perishing. I have seen horrific events unfold before my eyes. I have heard terrorist's acts unfold and take down an entity that I visited regularly since I was a child; it is an edifice that my mother and friend's mothers have worked in. I have dined in Windows on The World several times and remembered it as the place where I have had some of the most exhilarating dining experiences of my life, and now it is gone, and in a so horrific way, in a terrorists way. My friend then told me of her experiences that day. She told me she heard the first plane hit, and not knowing what to do. And of people at her job debating what to do. Some were arrogant, and upon learning that a plane had flown into a Tower they stated that everyone should go back to work because nothing else would happen. At that point she knew she should leave because she thought to herself that those were the statements of arrogant people. How can anyone know what will happen to a building that has had an airplane flown into it? Those who utterred the statement were not engineers. They had no more knowledge of the situation than she did, and she relied on her common sense, and that propelled her to get her purse and walk out the door. Many of her co-workers joined her. When they hit the plaza in front of her office building located a block away from The World Trade the first Tower came down, and a cloud of white debris came their way. It was a massive cloud that was floors high. They tried to run inside, to the lobby of their building, but were blinded. My friend recalled her falling a few steps after she started running and she joked with me that she would never laugh at movies that have the stereotypical white-girl-falling-after-taking-a-few-running-steps-from-danger scene again because she did just that when she saw that dangerous cloud coming her way. The Cloud. It was a cloud that she knew was the building once known as a Tower of The World Trade Center. It was now descending upon her and enveloping her with its debris. And as she was speaking to me she knew it was a cloud that contained all that was a building and its occupants. The cloud consisted of many things, including people, pulverized, and my friend shuddereds. This cloud of people, machinery, asbestos, computers, insulation, came upon her and she tasted it, them, breathed it, and them, and had it, them, embedded in her skin. As she layed on the ground, after attempting to run, for a split second, she looked for her shoe that she lost, desperately, by feeling the ground she could not see, and when she finally got up and moved to the lobby door, she could only do so from memory as she could not see more than a foot in front of her.

She was covered in debris when finally she reached a seat in which to sit. My friend was completely white from the debris that was The World Trade Center, and its content, and its occupants. Her co-workers, her friends, tried to brush off the debris from my friend desperately. One friend obsessively kept saying, "We have to get this off of you," and worked her way over every inch of my friend's exposed skin with a water-soaked napkin to wipe away the debris. My friend expressed her gratitude to that woman as it served as a loving testament of her and her co-workers coming together to help each other. Her story continued as she relayed her boyfriends experience of 9/11 and having his supiors say to him that he was silly to leave The World Trade as terrorist had not been able to take the buildings down in 1993, so they would not be able to do it in 2001. The logic was totally and inconceivably stupid, and he left the building. When walking away from the structure he heard large bangs on the atrium ceiling he was walking under and saw bodies hitting the glass structure that made up this ceiling. These were the bodies of those who chose to jump out of windows. It was unbelievable. He walked over a 100 blocks to get home to the Bronx.

None of us, the four mentioned in this story, received professional counseling. All have been counseled by the conversations we have had with friends who talk of the experience of being in NYC 9/11 openly and honestly. We talk of returning to work under deplorable conditions, I in Jersey City, New Jersey. I remember being able to see The Winter Gardens, the gateway to The World Trade for many, directly across the river from my job's Jersey office, and see it illuminated at night, ominously, with clouds of smoke from the still simmering fires two and three weeks after the attacks, and breath in the putrid air that drifts all the way to Jersey. My friend, who goes to work too soon, as ordered, 2 weeks after the attacks, across from what was The World Trade, knows that the air quality is unsafe, and that the headaches she's getting as she works are from breathing in the acrid air, but she continues to work, because she needs a paycheck. I, and many of the workers of the area continue to work. My job opens up its main office, and I go there that first night with an eerie feeling. There is no bustling on Wall Street, it is somber. There is an acrid smell in the air for over 2 months. A smell of computers and of foulness. But we all continue to go to work because we have to.

