My Best Christmas

My youngest daughter, Brittney, asked me "what was my best Christmas ever?" Honestly, I had to stop and think about it. Christmas was always a big deal in our house. I told her about my new Barbie and the car I got to go with her. It didn't compare to what they ask me for, but I was wanting her to understand the significance of the memory.

Every year I try to please them on Christmas morning waiting for them to truly experience that same feeling. Not just the feeling on that particular Christmas but the elation and appreciation I felt every year. I have always been somewhat disappointed, so this year I decided to convince my husband to get as many of the things they wanted on their list. I told them if they were not satisfied this year next year we would only have decorations and dinner--no gifts!!

We opened our presents Christmas morning and the return on our investment in a few packages is well, priceless. Brittney was so touched by her presents she laid in my arms and cried. All day she repeatedly smiled and said thank you. My son ran all over the living room and and up the stairs and landed on top of his dad. The two of them screamed and jumped it was such a joy to watch.

I've been thinking all day, was it the gifts? I would like to think they got it! That they felt gratitude. The same I felt every Christmas and every time I think about the ultimate gift of love.

time

It's hard to believe time passes as quickly as it does. Mainly it's whether or not I have used time wisely that bothers me.

Twenty-two years ago I had my first child. I wonder about all the years in between today and that Thursday evening. I'm sure there are photographs stored away somewhere to remind me of some occasions.

Today her second birthday comes to mind. I dressed her in a little denim outfit. She posed for every picture. She had full cheeks and a big head. She wasn't fascinated with her cake just the idea that the day was set aside to celebrate her.

When I think of her all grown up and away from home doing an internship in D.C., I think about the years in between that day and today. I hope who she is today is a reflection of how I (we) spent the time.

the unknown

I have always hated being made to feel less. I'm not referring to race but in my abilities. Somehow this has been woven into the fabric of what makes Pam. I'm sure if I researched this it would lead me back to some place in time where I was left out of some event I deemed important. What instantly comes to mind is the time my older siblings went to see Star Wars. This was of course in the 70's and we walked everywhere. We all started walking to the movie theater down town and I'm not tall and I was young so I couldn't keep up. They left me. I cried all afternoon. Consequently, I hate Star Wars and have never seen a single movie!

For years in so many arenas I have repeatedly tried to overcompensate for this feeling. I hate not knowing. I'm discovering more and more I am very uncomfortable in this place. It leaves me feeling small inside. It leaves me on the front porch waiting for everyone else to return from the show.

homage to my hips
by Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

I discovered this wonderful poem today. A day when my hips were on my mind. I wasn't necessarily celebrating them--until now!

Interviewed

Being interviewed reminds me of the playground and the image of me standing there waiting to be chosen for a team to play kick ball. I always wanted to yell, "I'm short but I can run really really fast!" Instead I would always stand there twiddling hoping I wasn't the last one selected. The job interview is a process I know is necessary; but I don't necessarily enjoy it. Today I decided to be as honest and as open as possible so my answers wouldn't sound canned. Well, I'm so diverse I wonder did I scare them away? They asked everything except for what I had for breakfast this morning. Who can stand rejection? No one! Who's patient enough to wait on the phone to ring? Not me! I told my mother today, "I don't have the patience of Job." (Job--job--pun not intended) I have fought for years to separate myself from that scared little clay colored girl with rust colored afro puffs standing against the wall of life, but inevitably she shows up every now and again.

Hives

Sometimes I honestly think I'm growing as a writer and then I end up back where I started. I've always hated waiting for someones approval. It reminds me of my entire childhood. I've finally slayed the big ones it's the small bites that still hurt. They nip at my ankles like dust mites. And when I look down to access the damage the red whelps sting as if enraged. Somehow no matter how hard I've tried to purge it the bitterness towards rejection flows through my veins.

Remembering 9-11

I remember the morning seemed quite normal. The clinic wasn't hectic yet. Somehow word got to us of the events marring that day and all future mornings. Immediately when my mind digested the words coming from now a borrowed radio my mind developed images of slain innocent people. I excused myself to the restroom. My stomach in knots as tears tried to wash away the visions of broken tattered bodies. Strangers to me now flooding my heart with grief. At the end of the day as I tried to return to my home on the air base, I realized our lives were forever changed in a matter of minutes. There were soldiers at the gate with loaded weapons and what through my eyes looked like a tank pointed at every car trying to enter. We all sat in our cars for hours as they searched every vehicle. The sound of airplanes would send feelings of terror through our hearts--even the crop dusters that once was as routine as a flying mosquito. I didn't loose anyone I knew personally in those attacks, but I believe we each lost some of ourselves that day. The ideology that we were safe. That the days of blood stained American soil were over. We're still searching for our enemy. Yet the question remains, at his discovery will we then somehow recapture the feeling we had that seemingly normal peaceful morning.

