black and (A)broad

In recent months there’s been a brouhaha surrounding the so-called plight of single black women, arguably spearheaded by Steve Harvey’s best-selling Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man and brought into prominence on the internet by Nightline’s controversial “Why Are Black Women Single” and Helena Andrews’s newly-released Bitch Is the New Black. I’ve read everything from scary statistics to scary solutions and thought I’d offer my input on the topic: single (black) women, don’t despair because relationships and the family that they often engender are not always what they’re cracked up to be.

I love having a husband and children. To have a partner who supports and respects you, who brings out the best in you while reminding you, from time to time, that you’re not perfect, and someone with whom you can laugh often is what a lot of us women – and men – dream of. To discover the divinity of unconditional love that comes with children is a gift I would bestow upon everyone. To be the one person a young child comes to for comfort when she’s sick or scared or just wants to cuddle is validation that you’re doing something right.

However, marriage and motherhood come with a downside so steep I sometimes long for the advantages I had when I was single. Below are the five most important things I traded when I lost my single status.

1. Uninterrupted sleep. At least my kids don’t sleep through the night. When one wakes up for a drink of water, you wake up to give it to her. When you realize that the body lying next to you is not your partner, you have to get up and put said body (sometimes kicking and screaming) back in its own bed and sit there until it falls asleep. I’m a light sleeper so when my husband breathes too loud or, heaven forbid, snores, I’m wide awake staring at the ceiling. He pulls the comforter off me and rolls it around his heavy body so that I wake up … cold. When all this happens as often as it does in our home, you’re exhausted, and you still have to get up at 6:45 the next morning and drop the one child off at school and give your undivided attention, all day, to the one who’s at home. They don’t understand, nor do they care, that Mama’s tired. They want Mama to take them to the playground or color or play with their dolls. That’s not to imply that single women always get their eight hours a night. The difference is that the latter is usually by choice. You stay up late to polish that presentation that might get you that promotion. You were with your girls until 3:00 am talking and laughing and having a good time. You wanted to watch the end of the late movie or you were on FaceBook way too late.

2. The right to be sick. When I was growing up, I heard my mother say that with young children you can’t even be sick. This is one of the hardest parts of parenthood. Whether you have the flu or a bad cold, when you’re sick, all you want to do is sleep, or at least lie on the couch and watch crappy TV. When you have a family, you have to keep going. The deal that my husband and I made when I left my job to work at home as a freelance writer and editor was that I would be the primary care giver. And it made sense. We depend primarily on his income, so he can’t up and leave work when the kids are sick. As his parents live over an hour away and as my parents live in America, when I’m sick I still have to go on. Lunches have to be made, milk has to be poured.

3. Time. My days are not fully my own although working from home has provided me with an enviable degree of control over my own schedule. However, having a family takes a good deal of that control away. Even before I had children, I couldn’t just not come home after work. If at the last minute I wanted to have drinks with my colleagues after work, I had to let my husband know. I always had to work with his schedule, and vice versa. It’s not just my week-end anymore. If there’s something I want to do in the evening, personal or professional, I need to make sure my husband’s going to be home on time and vice-versa. There are no more spontaneous road trips to be had. Dinner has to be done by 6:00 in order to get the kids in bed by 7:30. Now my oldest has her play-dates and sports activities and so forth, and who gets to cart her around? And on whose time? Gone are the days when I could roll out of bed at 10:00 on a Sunday morning and pick up a doughnut and coffee on my way to spending the afternoon rollerblading around the streets of DC.

4. Individuality. This can be as banal as decorating your house or apartment exactly the way you want it with the furniture you picked out. It’s as mundane as leaving a stack of papers on the table before you go to work and finding it at the end of the day in the same place as where you left it. It’s dealing with your own messiness and watching what you want on TV every night or choosing the movie you want to see every time. It’s about doing what you want to do without consulting with anyone or worrying about the long-term affects it’s going to have on your relationship or your children.