I walk to the bank were I usually cash my check shortly after my job has opened up its main site and allowed its workers to return. This is the bank located a short distance from The World Trade in which Borders Book Store was located. I would go there after cashing my check to luxuriate in the knowledge of books but now can't because it is gone. When leaving the bank that first time I try to walk the short distance to what was the World Trade to see the pit that was once its foundation. I cannot do it. I, to this very day, have never gone to that pit. I've never liked going to cemeteries.

These memories will live on in me and others who experienced 9/11 from different perspectives as New Yorkers.

Dichotomy

I awaken on Monday morning, and think to myself, "Another week of the job.  Gee, I can't wait 'til vacation." And then I put my game face on, preparing for the day to come.  I have many hours to prepare as I work at night, so the process is purposefully slow.  I mingle with the children as we scurry through the neighborhood buying groceries, going to the park, and coming home to wait for the arrival of their Father.  And then it's on.  I must prepare for work.

I must remember to change my tone of voice as during today, and all other days, I have had occasion to scream at my children so that they will get in line and act right.  So I must change the tonality of my voice to fit in with the corporate structure I am about to encounter.  I have often been told that I am quiet at work and it is assumed from this that I must be a quiet person.  Should my family ever have someone state to them that I am thought of as a quiet person on my job they will laugh and ask again for the name of the person described as quiet and reply that though the name may match the matriarch of their family, the description of her is the opposite of what she is at home.

I must also remember during my preparation for work that I must quicken my step.  During my leisurely pursuits through my Bronx neighborhood with my children my pace is quite slow as I am not hurried.  Upon leaving the train station in The Wall street area where my job is located, should I not quicken my step to break-neck speed upon exiting the train I will surely be trampled as all who are there move lightening quick.   I must also prepare to be more than cordial with all of those that I encounter as I must pose the obligatory question of how everyone's' weekend was and answer the returned obligatory question of how was my weekend with a jovial response.  Many whom I work with are persons that I would not think of being friends with outside of work.   However, while I am in the work place I must act cordially.

My life at home and my life at work are dichotomous.  One must make a living and be a productive part of society.  And one must make a life outside of the job that is true to the person.  That life outside the job is the most important aspect of a person.  A person's private life is paramount to all else.  I am a woman who loves family and that is evidenced in my private life.  The job that I have provides for me and my family and our lifestyle.  It is a subdivision of my life, but does not subjugate me.  The job is a part of my life, but does not define me.  What defines me is my private life.  My changing while getting ready to go to work allows me to deal with the many things and people I will encounter during my pursuit of a livelihood.   It is about being an adult and getting my game face on.  Being an adult sometimes requires acting and doing so helps me to deal with all aspects of my job.   However, I do look forward to taking a break from my acting and going on vacation.   And when returned from a rejuvenating vacation, I am ready for my next performance. 

Contemplation

This Saturday afternoon I sit and contemplate my view of The Statue of Liberty.  I work directly across from her in The Wall Street area of NYC.  The Statue of Liberty has persisted as a symbol of freedom for many throughout the ages.

 

I remember seeing The Lady of The Harbor and it having an impact on me like it had never before as a 16 year old shortly after moving out of my parents home.  I worked in the Wall Street area also at that time, long ago.  I, at that time, upon viewing the statue, knew that I was an adult at an age that many perceived me to be a child.  I did not, at that age, look, act, talk or walk like a child.  I had experienced so much negativity by the age of 16, much of that experience was shoved upon me by my parents, and it necessitated me getting away from them.  And at that impactful viewing of The Statue of Liberty, when I realized I was on my own in the world, I knew I had to be an adult, and the viewing solidified my belief that I knew I would be up for the challenge.  I knew that I had no adult to rely on (not that I had any to rely on when I was living at home) or to talk to.  I was on my own for the long haul.  Certainly I could not fare any worse in taking care of myself than my parents had done of taking care of me up until that point.  I did not have a moment's trepidation during that time of upheaval as I knew nothing could befall me that would propel me back to my parents' home.

