My Grateful and Broken Heart

I was talking with my granddaughter the other day when something she said tore at my heart. "I'm probably going to die young in a car accident." For more than a moment I felt lost and wounded and would have had to sit down if I'd been standing. All of it at just the thought of my sweet, cherished grandchild not only dead, but violently and too soon.

Yep. She loves me.

At the same time that I am struggling against this grief that feels much too real she is looking at me with the look she always gives me when she's testing my love for her. More accurately, when she's wondering if I still love her given what she's just said or done. At that moment I put aside the catch in my throat that is threatening to make me cry. I realize we are having a conversation about life by way of talking about death. She's wondering if I will tell her not to say that or that nobody including her can know when or how they will die.

She really likes this show.

So, I breathe and ask her why she thinks this. "I just think so," she says. "Hmm. That's interesting. (And, I mean it.) Did you have a dream? Did it just pop into your head?" I want her to know she can tell me more if she wants. 

"No. Some of my friends think it too."

"Wow. I think I'm gonna be really old when I die." This is a true statement. I tell her that I would be really sad if she died and that I hope she's wrong. This is the most true thing.

Just as quickly, she is done talking about death for the moment. We have the rest of the weekend together; talking, tussling, playing Bopit, cleaning the house, walking around the neighborhood. Later, the subject of death comes up again. This time it's not about her particularly. It's a question about God and death. I don't really have answers. But she looks to me for them. I feel honored.

We saw the season's first egret on our walk.

There are lots of things I thought I had to do over that weekend, things that would mean we couldn't talk and hang out until I was finished online or done writing the report or stopped researching a project. But what she said got me to thinking that she might be completely right about the time and means of her demise. In which case, there was no way I was going to give up a single moment that we could spend talking or laughing or just sitting close together.  It was great.

I Love DC: Metro Bus Zen - All the Way Live

It was a glorious Wednesday morning. My day off. Yayyyyyy! Got up at 6:30 just as the sun was coming up. Oh, it was gonna be a great day. Dirty laundry would get transformed. I was gonna watch episodes of Jimmy Fallon on the dvr. And then...

The phone rings. It's an automated call from the federal government. Oh, damn. I forgot to call into the jury duty phone line the night before. And, now I'm supposed to report at 8:30. It's 7 and I have 30 minutes to walk out the door or I'm gonna be late. I stand still for a minute and just breathe to keep from panicking. At 7:35 I'm walking out my front door whistling a little tune. [Hardly anybody whistles anymore. Have you noticed?]



I make it to the bus stop and only have to wait a few moments when the bus shows. As usual it's packed with kids on their way to "education hill". Mostly high school students. In two stops they will all get off. So, I patiently wait to get a seat.

I was sitting here.

I chose a seat in the bus' accordion tunnel. This is the place they have in the mega long buses that makes it possible for the bus to turn corners. Normally, I give these seats a pass. But today I cut my trek to the back of the bus short and sit. PDQ the bus fills up again. 

It's the usual morning rush hour crowd. The young. The old. The in between. The black. The brown. The white. All of us in it together. I'm bopping my head to the beat of "Brighter Day" on the mp3 player. My super efficient earbuds are shutting out the real life audio that is the soundtrack of the morning bus commute. 

I notice a skinny kid with low hanging jeans and a nice new blue sweater standing just across and to the right of me. He's probably 15. I first notice him because the outline of his butt cheeks pops out when he tries to hold on as the bus makes a lurch. Then I notice he's not wearing the standard school uniform khakis.  

Pants on the ground.

A stop later I notice that next to him is his contemporary; about the same age, same build, low hanging jeans, no uniform khakis, but the jacket he's wearing has seen better days. He's a regular on the X2 bus. I recognize him.


I'm thinking that they know each other. I think I see them do the fist pound. But, then the energy around them changes. The change is quick. Suddenly, they are tussling in the aisle. Almost right in front of me. In a moment the second one has the first one in a head lock. They are closer to me than to anyone else.


So, I touch the arm that he has around his almost twin's neck. We lock eyes. "Come on brother. Stop." His eyes have that look of someone lost to the power of violent rage. His grip tightens and he drags his victim out of my reach. Now they are in the aisle just to my right where the seats face into the bus. These seats are filled with women. Most of them young and white.  There are people standing and I can only see the boys' legs.


After waiting much too long (probably 15 seconds) for the ones who could do something to, you know, do something, I realize that I am actually now in that do-nothing group. Finally, I yell. "DRIVER! THERE'S A FIGHT ON THE BUS!" What had been a deadly quiet struggle is now framed in clamoring chaos.