5. Being responsible for myself. This sums up the previous four points and is this simple: when I get up in the morning, I’m automatically responsible for three people. Sure, my husband helps me with the morning routine, but even with help, I’m responsible for getting myself and two children dressed, fed and out the door on time. If we go to my in-laws’ for the weekend, I have to pack and unpack for three people. If we go out for pizza, I have to think about sweaters and pull-ups and menu choices for three people. When I buy groceries, I have to consider that my husband always wants to eat meat and that my children don’t want to eat veggies. I can never go anywhere empty-handed; I’m either carrying a child or my children’s stuff. The family car, i.e. my car, is always full of crumbs and my husband is always reminding me that it needs to be cleaned.

I wouldn’t want my life to be any different than it is right now, and when these frustrations take the forefront of my daily thoughts, I balance them with the joys that come with my lifestyle choice. Nor do I have too many regrets about how I’ve lived my life or the decisions I’ve made save this one: I wish that while I was single I could have embraced that period of my life. The one piece of advice I’d like to give to all you single (black) ladies is to be where you are. Take stock of what you have right now and spend as little time and energy as possible on the illusions created around relationships and families. They’re not always everything they’re cracked up to be.

Tags: black women, identity
Posted in Reflections, parenting; reflections | 4 Comments »

And I can say that now because, guess what I did yesterday afternoon? I BECAME DUTCH!!!!! Between cracks about Dutch speed skater Sven Kramer’s disqualification and the prime minister’s stepping down and the fall of the Dutch government, the mayor of Voorschoten conferred citizenship upon us citizens of Somalia, Italy, America, England and two others I didn’t get to talk to. There were two sets of mother/daughter candidates one of which I see every day when I drop Chloe off at school. What a small world!

Though Chloe probably didn’t have a full understanding of what Mama’s becoming a Dutchie really means, she was excited about attending the ceremony. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I understand the full scope of what it means.

I feel like I felt seven years ago when hubby and I got married. I expected to feel … I don’t know … different somehow. I didn’t. The relationship didn’t change either. The only thing that did was how hubby and I referred to each other - as husband or wife.

I don’t feel any more Dutch than I did on Tuesday. Nor do I consider myself less American. When people ask me “where are you from?”, I’ll still answer “I’m from America.” I decided to get a Dutch passport, not because I expected to experience an identity shift or to tangibly renounce my nationality to protest my country’s ills. Holland has its own issues, believe me.

When all’s said and done, I applied for Dutch citizenship because I could. I was assured I could keep my American one, so why not? Still, I’m planning to travel to Paris by myself this summer, and I don’t think I’ll feel comfortable doing so on a Dutch passport. My identity is still wrapped up in the old red, white and blue. I just have different shades of red, white and blue to wave alongside it.

Posted in Reflections, cultural stuff | 17 Comments »

Last year I was tagged to respond to list after list asking me to share bits of personal information with friends, acquaintances and total strangers. The questions on this list are just as revealing inasmuch as they point to a depth of character. Haven’t we all heard the saying that “if it doesn’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger”? I hope that you not only say “yes” to all ten items, but that you also take a moment or two to think about the situations and how you reacted to them. They’re not the “nicest” of experiences, but they do balance out the bucket lists.

When’s the last time you:

1. Got caught in the rain and cussed because of it
2. Just missed the bus, tram or train and were late to an appointment
3. Were relocated and felt deeply homesick
4. Received a ding letter
5. Cried
6. Broke something because you were so mad
7. Had an identity crisis
8. Experienced racial (sex, age) discrimination
9. Missed your favorite television show
10. Faced one of your prejudices

Feel welcome to copy and paste this list and forward it. Better yet, make up your own!

Posted in Living smarter not harder, Reflections | 2 Comments »

I just read these sobering numbers from the 2010 Census report. Is this racism at its worst or are we as African Americans sabotaging ourselves? The Obama administration can address the disparities in employment and educational opportunities. But who’s going to fix the tragedy of our broken homes? One in five black families is headed by a single woman. What percentage of those single women is under the age of 25? Is it enough that Michelle Obama, a fierce black woman, is sitting in Washington as a role model? Can she single-handedly help African American women - nay, American women - recover and redefine our collective identity as black women? Whether lost opportunities are a sign of racial discrimination or our race’s lost identity, these numbers have got to change.

