Shortnin' Bread

The pitiless stairs loomed above her, all 24 of them.  This would be the day the elevators went out.

She’d have to pull herself up with just the one handrail, grasping with both hands, willing herself to her fate on the 6^th floor.  At the top she would need five minutes before opening the door, praying that no one would come in and catch her trying to breathe.

Trying to summon her best self, the one that would make it easy on the HR girl, she thrashed about for her dignity.  It was the only thing left for her to prove.  All of her practiced meditation and guided imagery fled as she began to climb, humming “Mammy’s little baby loves shortnin’ shortnin’, Mammy’s little baby loves shortnin’ bread.”

Kool-Aid

I was raised on Kool-Aid and long, listless summer afternoons.  After the household chores, my mother would sit on the porch with other women from the neighborhood - Pauline, Laverne, and Mary.  Their babies down for naps, they would speak in murmurs and soft laughter, sometimes stopping to shout at the children in the street.

Be careful.  Watch out.

The littlest ones ran excitedly through the sprinkler in the middle of the lawn and, when exhausted, would lie flat on the driveway in the sun, sleepily gazing into the sky, imagining fierce animals in the clouds.

I would pull leaves from the weeping willow tree that my father had planted as a little stick, and which had grown to overshadow half of our home.  Caterpillars had made the tree their home, and I would put them on my hands, delighting in their soft black fur creeping along my skin.

One by one, the women would leave - to check on their babies, to start dinners, and wait for the men to come home.  Their doors would close, and the stories they told each other would remain unfinished, incomplete; their separate lives unknown to one another.

My mother would make dinner for us alone, as our father worked late.  His overshadowing of our home would be put off for a few more hours.

Piece of the Day

The cat was fed.
He slept lazily, partially under the bed,
his tail of woe peeking from under the skirt.

And she smiled as she passed by.

Eight months had gone by and he has decided that he can trust her this much.

She silenced the television, turned off the phone, and closed the lid of her laptop.

This was her piece of the day.
This was her peace of the day.

She focused on emptying her mind of its detritus.
She then focused harder to empty it of others.
Breathe deeply in.
Exhale, she told herself.
It's all you really have to do.

The loneliness she used to feel had kept her from being able to sit still.  Now she worshiped and protected her solitude.

Breathing in, exhaling out,
her spirit peeked out from its hiding place,
and she smiled as she passed by.

Graduation Day

It was graduation day. Her graduation day.

The morning ceremonies were over and Saturday stood still for awhile. It was getting hot. Her mother was in the kitchen preparing food for the party later that afternoon. He was putting the finishing touches on the lawn in the back yard, trimming and making sure there was an even 2-inch space between the grass and the surrounding concrete.

Her brothers and sisters had scattered off to friends' homes, and her aunt lie quietly dozing on the sofa. She sat on a chair in a corner of the unused living room; just yesterday she and the other kids had hand-waxed the hardwood floors, their mother following behind with the electric buffer. Sitting still in her new pink wool suit, a gift from her aunt, she felt stifled in the girdle, stockings, and pearl white pumps, but also great relief at never having to go back to high school. She had not been accepted at college yet, and doubted she ever would be.

She had two options: continue to work at the Leed's Shoe store in town and live at home, or move in with her aunt across the Bay and work in her office. Really though, there was no choice; she couldn't stay here. She had graduated from high school and this was the first and perhaps only time to get away from him. It would mean leaving her sisters behind to fend for themselves.

She got up and walked over to the hi-fi cabinet, lifted the lid and put on her favorite Joan Baez album - the one he had forbidden her to play. Things would be different from now on she thought, as she turned up the volume.

PAGLIACCI

Mark reclined on the couch, smoking one cigarette after another, sipping coffee for hours, and gazing at the drawing of Pagliacci on the wall. His senses didn’t take in much else in the room. There was TV and his music, but he never thought to turn those on anymore.

She didn’t know if he even realized that he was staring, for hours, at the drawing. His mind seemed only half there most of the time. The phone would ring and he would pick up, confused as to who he was talking to, and why. He would look at her helplessly and hand her the receiver. He’d already detached from this life, knowing he was on his way out. He didn’t cry about it anymore, or fight it, or complain. He just kept smoking and gazing at Pagliacci.

Later, when he was gone, she kept some of his music, all of his books, and the drawing. It reminded her of the dark and hurting days, but it also gave her a kind of peace and comfort she could not and did not try to explain.

Sorting it out

Four weeks off work so far, to recover from my very odd and extreme surgical adventure. What was my vagina trying to tell me?

I'm just now starting to sort things out. Practical, tangible things I can understand.

Old cups and dishes, clothing hardly worn, shoes that don't fit anymore, old meds, old paperwork, dying plants, crappy CDs, and uninteresting books.

Sorting the videos and photos that were never organized, trying to fulfill promises that I made to myself and others to get the history recorded, get it down, get it all sorted out.

And still it eludes me. The one thing I can't seem to sort out. Why did this happen? How can I make peace with it? Where do I go from here if the surgery wasn't successful? Worst of all, where do I go from here if it was?

We Were Here - and some of us still are

There is a new documentary out titled "We Were Here." It is about the AIDS epidemic in San Francisco in the 1980s. A local movie critic wrote about the few surviving gay men and what they saw and went through. Here is a link to that review, and my response.

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/02/24/MVLI1HR45F.DTL#ixzz1FC9DzCVz

There are other survivors from those days living among us - sisters, mothers, brothers, fathers, friends, and the lesbian community in SF. We all endured inestimable pain and grief, and did what we could for our loved ones, and for strangers. If anyone who is taking part in risky sexual practices (including the notorious tent at Burning Man) wants to know the truth, I'm here to tell. Sadly, youth can = denial, and denial can = death. It was only yesterday. You just have no idea.

In loving memory of all,

Mark

John

Johnathan

Rick

Don

Marty

Stanley

Terry