Birthday Wishes

No past birthday memories this year. In fact, the day went by without much fanfare. I always get perfume--that's standard. The blessing this year came through words. The words my children wrote in their cards to me. Even through the misspelled words the sentiment was still strong. I'm proud to be considered their friend (even though some say that is impossible) and I'm pleased about the light in which they view me in. In all the years I have had or may have on earth I believe this to be my greatest achievement. If I never leave another mark, I know I've left one on their souls.

Crape Myrtle

There's something special about being under the safety of your parents covering. You could almost forget you were actually an adult and revert back to seeking permission to open the refrigerator or to sleep in.

The years of battling illness has taken it's toll on my parents. Her nursing him through his illness and him resenting her for being well. Watching them grow old is hard. When I listen to their voices over the telephone time seems to stand still, but when I look at them, her sitting in her chair and him across the room in his--reality sets in.

Grow old or die. I don't think there's another option. I'm happy to still have them. The availability of their wisdom. To see the look of fulfillment whenever they see their grandchildren. To drive my daddy to the store or across town to pay his bills. Or to prepare a meal with my mother.

This place, this small Blytheville, where the crape myrtle is in full bloom, the small streets seem even smaller, is a part of who I am . The faces around town are not as familiar; but there is joy in still having a place to call home.

Under the Microscope

The last time I went on a job interview was in December 2000. I hadn't worked then for two years. Well it's been longer than two years this time and needless to say, I'm nervous. The thought of being examined and possibly rejected. And at the same time, I 'm so excited. I've been enjoying my time off since graduating, but I'm so bored. I do love my morning devotions. I needed them.

It seems whenever I need him most, he steps right in. I didn't ask for a position, just renewal. But I had gotten a little discouraged and I said a short prayer for the right place--then five minutes later the phone rang. More than the interview, he heard me.

I can't pretend I don't know how to pray or know his word. I can't pretend I'm not chosen or normal. I've tried, it doesn't work. Each day I can feel his presence standing, watching, examining........ me.

4th of July Sky

Holidays were always a big deal in our house and the 4th of July was no different. My father was big on these family moments. We would get new clothes for the holiday. Sometimes my older sister and I would get matching short outfits. He would take us to buy fireworks and still no one, in my opinion, can beat him on the grill. Those times, mostly spent on Sawyer, seem so far away. There wasn't any fancy firework shows to see. But I still fell in love with them.

The past holds the clues I need to understand me today and my reactions to tomorrow. When I look up into the night sky filled with fireworks to see if it resembles the same sky thirty years ago maybe I'll understand why.

More Than a Tour

I went through a tour of historical homes in which the new owners have renovated in order to preserve their architectural heritage. The homes were beautiful and marvelously preserved. The people I found very nostalgic of the Dayton they once knew and maybe the one in which they once before were on the outside looking in.

I recall when I was young my aunts would come down to Arkansas to visit us from Dayton. They came in their big fancy cars and fine clothes. They made Dayton seem like the place to be for blacks (this was before we were African-Americans) and we were always envious of their lives. They, like many other blacks, left the clay hills of Mississippi and migrated to Dayton, Chicago or Detroit.

As I talked to various homeowners, especially the black homeowners, who were Dayton natives, it reminded me of the social groups I have avoided my entire life. Those who are members of the biggest black Baptist church and hold positions and titles, the fair skinned (for obvious reasons), those whose families were charter members at the oldest black Baptist church, and the educated and you better recognize it. Or I love this one, my daddy was so and so. All too familiar and all I have witnessed since I was old enough to remember.

When I finished my tour and made it home I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. We have come so far and still are standing around the corner. I refuse to conform. I never have and if God be my help (something my mother always says) I never will.

There is undoubtedly a sense of pride in our heritage. I love myself and apart of who I am is black. I love God and all that I am is because of Him. But authentic is all I have ever been able to be. I've never been able to pretend to be humble before the white folks and I've never been able to pretend to care about someones "china" which has been passed down from generation to generation. Now a quilt, that's another story. Or even more seriously my name. The first freed slave on my father's side was William Reed. He kept the name of the slave owner who was the kindest to him. He bought the land which we still own in Mississippi in times when that must have been a difficult thing to do.