Posted in Reflections | No Comments »

Then - about an hour ago.

Chloe’s crying because Papa left for work.
Paige is crying because she bit her own finger as she was eating the grilled cheese sandwich she asked for

“Mama, mijn buik doet pijn,” Chloe complains.
“I’m sorry your belly hurts, Chloe,” I reply, mustering up what sympathy I can without having had my breakfast. “You can either go lie down or have a banana.”

“Paige, Mama would like you to put the toys down and go back to the table and eat your sandwich.”
Boink.
Another round of crying after Paige hits her head on the table.

“I know you hit your head, but that’s why Mama asks you to eat in your chair and not under the table.”

Finally, a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. One sip. Two sips.

“Ok babies. Let’s get some coats on and get going. Chloe has to go to school.”
Of course it’s raining!

Now - about an hour and a half later.

Listening to “I Am an Endangered Species” by Dianne Reeves while reading Mridu Khullar’s blog. I’m always inspired after reading it.

Drinking a warm cup of coffee (with milk and sugar) in peace, waiting for a former colleague and friend to come over for tea and talk.

I congratulate myself for finishing the first revision of my memoir. It’s currently being edited.

I congratulate myself for sticking to my decision to take two weeks off. I finished Stieg Laarson’s third installment of the Millennium trilogy, “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest” (Go put your records on/tell me your favorite song/you go ahead let your hair down/sapphire and faded jeans). Yesterday I finally bought a new pair of jeans after my favorite ones ripped last week during mother/toddler gym class. I confess: I also bought some boots, two sweaters and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

I wish my friend would hurry up - I want another cuppa and a slice of that delicious-looking heidelbergtaart I just picked up from the bakery.

Posted in Lazy Dayz, Reflections | 6 Comments »

Just got back from my in-laws, who live in the Dutch province, Zeeland. My husband always refers to it as the Florida of Holland since, supposedly, the sun shines there more than any other place in the country. Mmmm Hmmm.

The week before hubby, Chloe and I spent a week in Austria. For the second year in a row, we shared a chalet with a family that also lives in Voorschoten. I met my friend years ago at the mothers and toddlers gym class our daughters were taking. We immediately hit it off, despite her British accent (lol). She’s Chinese by biology, Malaysian by culture and British by heart (my assumption, not hers). Also being married to a Dutchman, we had a blast comparing notes about our common lovepat experience.

We decided to go to the same place as last year and stay in the same chalet. We weren’t disappointed. In fact, the owner showed us around the new wing of luxury suites he’d had built in the course of the year. A tad bit outside our price range, but hey, we go to ski not sit in the lap of luxury. Yeah, right.

Anyway, the first day out was a blistering 18 below zero. Not an avid skiier, I surprised (and impressed) myself by staying on the slopes until the kids and my friend finished their lessons. Alas, with each day temperatures rose, and by Christmas, our last day, all pretense of snow vanished. It rained and even hailed, sending the kiddies into fits of tears. Hubby relayed this last bit to me since I was the only one with the sense to go back to the chalet at the first sprinkle!

Besides the heatwave, this year’s trip varied in one other way: I saw other black people on the slopes. Not the requisite one (which I thought was me), not even two, but three other brown faces graced the slopes of Scheffau in Tirol. I do have to say that after living in Holland for ten years, I don’t tend to look for other brown faces when I attend an event or go to a restaurant or take Paige to the mother-and-toddler gym class. Indeed, the Dutch don’t go out of their way to make me aware of my race. That notwithstanding, the slopes seem to be that one last place (at least in Austria) where I’m the only proverbial one.