 

Suffice to say, I have not stepped foot in the house of my childhood but for one Christmas.   I attribute my stubbornness in not returning often to my childhood home to prove the point that I could survive without returning to the place of my discontent.  I could and did survive living without the support of those who were supposed to protect me.

 

Seeing the Statue of Liberty from my view point in Battery Park City on that day shortly after I left my parents home was a beautiful experience.  I looked across the harbor and saw hope.  The Lady of the Harbor represents a symbol as she is viewed by all who see her upon arrival from far away lands be they from the 1800's on ships pulling into ports or from airplanes as they circle to land at JFK airport in the 2000's.   The Lady is a symbol of freedom to all who view her.  She represents freedom from whatever oppressor has subjugated the person who gazes upon her. I viewed her in a similar way because she represents freedom to live without feeling frightened or neglected.  The Statue of Liberty has represented throughout time the ability for one to make it despite the odds.  I look at The Lady as I write these words some twenty years later and know that I beat all the odds 

 

 

Harlem

Harlem is the village that I grew up in.  My Harlem is the town located in The City that never sleeps.  My Harlem is the town that many did not want to live in.  It was the town with abandoned buildings, nightly 4 alarm fires, and corners festooned with the walking dead.  The walking dead were those hooked on heroin, and crack, who nodded and scratched on the many corners of Harlem.  My enclave was a town not often visited by Whites who often only ventured into the region on their way to upstate NY or Conneticut via The Major Deegan, AKA I-87, traveling 65 miles an hour.  I remember the simpler Harlem,  the town that no one wanted to live in, but African-Americans did, and called it home.  It is home to many who thrived and became the movers and shakers of the world despite some of the aspects of Harlem and because of a lot of the aspects of Harlem.  It is the home that I grew up in that though it had its problems was and is the place I revere.
 
I remember a Harlem that when walking along your block,  you were greeted by your elders who were quick to chastise if you were doing wrong, and as equally quick to praise if you were doing the right thing.  The Village of my youth had me and friends going to The Rucker Tournament on 155th and eighth Avenue to see incredible B-Ball before it became commercial as there are now corporate signs everywhere at Rucker.  My Sugar Hill Harlem was the one that had its yearly block party on Edgecombe that provided the obligatory politicians, shaking the hands of the elders of the block for votes, and the kids scurrying about, dancing to the the emerging hip-hop and rap music of the time that was being blasted from king size speakers, illegally getting juice from jerry-rigged public street lights.  The children playing games, and swimming in monstrosity of the pool-on-wheels that was driven into the block every year, and clamored after and luxuriated in.  The buildings of my Harlem are majestic and sturdy and many have been around since the turn of the century.  Strivers Row, Morningside Heights, Sugar Hill  and Riverside Drive are areas of Harlem that all have buildings that can remind persons of a Parisian, Holland or San Francisco Street as the architecture of buildings of Harlem are eclectic and many represent these regions of the world.
 
The Harlem of my youth is different from the one that is here now.  The Harlem now has the Starbucks with $2.00 coffee Lattes, and a movie theatre right up the way, both on 125 Street,  and owned by a prominent African-American Man and not like The Harlem of my years that had the vast majority of business in that area owned by  jews that didn't and wouldn't want to live in the neighborhood they served.  The Harlem of today's has jews and many other races of people that formerly would have never dreamed of living in Harlem clamoring to live in its enclaves as the drugs, and empty, burned out building, and nodding congregants have gone, and are replaced with buildings resplendent with opulence, and over-priced rents, and purchase prices. 
 
My Harlem of old has been replaced by a new Harlem,  and they mirror each other.  Both are riddled with problems, and both have the problem of racism, unemployment,  and inequities in housing.   But throughout the history of Harlem are people who subsist as no one can as this place is populated with generations of native Harlemites that have proven their stock.  The people of Harlem are people that regardless of change cherish the neighborhood of their birth, just as I do.