I won't conform, but I can say I can understand it. I recall the tea parties I would help my grandmother give for the snooty women from her Methodist church. They all were fair skinned and had soft skin that smelled of roses and powder. They all wore broaches and carried handkerchiefs. They were either school teachers or the wives of the black physicians and dentist in town. Even though my grandmother was poor her skin made her acceptable to fit among these women. I remember when we moved on up and moved in a house down the street from some old senile white woman who my mother had once cleaned house. Even though this woman was old, broke and senile (her house now ram shackled by borders) my mother still found it necessary to visit her and inform her she was moving in down the street. She told us how mean the woman was to her and how she had to shine the stairs, etc.., I love my mother--back then you did what you had to do. And I thank God I have never had to clean up behind some bitchy white woman. I've been secretary for a few, but I didn't leave without having demanded their respect. And I received it. When they were getting sued--my prayers they requested. And when budget cuts were to be made they would have fired the entire secretarial staff to keep me. My mother didn't have this pleasure until the last 1980's. And she still didn't tell another old white lady, in who's factory she worked tirelessly, to go to hell--she simply quit. But when the woman was on her death bed she called for my mother to come and pray for her. And she still runs into her from time to time--you know at Wal-Mart and stuff. So, maybe it was a good thing she didn't do so.

I wonder today will there ever be change? I love our President. I followed him around Ohio during his campaign. I stood in the COLD to witness his inauguration. He could care less about these issues. He can see himself beyond his skin and title. But most of all he can see others also.

The Man on the Poster

Michael Jackson is dead! I recall just last week I saw his face on one of those tabloids in the drugstore and said, "Michael doesn't have long." So, when the news came across the screen needless to say I stopped moving.

I remember (and it doesn't seem like that long ago to me) when I hung his poster on my bedroom wall. It was the one from his Thriller album. I collected photo after photo and read every article I could scrap up change to buy--this was before the internet. I would walk down town and buy the teen mags. Now my youngest daughter buys them. Time.

Yes, Michael changed on the outside--that was quite apparent. Thinking about him over the last few days, I have come to realize unless you lived the way he did you couldn't understand. Yes, we all have demons chasing us--some have bigger demons than others. I can't say I know how it is to grow up with the world watching you; but I do know how it is to live with everyone having certain expectations of you. When everything you do is for the benefit of or the example for others. My glass house may not be on top of the hill, but sometimes I still would like to close the blinds.

Me & My Shadow

It's something to be said for becoming the person you can admire when you see their shadow on the wall. When your name appears in print and makes the neighbors wish they had come over for dinner when first invited. You have to change the image in the family photographs to match the person at the breakfast table. The eggs taste the same but the conversation has changed. The words wash down with the morning coffee but the new point of view takes time to digest. The freedom to formulate your own opinions. I can't necessarily recall that freedom. My mother and grandmother told you what to think. When I was ten my grandmother decided for me I was too old to want a doll for Christmas. I remember looking for Barbie and when I had opened the last box I asked for her. My mother said my grandmother told her I was to old for a doll. Who asked her? But you dare not say anything. You just accepted what they said and tucked whatever opinion you had in the box in the bottom of your closet. Lately I've determined to do what I want. It feels weird. I feel as if someone is going to come around the corner and see my shadow enjoying herself and go and get a switch.

L'il Blue Eyed Boy

Phillip was gorgeous. His eyes were so blue you couldn't help but stare. He was kind. He was free. He was different. He was an artist. We were friends senior year. I was pregnant. Yes, pregnant. He would carry my books and walk me to class. He would rub my shoulders and feed me snacks. He called me when I had my baby. My mother was shocked. "There's a white boy on the phone for you", she announced through the house. Months passed and we remained friends. One day he leaned against my locker and asked me out. I had never seen this look in his eyes before. Well, not directed at me. My response, "on a date Phil!" This reaction told me then I was afraid. My girl friends had told me he liked me. But he was white! Twenty-one years ago we did not do that. But he was cute! So, I said, "yes, sure Phil, call me." He never did. He probably was just as afraid as I was. We did live in Arkansas. It snowed one day and classes were dismissed early. He offered me a ride home instead of waiting in the cold for the bus. I accepted. We drove down Franklin Street. The distance seemed greater than ever before. For once I was ashamed and acutely aware of where I lived. He pulled on Sawyer to the front of my house. It looked older and more ragged than I remembered. He leaned in and tried to kiss me. Fear, intimidation and uncertainty came down like the snow. I had always been confident when it came to boys, but that day I wasn't. I thought to myself, my lips are too big for his. I pulled away. I justified my fear by saying I didn't want to be his experiment. I think about Phillip from time to time. I think about the honest blue in his eyes.

Grits

The morning was full of old and new. Thoughts of my grandmother dominated the conversation. The fruit of her womb still paying homage to her. I see her in the mirror. I feel her when I put on my red shoes. I smell her in my morning bath. I understand her when I want to keep on walking.

My baby sister doesn't remember our grandmother as vividly as I do. I told her stories of how she would take us shopping. And of course about the switches! I wanted her to know the stock she came from. I myself needed to be reminded.

She reminded me of how I teased her and called her names. I did hate her. This morning hopefully we settled it over coffee and grits.

Mommas Prayer

We could hear my mother praying all day. She would walk through the house saying, "Lord Jesus help me on the mission". Was she going anywhere? Was anything out of the ordinary happening that particular day? No! She would just say it, maybe even out of habit.