Two men dash from the back of the bus. People are yelling.
"He's choking him! Let him go!"  
"He stole shortie's stuff! He's trying to get his stuff back."
"Don't let him off. Don't let him off. He stole his stuff."


I cannot really see what is happening. But I can hear the two men pleading with the boy to let go of his almost look alike. I can hear them grunting with the effort of trying to loosen his arms from around the other boy's neck. I can hear their bodies moving. It takes them a little longer to free the one boy from the other than it did for me to find my voice. But, no one pulls out their phone to record it.


The police were called. I don't know if the boy got his stuff back. I didn't think it a good idea to be late getting to the federal court. So, as the driver was facing off with the attacker/thief outside on the sidewalk I got off the back door. I passed the first boy, now sitting by the door and looking lost. I touched his shoulder.


The bus does not empty out completely. But, standing next to me on the sidewalk is one of the men who saved both boys' lives. I thank him. He nods and says he had to do it. I understand this completely.

Reagan at 100: Thanks for the Suffering

Somewhere in my consciousness (thanks to the "news" media) is the awareness that Ronald Reagan, if he were alive, would have celebrated his 100th birthday this February. This awareness feels like I want to duck my head and cover it with my arms. You know, it's what they tell you to do if you run into a mountain lion while you're happily hiking along and it tries to kill you. I SURVIVED THE REAGAN YEARS!!!! A lot of people didn't and I mean that literally. Gratitude marker #1.

All around me during the Reagan years was poverty where it had not been before. Poverty overtook me. I guess it could be argued that Reagan was not to blame for this. But I felt blamed myself - by him. If I couldn't find work and didn't have enough money to feed my daughter it was my own damn fault for not being white and male and Christian and hetero. He famously declared that government was not the solution, it was the problem. And, while he was in office that sure was true. He was only allowed 2 terms in the White House. Gratitude marker #2.

For 2 years in a row I hopped on the Metro bus with my daughter in the middle of January and stood in the freezing cold with throngs of people. People came from all over the country determined to see Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's birthday become a national holiday. Reagan was opposed to the holiday and said so. He only signed the bill because it passed with a veto proof majority in congress.  This was a victory for the people, by the people. Gratitude marker #3.

Reagan was a hostile president. I know everybody is always talking about how likable he was. But, in 1980 Reagan went all the way to Philadelphia, MS (the place where civil rights activists Schwerner, Chaney, and Goodman were assassinated 16 years before) to give a speech. In that speech he proudly proclaimed his belief in and agreement with "state's rights". State's rights - one of the earliest code phrases for white domination and racism. As someone who's been on the receiving end of government hostility I have deep appreciation for President Obama because he is not a hostile president, even to Americans who invite his hostility. Gratitude marker #4.

During the Reagan reign I learned to defend myself politically. I learned to stand up in the face of repression and government surveillance to assert my rights to dissent. I learned new respect for my mother, a life time civilian employee of the DOD, who repeatedly told us kids that the government regularly spies on us all.  A friend in the anti-nuke movement had her trash intercepted by the authorities more than once. A provocateur showed up at a civil disobedience training I was giving. She spent the whole time saying the most incredibly stupid things about busting the police in the head. My co-trainer and I just kept saying "Uhm, no" and burst into laughter when she finally walked out of the room. We should have been scared for those 8 years. But mostly we weren't. Gratitude marker #5. 

Lastly, I like to think of Ronald Reagan as a great cosmic gift. When someone slams up against your life, sapping your joy and draining you of your life force - well, you gotta try to stop them. But to really have victory you have to forgive them for the very thing you're stopping them from doing. Crazy, I know. There is an ongoing campaign to make Reagan seem a whole lot better as a president and person than he was. But, I was there. I know that we stopped him. So, I've forgiven Ronald Reagan for his hostility and indifference to me (and to the rest of the poor, colored, queer, female of the nation). I feel good about that. As the old people used to say, I'm still on the journey and feeling the joy. Gratitude marker #6.

I Love DC: Metro Bus Zen - Last Ride of the Week

It's my last bus ride home from work for the week. I finally leave the office at 5:50 and when I power on my player out flows the lovely sound of Getz and Gilberto doing Desafinado. Nice. I embark upon the 8 block walk to the bus smiling because the music is so mellow. Lots of other newly released workers zoom by me. This makes me smile more.