The Bronx

I live in The Boggie Down Bronx.  The Bronx.  It is the only borough in New York City whose name is proceeded by the word "THE".  Perhaps that word proceeds the name of the borough to signify its importance.  The Bronx of the the 1980's was a place of transition.  I first lived in The Bronx during this decade and it was ablaze.  When riding the #4 elevated train and looking out at the charred edifices that once housed people of different ethnicities, I wondered about the landlords that most likely were the ones who set the buildings on fire so that they could collect insurance money.  How crazy is it that a human being could displace so many hundreds of people, and perhaps, should the evacuation of such building not go well, kill countless people because of a deliberately set blaze, all for a dollar.  It happened many, many times.  I had residents of my borough tell me that they slept with one eye open just in case they had to run from their home because they understood how lucrative the burning of an apartment building was to a landlord versus the renting of those same apartments.
 
Through that horrendous time of The Bronx its residents and I subsisted, and better times have emerged.  It is a new Bronx, one that embodies the many cultures that now occupy it.  Cambodians, Mexicans, Italians, African Americans, Puerto Ricans, West Indians, they are all here, loving and living in The Bronx.
 
When I now take my train ride on The #4 Train to get home to my apartment in The Bronx, I see the vast amount of construction of new buildings.  There is such a boom of  construction that it is hard to remember how bombed out The Bronx used to look.  Those of us who lived through those times called The Bronx "Beirut"
 
I am proud of my adopted borough and the way in which it has rebounded.  It was always looked down upon.  Once, when I was in Paris, France and a cab driver asked where I was from I replied that I lived in The Bronx, and he looked back at me and said that he knew there was a lot of killing in my town, and asked how could I live there and feel safe.  I didn't know how to answer the question as I had never felt threatened my whole time of living there.  No matter how rough times were, there was always a certain understanding amongst the small, small criminal element of my neighborhood of The Bronx, and the other, vast law-abiding citizenry of The Bronx.  The understanding was that those who didn't do dirt should not get dirty.  If one was not part of the life of crime, one should not become a victim of it.    So one would see the pimps and the other criminal elements on the various excursions through the neighborhood, but it often did not impinge upon you drastically.  One knew the cops knew of the situation, and that it would be dealt with.  And the other also knew that people are just trying to live, and to let them pass without incident.  Cohesiveness of the different elements of the neighborhood allowed all to exists peacefully.
 
The 2000's has proven for The Bronx to be the the century that has seen it flourish and prosper.  Those that are residents of its majestic hills and valleys have seen its lows and now are proud of its highs.   The Boogie Down Bronx is worthy of its own Bronx Cheer.  So here's to you, my beloved Bronx.  You are revered and deserving, and I am proud to be a resident.  
   

Even though you're Black, you're pretty

I have been told by many that though I am black I am pretty. The statement alludes to the premise that to be African-American is to be ugly. So if you are pretty and African-American that occurrence is an abnormality.

This statement has been said to me by Whites and Blacks. Whites have often been thought of as a people that hold their beauty as the standard by which all other races are measured, and often the Black race doesn't even reach the bottom of their measuring stick. Within the AA race, conversely, they are often thought of as a people that measure beauty by the standards of Whites. Therefore, the lighter a AA, the more potential for them to be beautiful. I am a dark skinned AA, so I am, by the standards of the White and AA race, not beauty pageant material.

But, alas, I guess I must break the standard because I have been told often that though I am Black, I am pretty. When the statement comes from Whites it speaks to my race, as it seems no woman who is Black can be pretty. When the statement is made by an AA, they are speaking of the darkness of my skin and how its hue refutes the adage which laments that a lighter toned AA woman are automatically thought of as pretty because of their proximity in skin tone to Whiteness and those on the opposite end of the spectrum are automatically ugly because they look nothing like the ideal.