On the drive over to Austria, we stopped in Munich and stayed with a friend of mine over night. She’s a beautiful German woman I also met years ago at the gym class. She was my rock-solid support system during the months I was deciding whether to leave my job at the university to work from home as a freelance writer, translator and editor. A few years before, she’d given up her career as a very successful architect who was in demand all over Europe to explore her love of horses and alternative healing. She provides cranio-sacraal healing on horses, and apparently she’s very gifted.

Anyway, about a year ago we were discussing her upcoming ski vacation when I mentioned that I’d never seen another black person skiing (take that with a grain of salt because I ski maybe once a year for one week). “That can’t be true,” she answered me in disbelief.

“Well, when you go, take a look around.”

Sure enough she told me later that she hadn’t seen any black people. She asked me why I thought not too many black people skiied, and I explained that, at least in an American context, it had less to do with race than economics, i.e. money.

Skiing is a ridiculously expensive hobby/sport. If you can afford to travel to the few places in the US where you can ski (I won’t even mention flying to Canada or Europe or Asia for obvious reasons), you still have to have a place to stay. And food is important because you really work up an appetite. Proper attire is a must. High up in the mountains, it’s cold. Period. A ski suit offers protections from the elements, so you need to have one. Thermal underwear, ski socks and gloves add to the expense. Then you have to rent the ski boots and skis. Add to that money for a ski pass and you begin to see why this sport is out of reach for many black Americans.

I think it’s a pity because it is an enjoyable atmosphere. I mean, the skiing’s ok, but stopping at lunch for a bowl of hot goulash hits the spot when your toes start going numb. A pit stop for a glass of gluhwein or jagertee in front of the fireplace always manages to warm up the coldest of the cold-fearing people. Me. And, I’ll admit, though never to hubby, that being outside all day - even when it’s cold - is exhilarating.

I do notice the occasional stare, but the Austrian people I’ve come into contact with are hospitable and are kind enough to humor me when I mangle their gorgeous language. They don’t seem to judge me because my skin is brown. I’m trying to choose my words carefully so as not to make a racial issue out of something that probably isn’t, but it’s hard not to comment on such an obvious absence of color.

On a lighter note (couldn’t resist) I’m glad to be back home getting back into my routine. I think this year hubby and I are on our own for New Year’s eve. We’re planning to cook ourselves a very chic three-course meal and drink lots of prosecco, well, maybe just one bottle. Hubby has to work on the 1st.

I’ll be lifting my glass up in a toast to all of you at midnight - my time, of course - wishing you all a happy new year.

Posted in Reflections, travel | 9 Comments »

It’s 13:30 and I’ve just sat down for the first time today. My plan was to write. You see, I’m a bit behind on my 850-word-a-day deadline for my forthcoming first book, so maybe right now isn’t such a good moment to stop and look around me. There’s a mess everywhere. Have a look for yourself:

Do you know that I felt tired when I looked at the mess and thought to myself that maybe I’m spreading myself too thin. I don’t even have time to straighten up my house. As I write this piece, my toddler is yelling through the baby phone that she has a poop diaper. She’s supposed to be napping. So, before I finish this post, I’ll have to trudge upstairs and change her stinky diaper. Let me go on and do it now. Excuse me for a few minutes …….

Oh, my bad: her doll has a poop diaper. See what I mean? See why my house is a mess?

Despite needing to work on my book, I’m blogging because as I sat here looking around at all the messes, the words “live smarter not harder” flew through my head. Then I asked myself this question: do I look at the mess or should I look at what the mess means?

I already know how simply looking at the mess makes me feel: tired and inadequate; so, I thought briefly about what the mess means, and this is what I came up with.

I picked Chloe up from school this afternoon so she could eat lunch at home with her little sister and me. They sat agreeably on the couch and watched a bit of tv while they ate their sandwiches. I joined them when my leftovers from last night were warmed up. Paige passed gas, and the three of us cracked up when she laughed and said “pardon”.

When I finished my lunch, I went to the kitchen and made tonight’s dinner. Since Paige has her “mother and toddler” gym class this afternoon, I won’t have too much time afterwards to get dinner done so that we can eat early and put the kids to bed early enough to have some adult time. I made some delicious chili, by the way, also known as macaroni in Dutch.

