New Norms

Four is old enough to grasp "President" and to recognize Obama's face in a storefront or on TV. She knows that he and his family live in the White House. She knows his job is very important.

I'm buried in the scraps of paper that collect in her cubby, and Stella's voice with excited recognition is behind me.

"Mama! These must be pictures of all the presidents!"

I turn to look high where she is pointing. "African-American Achievers" She is showing me pictures of Martin Luther King. Rosa Parks. Twenty influential black men and women.

Obama. Sotomayor. Preschool children. Maybe the world is changing.

Post Election Blues

Last week we were on the way to swim class and we passed a large group of people chanting and waving YES on 8 signs. "What are they doing, Mama?" Stella asked from her car seat. "Well..." I thought about how to explain the California proposition to change the constitution.

Me: "You know that Papai and I are married, right?"
Stella: "Right."
Me: "Do you think that's OK?"
Stella (a little confused): "Yeah."
Me: "And you know Mark and Lina's Daddy and Poppy are married, right?"
Stella: "Yeah."
Me: "Do you think that's OK?"
Stella: "Yeah."
Me: "And do you think two girls could get married?"
Stella (thinking this is silly): "Yeah."
Me: "I think so too, but those people with the signs think that only a boy and a girl should be able to get married."
Stella: "WHAT?!" (as if I told her there was no more color blue)

Today I am elated with Obama's victory.

I need to let that statement stand alone. But (WHY does there need to be a "but"?), I am sad too. Living in the Bay Area bubble, I really thought Prop 8 wouldn't pass. I shared my little legislative lesson in hate with Mark and Lina's Poppy and he said, "We lost the battle, but we won the war."

True.

There is hope for the next generation.

Marriage Understood, or How We Ended Our Weekend at the Russian River

 

Late weekend morning, I'm still in my pajamas, we're been talking about gardening for over an hour. Stella puts a glittery fuzzy hearts feelers headband on me.

Stella: Mama, let's get married!

Me: How do we do that?

Stella: You tell me.

...um...

Me (straightening my posture, wiggling the sparkly hearts perched on my head): OK. Stella, I love you, and I want you to be my wife.

Stella (with a rare, direct-into-the-eyes look): OK, I'll be your wife. Now go change your shirt and come work in the garden with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tethered: Fresh eyes

Elizabeth Flemming's blog is a great pause in my day. Her art-photos, musings, and posts of work by others are inspiring. Her recent post Tethered: Fresh eyes really grabs me. It is simultaneously empty, chaotic, hopeful, and silent. Just about how I feel right now.

It reminds me of one of my mother's favorite stories- the one she tells now because I'll be in her place soon. When I was just starting to write, I sent her a letter in the form of a paper airplane. On it I wrote: I NO LOVE YOU.

Great art can say so much, evoke such emotion with so little. Just like children can.

Hey, Mom. It's thirty years late, but I'm sorry. I love you now.

Sometimes They Break My Heart

We play Birthday Party like we always do. Towel or blanket spread on the floor. A pile of clothes laid in the middle is our beautiful vanilla-berry-chocolate cake. And before the cake is cut with a hand-knife and served on open palms to oohs and ahhs, we sing in both languages and make a wish. I haven't told them the wish should be secret.

"What did you wish for?" I ask.

Stella blurts, "Two hundred of you!"

"Two hundred of me?" I can't believe it. She hides her face a little. "Yes."

"What did you wish for?" It's innocent enough. Such simple questions they ask.

"That I'll never yell at you again."

I couldn't lie because it was a big wish just like hers. I wanted her to know that my late for work irritation- PUT ON YOUR SHOES NOW, or whispered growl- QUIET. You'll wake your brother, are not the me I imagined. So I use every wish I can get, real candle or not. I close my eyes and think this is the day I become the mother I want to be. The mother they deserve. And her wish is real too. What shame I feel, she uses her wish for more of me.

Wait, child, I want to say, wait until I get my shit together and can act like a grownup, then you can have all you want.

why i love oakland #1

 

saturday morning coffee run
shiny harley parked on the sidewalk
heat reflecting off the pavement
two women having having breakfast curbside: crew cuts, black leather, tattoos, black boots.

stella and i exit past their table: in skirts, matching baseball caps, pink!, flip flops. the woman with the most tattoos smiles and waves at stella. we pass the motorcycle.

"is that a motorcycle?"
"yes, it belongs to the women in the restaurant"
"which women?"
"remember the one who waved on our way out?"
"the one with the helmet on the table?"
"yes, the one with the drawings on her arms?"
"drawings? i don't know... the one who was holding her fork to her mouth and eating?"