Whites often never think of Black woman as pretty or beautiful because AA woman throughout history have never had a mystique about them that encompassed beauty. AA woman were and continue to be thought of as animalistically sexual. There is nothing subliminal about them as woman. Prettiness and beauty are the subliminal aspects of sexuality. Pure and animal sexuality can be applied to the ugliest of things as it raw and ostentatious - the opposite of subliminal. And for Blacks to think of woman of their race as beautiful is to think they are similar to those they think epitomize the standard of beauty - white woman - and to do so eliminates their darker hued sisters who are therefore closed out of the definition for beauty.

So should I consider myself lucky to be an exception to the rule of beauty as applied by many? No, I consider myself unlucky because that statement, "Even though you're Black, you're pretty", is a testament to how little we have progressed racially. I shake my head because such an ignorant statement speaks volumes as to how far we have to go.

Respite

I love to lounge. I love to lounge so that I may think of all the possibilities of my life. I hate that I am unable to lounge often because of my work and life schedule. The job and bills that need to be paid require that I work 6 days a week. Three kids and a significant other and home life require all the rest of my time somewhat. So it is not often that I have the luxury of respite.

When I go on vacation I often do so by myself. I go to very far off lands to get away from the stresses of home. My last vacation was South Africa, and I was very relaxed on the trip because of the sights I took in, and because of the needed rest that I got when staying in luxurious hotels. Room service also provided for a respite from the constant cooking I seem to do. To have someone else cook and serve food to me was and is heaven.

I am able to contemplate thoughts when I am on vacation that cannot easily enter my mind when I am in my everyday life. Lounging during vacation is obligatory, however during regular life it is almost impossible. Respite allows me to conjure, think clearly, reminisce, daydream, and set goals. It is a rejuvenating time. When I am not able to pause, to rejuvenate, I am frustrated. I know during the hectic times when I am unable to get a quiet moment I may be losing precious thoughts that could have been captured and turned into realities. These thoughts are the seeds for my becoming a better person, mother, and friend.

Respite is what I need to re-group and become better person. I must always be on the path for becoming a better person and must carve out a niche that allows for pausing. Lounging rejuvenates my soul.

Loyalty of Siblings

I look at my children and see a loyalty amongst them that is inexplicable. My daughter picks up her younger brother from school, and on one occasion I went to meet them at the train near the school. I was surprised at how she had such a hold on my son, leading him down a crowded NY Street by the hand with a very determined step, while he munched on an cherry icy, lagging behind her, happily enjoying the icy, unaware of his sister's determination in getting him home safely.

I look often at my children when they play together, and the way in which they help each other during play if one doesn't quite grasp a concept. I look and admire the cooperation they have with each other, and hope this cooperation can subsist throughout the coming years in a way that allows them to help each other when I and their Father are not around.

I also look at my children when they fight, and see that they are going for blood, and know that this intensity comes from the love they have for each other. To fight the ones you love is to fight with the knowledge that someone you deeply love has somehow betrayed you, and you are now fighting because of the betrayal. I also am witness to them picking themselves up after fighting, and hearing a few words of wisdom from their parents, and understanding that whatever resulted in fighting should not negate the love that they have for each other, but lead to an understanding that family can agree to disagree. My children are mastering that aspect of life and in doing so have a galvanizing loyalty to each other that is truly profound.

I am happy that my children are loyal to each other, and know that they have someone who is blood who will do whatever they need done for them should the need arise. Loyalty is important, and even more so, among family members as it is stronger because it is a synthesized loyalty grown from having DNA in common.

Because of the circumstances of my childhood should I have had siblings who'd have shown me the loyalty only siblings can provide, my path through childhood would have been somewhat easier. I am happy that my children will have that benefit.

Thankful

I am thankful for all of my blessings. I often complain of not having enough money and love. I hate my job, hate my small apartment, hate my significant other, intermittently hate my children. I sometimes hate my whole life.