They are definitely winning the race I think...(say it with me now) the rat race. No, really I'm just kidding. I have no way of knowing what is inspiring people to race walk down the street. But, it feels harried, the energy emanating off these souls as they propel themselves along. For all I know the speed of their pace may be masking complete tranquility. (Prolly not.) But, I have my own pace and I like it. It works for me. I hope theirs works for them.

On 15th Street just north of the train station and five blocks into my walk I can see the race-walkers navigating around the homeless man that I help support. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk and says, "change please, change" and holds a beat up looking Starbucks cup. As I approach him I pull off my right hand glove so that I can dig out the coins from my pocket. He never smiles at me or speaks. But, I smile at him and touch his forearm when I drop my change. I call him brother. I'm not sure that 70 cents 3 times a week entitles me to more than the nod that he gives me.


When I get to Lafayette Square the bus is not there. I take my usual place on the chain that goes around the park. It's kind of a long wait. The waiting-on-the-bus-to-get-there crowd swells and swells. Somewhere along H Street there has got to be an X2 bus running late. It is cold as ish which makes some in the crowd noticeably impatient. I pay particular attention to Lauren Hill's voice singing the Doo Wop song. Letting my body feel the song means that I don't feel the cold so much.



Of course the bus comes. Actually, 2 buses come because I have guessed correctly that there's a bus running late. Everyone gets on the lead bus. It is one of the new shiny buses they have finally designated for the X2 line. And I do mean finally. The bus behind is old and beat up looking. I get on that one. Most everyone else chooses new and shiny. My bus pulls immediately away. I feel triumphant. This bus is the one that has got to make up time.


There should have been lots of folks waiting for this late bus. Oddly, it never gets really crowded. I get to my stop having read 19 pages of the book I'm carrying with me now. Coleman Hawkins carries me the 5 block walk to my front door. Essence of Jazz is such a strange tune and oddly hypnotic. I chuckle at the weirdness of it as I put the key in the door. It's 7:05.


I love coming home.

I Come to Praise the Dead: A Kind and Gentle Man

The first time that I met Mr. J was at a used car dealership in Arlington Virginia. I was in love with his daughter and had somehow convinced her to be my girlfriend. I was going to be meeting Mr. and Mrs. J and I was nervous. Let's see: their daughter was now involved in an interracial relationship with a woman. I just wasn't expecting a warm greeting. Her folks were buying her a car and she forced me to go along. And, just like that I loved them and they loved me.

At 90 years old Mr. J's life came to the kind of end befitting him and his spirit; telling jokes and laughing with his daughter in the emergency room, telling her he was ready when the doctor said the end was very near. There was never any question about us being there to mark his passing. I even shared personal information with my boss that I never would have, except to explain why I had to attend his funeral. Mr. and Mrs. J were like extra grandparents to my daughter when she was little. And, on the first birthday I had after my own parents died within 6 months of each other, it was Mr. and Mrs. J who gave me a parental happy-birthday-call. This call (which broke my heart with tenderness) even came years after their daughter and I stopped being spouses.

 I was driving our little contingent to his funeral at Arlington National Cemetery in my daughter's car (my daughter, her daughter, and me). In the traffic circle leading up to the entrance I disobeyed the lane arrows (poorly marked I should add) and was motioned over by the police officer who was waiting for someone to do the exact thing that I did. But, I smiled at him and was unafraid and really nice. I got a warning. It didn't matter.

My daughter and I stood with the rest of the family and friends of this most excellent, shining example of what can be done with the chance at life. Such a fine example of humanity that when the naval chaplain uttered the words, "a kind and gentle man" all heads nodded in agreement. As my daughter and I shed our tears my granddaughter turned to each of us to give comfort.

I was honored to be there and blessed to have known him.

It's Not You. It's Me. Really.

On a regular basis (not quite every day but lately more than I'd like) I have the strong urge to smack somebody up side the head. Whoo, thank the Divine for even the tiniest bit of self control. I have to admit it has served me pretty well for many years.

I can recall when I was 15 and opened up a can of WhoopAss on my younger sister. But (thanks to Divine assistance) did not drain it dry. What I remember most is how everything took on a magenta tint. Yes, I actually saw red. I pretty much scared her (and myself a little) into a new way of interacting with me.

Since that chaotic night I have: 1) just barely managed to avoid a school yard melee, 2) run someone down with my car, 3) walked away from two fist fights I was totally willing to have, 4) been part of a barroom scrap, and 5) followed a man half a city block yelling and scaring him. If I told you the story behind each of these adventures you'd probably agree that I had my reasons and they were understandable. Just the same, it bears repeating - whoo, thank the Divine for even the tiniest bit of self control because without it all of these would have been worse, details-at-11 worse.