While dinner was going, I also made myself a delicious pot of lentil soup with coconut milk since tomorrow I won’t have time to make it - I have several appointments. Tomorrow Paige goes to daycare, but today she’s home with me.

I realize I made a conscious decision to leave my position as an advisor at the university, in part to be at home when my kids get home from school. I realize I made a conscious decision to do my work during the three days that Paige is in daycare so that I’d have the other two free to spend with her and only her.

I noticed myself relaxing a bit and even patting myself on the back for spending quality time with my kids, preparing healthy, home-cooked meals for my family and giving up control over those things that, a month from now, won’t matter. I smiled at myself for realizing that a few years ago, I was almost obsessive with outer orderliness as a way to cover up my internal chaos. I’ve worked smart the last years, striving to be “OK” with where I am in my life or even in my day, and by allowing myself a few moments to look at what my messes mean, I’m rewarded with the gift of self-acceptance.

And a messy house!

Posted in Living smarter not harder, Reflections | 6 Comments »

At about 9.15 this morning, I was in the gym, getting ready to turn on my iPod and jump on the cross trainer when I looked up at one of the four plasma tv sets when I saw the headline on the BBC: Michael Jackson Dies at 50.

“What?” I said out loud to no one in particular. I stood there with my mouth wide open. I stood there for 2 or 3 minutes with my headset in my hand and my mouth wide open.

I didn’t know what else to say or even do. I alternated between my workout and turning around and going home. I wasn’t close to tears or anything, but a deep sorrow burrowed into my brain and made its way all the way down to my feet, from the inside like a mole digging through the ground.

Michael Jackson was always bigger than life to me, and I mourn his death just as though he were a family member. And, in some respects, he - or at least his genial music - was. In lieu of this week’s Living Smarter not Harder tip, I want to write a few words in honor of Michael Jackson.

Dancing Machine - I couldn’t have been more than 5-years-old when my brother would put on this 45 while Felicia and I laughed at Dawn doing the robot during the musical break. Dawn stiffened up, her eyes got big and round, and she did her thing. My parents had just divorced, and my mother, brother and sisters and I still lived in Toledo, my dad’s birthplace.

The Jackson 5ive - I still remember one particular Saturday morning, sitting on the floor in front of the tv watching this cartoon. My nose started bleeding; blood dripped into my bowl of corn flakes. I sat there, not wanting to miss any of the cartoon. We were living in Indianapolis; Cory and Dawn were still alive.

Shake Your Body - Northview Jr. High School, 9th grade. I was on the pom-pon squad. Pam Brown, with whom I’ve just reconnected via FaceBook, had made up a routine to this song. The highlight of the dance was an overhead pom-on pass to the beat.

Billie Jean - North Central High School. I’d just gotten off the late bus after track practice (I ran the quarter mile) and laid on my bed, exhausted. I heard this song on the radio and was amazed that Michael Jackson was still around - and that I still loved his music.

Thriller - High school. Nikki Younger had learned the steps to the final dance and taught them to a handful of students. They’d perform it in the morning before the first bell rang or at lunch time right in the school’s lobby. Michael Jackson’s “comeback” was in full force. Snooky (I don’t remember his real name) grew out his Jheri Kurl and had it styled like Michael Jackson’s. He bought a red and black jacket, white glove, black loafers, white socks, and high waters. This “phase” lasted two years!

Beat It - Still in high school. Judy Ball (a talented dancer) had learned parts of the Beat It dance (from the parking garage) and taught it to the pom-pon squad. Alas, I was on the flag corps in high school, so I never learned this one.

Butterflies and Break of Dawn - I’m in Holland almost 20 years later. Hubby buys the Invincible CD. He’s still a fan. We both sing our hearts out (I can carry a tune; hubby can’t) to this one.