I look around and see those who don't have jobs, and think then that I am blessed to have a job. I look around and see those who are homeless, and am thankful that I own an apartment that provides shelter for me and my love ones. I see the father of my children who works at our relationship as best he can though I am unwilling sometimes to meet him half way, and the way that he provides for his children and me a homelife that is nourishing despite the grumpiness of all concerned, and I am thankful. My children come into focus as healthy and happy children sometimes caught in the throes of hormones and becoming young adults, and understand that the path to adulthood sometimes frustrates parents because it does not run straight and narrow, but is sometimes crooked, bumpy, beaten, uneven and frustrating to the parents who have to bear witness and suffer because of the course their children are taking. I do realize my children will come to the end of their paths as developed and mature adults and tell myself I am thankful they are up for the challenge.

I pity myself sometimes. I think of what my life would have been like if I had parents who were not children when they had me. I think of the vast possibilities I would have had if I was a child that was cared for properly by parents who loved their child. And then, when I snap out of self pity, I remember that my experiences as a child have molded me into the person that I am today. I am a person that knows I am deserving of goodness. I am a person that has accomplished many great things despite many early disadvantages and obstacles. I have a stable lifestyle that consist of a committed relationship with children, family and friends, home and job. I must always remember to be thankful for all that I have because I am blessed.

Abuse

I was an abused child and at the the age of 37 still feel that I am being abused. My mother often calls me and I often do not return her messages upon receiving them as I know that when we talk she will say something abusive. I am an abused child though I am 37 year old.

I did not speak to my mother for a six years span. This occurrence happened because she, as usual, was being disrespectful and abusive, and at the age of sixteen, I had had enough. I would see her thereafter in the streets of Harlem and would walk by without speaking. I left her home and taught myself that it was not OK for someone to scream at and be abusive to me.

When my father died six year later my mother sent word of wanting to speak to me through family members. I debated about communicating with my mother and was told to do so by my significant other who, at that point in our relationship, did not know all of the circumstances of my leaving and not speaking to my mother. He now knows and regrets that I began speaking to my mother because he has had a taste of her nastiness. I also regret that I started communicating with my mother because it has proven to be disastrous.

She has used every opportunity up until recently to be verbally abusive, and has done so, often, when she is tipsy. She has also been somewhat manipulative. I have found out that many distant family members think because of my mother's lies that I have never left my childhood home and live there with my 3 children, and that I often do not have a job. She has created a persona of the sacrificing grandmother who has to take care of her inept daughter who has babies and can't take care of them nor herself. Her answering machine has three boxes in which persons can leave messages. Two are for her and one is for "The Kids". My mother lives alone, but this message on the answering machine would make anyone think children live with her. When I questioned her about it, she could not come up with a plausible answer.

My mother calls me on the phone, and when I pick it up she is often, without saying hello, screaming out demands. "What's the number for that thing we talked about?", I'll hear her screaming before I have even gotten the receiver to my ear. She is often at work when placing such calls and she is using her cell phone in her break room at her job, talking, if not screaming, loudly. She does all of that for effect. One effect is to let her co-workers think I am home during the day, and therefore do not have a job, giving the effect that I wasn't and couldn't be doing anything that had or would tire me, though I work during the night. Another, is to talk to me in such a way as to have those hearing think I am being bossed around by a person I am indebted to i.e., someone living with their mother with three children. Another is to make the request as if I was sitting around not doing anything useful and am at her beck and call. I will, when hearing the screaming requests, lay the receiver back in its cradle. She does not call back. My mother has stopped using that tactic.

I don't see my mother, and I do not call her because she is verbally abusive. It reminds me of my childhood, and I will not be forced to revisit my childhood. When I speak with her on the phone it is because she has called. I do not hesitate to hang up should the conversation becomes abusive. And my mother knows that, so of late she has been very careful. Her calls have been reduced to about 3 a month and there have been no hang-ups by me of late.

I would like to go back to the 6 years when I did not speak to her. The anticipation of abuse is as unnerving during a phone conversation as actual abuse. My mother will never change, and I know that as long as we have a relationship, her propensity for verbal and manipulative behavior will appear and I will be victimized by it. Eventually I will have to severe all contact as I did when I was younger because she is not worth the trouble and I value me. I am deserving of peace of mind.