Now, when the head smacking urge is coming upon me it's different than it was back in the day. There are so many reasons for the difference that it's kind of miraculous. I attribute it to growing older, accepting responsibility for my own life, learning to let go, and asking with each breath during my daily prayers and meditation to be more like God. 

I figure if The Source Of All is the source of all then it is my source. I am essentially Divine. But I suffer from spiritual memory lapses. Fundamentally, my prayer to be more like God is a humble prayer to better remember where I come from and who I am. Who I really am. So, I forgive the transgressions that inspire my lower tendencies. I forgive because the act of forgiving is the reminder for which I have prayed . I forgive because I know that I can. Forgiveness is a choice to which I can always marry myself. I forgive because I have been forgiven.

 The Forgiveness Project

Forgiving is like magic. In a breath, in a heartbeat I get transformed each and every time that I forgive. Each time that I forgive (myself and others) it's the real me, the little piece of The Source Of All whose nickname is my name, waving and smiling. At least that's how I picture it. 

I Love DC: Metro Bus Zen or How Do I Love Thee? No, Really How?

Things are changing on the X2 bus line. There are now a whole lotta riders of the middle class Caucasian persuasion.  I find myself being irritated by them. Here are some of the things that they do that I find irritating (taken from actual occurrences):


1) It's morning rush hour. I am sitting in the priority seats at the front of the bus. Two visibly healthy young white men get on the bus. One of them sits and leaves the seat right next to me empty. His friend remains standing and is pretty much blocking the aisle as people get on for the next 2 stops. Without knowing for certain it seems like he is specifically reluctant to sit right next to me. 

After a couple of stops with people having to squeeze by him he finally sits next to me. I can feel the fear on them. They are afraid to be on this bus. Maybe they are afraid to be on any bus. I'll allow that this could be it. But, I would guess it is the presence of all the black people that has them trying to wall themselves off with folded arms and oblivion. [Bus etiquette note: If you sit in the priority seats and you are not old or disabled or pregnant or carrying a child in your arms you must be prepared to get your ass up and move.]  


When I see that a hunched over old woman is about to board I get up and move further back in the bus.  She takes my seat. Two stops later a woman gets on walking with a cane and 2 men get on who look to be 70 years old and also walking with canes. The men struggle down the aisle to some available seats. The two young white men do not move. They avert their eyes from the woman leaning on her cane in front of them. But she is not averting her eyes from them. The more intently she looks at them the deeper they delve into their own, apparently important, conversation.

Finally, a black middle aged woman gives up her seat to the woman with the cane. This is her signal to begin "loud talking" the white guys.  She is publicly shaming them for their indifference to her. They just keep talking like she is not holding up their behavior for public examination. These seats are theirs, dammit. Or so their actions would say.  

2) Morning rush hour again. I am not in the back of the bus. But, I'm near the back door. I'm on the aisle sitting next to an older woman with a cane. She is taking up part of the seat meant for me. But that's okay. Between her cane and her shopping bag she needs a little extra space. Just the same, as we ride along she adjusts to give me more room.



The bus is filling with people as is almost always the case for this bus line, regardless of the time of day. But rush hour means we get packed in like oily fish. This means the aisles are jammed when she rings the bell for the next stop. She smiles at me to acknowledge the endeavor that she now faces - making her way through this crowd with her bag and her cane. I smile back so that she knows I am on this like stink on a pig.


Right before the bus stops I stand and slide into the aisle. Standing there is a white man who looks to be in his late 20s. He is texting. I stand right next to him and say, "excuse me". He does not move. I lean in very close and directly in his ear I say, "Xkuze me". He does not look at me. But, he does move. In the meantime, the bus has stopped and my seat mate is on her feet.

I turn back to her. "Which way do you want to go, sis"? I point to the back and front doors. "That way," she says nodding to the back. I turn back to Mr. Too-Busy-Texting-To-Care. In the voice that I use to demonstrate my power I say, "step that way" and use my body to make him move his.  But, now my seat mate has realized that she really shouldn't be trying to get off the back door what with the bag and the cane. I see it in her face.


So I yell, "coming off" and know that this should clear the aisle for her heading to the front. Right before I move out of her way I say to him, "step aside please".  And something happens. He sees us; me and the old woman. "Oh, sorry," he offers finally. 


I feel the irritation. The weariness of fighting against being erased. By the time I am sitting again I have let it go; only wishing that I could have gone without feeling it at all. And then just a moment after that I'm just grateful that I could let it go. Grateful that I had enough mojo to finally be seen and to clear a path for someone else.