As I age I find myself becoming her. Maybe not such a bad thing, but I would rather put the process off for another 10 or more years. This doesn't seem to be the case. As the days roll on I find myself saying the same prayer. Praying also that He hears my feeble plea like he did hers.

We lived next door to the church. We would go to prayer meeting and they would sing "Pass Me Not" and the deacons would pray. My daddy could pray a prayer. The words from the hymn fell on my mind today. But I called home for their prayers just in case.

Blue Sky

On the way home the sky was child like blue. Blue enough to make you dream. Blue enough to make you remember when the days seemed long and Christmas even further away. When the neighborhood was full of laughter. Children were able to roam the streets. The sound of the ice cream truck caused a frenzy for the coins underneath the sofa cushions. The sound of the screeching screen doors announced the mothers calling their children in. Days like this made you wish the sun never had to leave. Made you regret growing up.

Press -n- Curl

Saturday was "hair day". The process was long and brutal. Momma would wash our hair and let it air dry and by late Saturday afternoon she would press it out with the hot comb. Oh, it was hot! She would put it on the stove let it heat up and pull out the royal crown hair grease. Believe me you sat still until she was done. But the joy of wearing a bang and having "straight hair" was worth the pain. I would go to bed wearing the pink sponge roller excited about having some of my hair down for Sunday morning. And when I was older she would let me wear a bang in the front and some hanging down in the back.

Over the years I've worn weaves, wigs, braids, ponytails-- worn mine short and long and any style the lady at the salon could do to make me beautiful. I have sat with my scalp on fire from chemicals for "straight hair". Now, it's short. And sometimes I wear a "wash and go". Air dried like I would on Saturday and if I would have known then what I know now I would have saved myself the torture. People have said, "girl that's hot", "you look so sophisticated", "you look stunning". But thirty years ago on a Saturday afternoon sitting in the kitchen underneath the heat of the comb it was just "nappy". Us clay colored girls have come a long way.

Unknown Riches

We were all poor and didn't know it. We all lived in the hood. We all ate beans and cornbread and went to church on Sunday. We all had floor model televisions and hung our clothes on the line. We all had to be home before the street lights came on and we all wore hammy (hand me downs--for the northerners)downs.

We all had a place to belong. We all knew every ones name--even the crazy man-woman who lived in the shanty. We all played jacks and jumped rope. We all made mud pies and ate honey suckles from the bushes. We all climbed the trees.

We all roamed and went trick or treat. We all lived in houses with plastic on the windows to keep in the heat and plugged them in with box fans to let it escape. We all had grandmas and papas that lived around the corner.

We all married, went to school, joined the Army and moved away. Now we all go back and cry over the shacks we left behind and the streets once filled with laughter.

Nine

The summer always ended when it was time for my birthday. There aren't too many I hold on to. Except for the day he came home with the light blue bicycle. I'll always remember the last of summers wind on my face.

Penny Candy

Jars full of cookies and candy. I always made him search for a red one. The butter cookies I slid on my fingers. The twinkies and the honey buns. I can't forget the wind mill cookies. I wanted them when I was grown and my belly filled with my son. My daddy mailed them to me along with money for ice cream.

The First Day of School

I leaped from the car with no idea where I was going. There was a hopscotch drawn on the sidewalk. I couldn't resist the only thing familiar. I had learned my alphabet already and had printed them in the dirt on the side of the house, my numbers too. I knew I would be fine, my daddy worked down the street.

Switches

The music the screen door played when she, my grandmother, went to go get it was like the music in a cheap horror film. But the terror she gave was real. She never picked a bad one. She could pick one clean it seemed in a matter of seconds.

My mind would race for a plan. A plan to escape or even hide. To disappear. To take back whatever I did or didn't do. Soon she would be on me. And the sting of my legs picked by the salt in my tears.

Sawyer Street

For some reason I remember when they paved the road. When we waded in the water from the flood. In the front room was a red velvet couch and a red rose bush grew in front of the big window.

The place past the field would hold the sun in the evening. And when the wind was angry its fury would paint the sky sienna brown. From the porch the distance seemed far away to a little girls eyes.

Too far to imagine going past the humming distant highway, too far to imagine eyes to melt my heart like the evening sun.

Peach Trees

Memories of old.
They're in my mind wandering, pretending to be asleep.
Pretending they don't have a hold.
Like still waters they run deep.

Memories of times spent climbing the peach tree.

Memories of old.
They stir at the oddest times
Stirring to make me want to pull them out of the folds.
Pull them out of mind look at them line by line.

Memories of times spent climbing the peach tree.

Memories of old.
Life so simple standing on top of the world.
Standing free and bold.
Clay colored girls, promising to marry rich men.
Promising to always be friends
Promising to be more than what we could see.

Memories of times spent climbing the peach tree.