You Rock My World - on my “workout” playlist. No matter what I’m doing in the gym, towards the end of the song when the music builds up and climaxes in Jackson’s trademark “hoooooo”, I stop and sing along, careful not to be so loud.

Rock with You - This is my all-time favorite song and video. Michael Jackson is a carefree teenager (I think). His smile is radiant, his afro is together, and he’s sexy. This is the image I’ll always have when I hear his music.

Today, for the first time, I realized Michael Jackson’s music has accompanied me through every stage of my life: divorce, death, puberty, adolescence, relocations, marriage, kids. Of course I can’t help but to mourn the loss of family.

Thank you for leaving a part of yourself, Michael Jackson. You’re finally at peace.

Posted in Reflections | 10 Comments »

For a woman who never even used email regularly, I’m proud that I maintain a blog, that I’ve been “found” by long-lost friends and old co-workers on Facebook, have made new connections on Twitter. I read online newspapers, make international phone calls Jetson style (Skype), and peek into the personal lives of others via their blogs. I am indeed a part of a virtual community.

However, since I committed to consistent blogging and serious writing for publication, I’ve noticed a dramatic increase in the time I spend online. I’m constantly scouting for publishing and writing tips or new sources that’ll lead to a more pervasive online presence. Needless to say, I usually get swallowed up in the enormity of information whirling around in that vast virtual ocean.

My intention is usually noble: I seek inspiration as well as that unexpected tip that will take my writing to another level (whatever that means!) Alas, more often than not, I run into doubt, pessimism, and a general feeling of being overwhelmed before ever meeting the good stuff. Indeed, by the time I shut down my computer, my nerves are a tangled mess that I try to de-mass with an extra cup of coffee. I succeed in becoming restless, which draws me back online, which I’ve just discovered is the cause of my virtual malaise, not the solution to it.

To help keep myself focused on my priorities, which are my book, my blog, my family, and my self (not necessarily in that order), I’ve recently thought up some strategies that I’m required to employ every day for the next 14 days. Why 14 days? you might be asking. Because, as I’ve heard, that’s how long it takes for a smoker’s body to cleanse itself of nicotine. I’m currently an ex-smoker, and each time I’ve quit, the cravings for a cigarette usually subsided after the first two weeks.

They’re simple, easy to do, and here they are:

1. Morning pages, which is 30-minute stream-of-consciousness journaling learned in “The Artist’s Way”. Writing this way clears my mind and keeps me balanced.

2. Re-institute the Franklin Quest system of time management. In a nutshell, I spend 5 minutes in the evening jotting down everything I think I need to achieve the following day. In the morning before I start working, I revisit that list and prioritize it. “Must Do” activities get an A1,A2,A3; “should do’s” are labeled B1,B2,B3; “would be nice to do’s” are relegated to C status.

The idea behind this system is that you begin with the crucial things; this is what has to get done no matter what. Eventually, once the A-list is completed, all the B’s will take their place, and the C’s will become B’s. If this doesn’t happen in a reasonable amount of time, then perhaps C’s and B’s were never priorities to begin with. Remove them from your list!

3. Read email once in the morning and once in the evening spending no more than 30 minutes at one time.

4. Remind myself, every day for the next 14 days, of at least one success I’ve had.

So, that’s it…my self-designed strategy to balance my energy and use my time more productively.

I would love to hear about your strategies. Wanna share?

Posted in Reflections | 6 Comments »

So, the Rotterdam marathon is but a few short weeks away, and I somehow have to be ready to run the 5K.

For the past two years my hubby has run the 10K with about 100 of his colleagues, and I must have gotten caught up in the corporate hullabaloo because here I am signed up to participate.

I’ve been having some knee issues and have delayed my training until Saturday, yes, the two-days-ago Saturday. I have been going to the gym and lifting weights to strengthen my quads, but I hadn’t dared run. I went out today following the Asics online training program, which goes something like this:

run 1 minute, walk 1 minute
run 2 minutes, walk 1 minute
run 3 minutes, walk 2 minutes (I tailored this one to my own needs!)
run 4 minutes, walk 2 minutes

And then repeat it.

“Stop. Turn around. Don’t do this to me,” screamed my body all during the first session.

But I kept going.

As I started the second session, one of Louise Hay’s power thoughts popped up: “I recognize my body as my friend” so I started saying it. Then another one came to me: “My body takes me everywhere easily and effortlessly.” I combined them and kept repeating them. Three things happened on this run:

1. my breathing became regulated to the rhythm of the words
2. my focus shifted to the rhythm of my feet in time to my breath
3. I ran 6 and a half kilometers without even realizing it

Up until today I’d been doubting that I’d be able to participate in the 5K. Running with Louise Hay’s power thoughts has taken my attention away from the future event and put my focus where it should be: in the here in the now and on my body!

**”Power Thoughts” by Louise Hay is a book I would recommend for anyone seeking to live in the moment.**

Posted in Reflections | 10 Comments »

“The sun did not shine.
It was too wet to play.
So we sat in the house
All that cold,cold, wet day.

Too wet to go out
And too cold to play ball.
So we sat in the house.
We did nothing at all.”

What I would’ve given for that incorrigible Cat to show up and entertain us today. I mean what Dutch person came up with the bright idea of making spring vacation the third week of February? It wouldn’t be so bad if the sun were shining, but as it is, it’s been cold, wet, and gray all week long. I’ve also been battling a bad cold, so let me bitch for a few minutes, please.

As they say, idle hands are the devil’s workshop (or something like that), and damn if there’s not some truth in that. Now, we’ve not gotten into any real mischief, but we’ve been eating the hell out of some sugar, fried stuff, and fat. And I’m not even sorry.

The living room is in shambles, and I don’t care. Paige has taken her dress off and Chloe and her friend are running around in tank tops and elf wings. Not even phazed. I’ve had three cups of coffee, and I’m eyeballin’ the coffee maker as I write. I haven’t planned anything for dinner as I don’t plan on cooking anything. Let ‘em eat cakes (and they would if I let ‘em).

The silver lining in this cloudy day? Yes, it’s Friday afternoon, and the next school vacation isn’t until May!

“Then our papa came in
And he said to us two,
“Did you have any fun?
Tell me. What did you do?”

And Chloe and I did not know
What to say. Should we tell him
The things that went on here this day?

Should we tell him about it?
Now, what should we do?
Well…
What would you do
If your papa asked you?”

Quoted from Dr. Seuss, “The Cat in the Hat”

Posted in Reflections | 6 Comments »

How do I walk with confidence
when I don’t know
how to let go

Pardon the presumption
but where are the answers

I can’t see them when they’re wrapped up in the
ooooold soooooooul of an
oh-so-young body

Show me the wisdom

How do I walk with confidence
when I don’t know where to look or
where I’m going or
when I’m walking in the dark

Peace is promised
peace is promised me
But it’s wrapped up in a riddle

where

is my widsom

How do I walk with confidence
and why am I walking in circles
trapped inside these four walls
of the great unknown

tell me

How do I walk with confidence
when walking makes me so weary

I repeat
These questions are not rhetorical

Posted in Reflections, poetry | No Comments »

Listen, Chinese water torture has nothing on a Dutch water heater leak.

As I lay in Chloe’s bed listening to the steady drip…drip…drip…drip on our bathroom floor at 23.45 last night, I could only let out a defeated sigh (but not too loud, otherwise Paige would have woken up…again) of realization: some experiences in this life are just plain universal. Last night’s was one of them.

My crime was going to bed early in the hopes of getting a good night’s sleep. Sunday night Paige was in our bed tossing and turning and putting her big baby’s head in the middle of my pillow. I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to sleep on the edge of a bed with my knee sticking out from under the covers. Last night I’d just finished reading a few pages of Chester Himes’s autobiography “My Life of Absurdity”, gone to the bathroom one last time, and turned off my electric blanket. I’d just kissed Vinz goodnight and was snuggling in the warmth of my bed. I turned my light off, and five seconds later, literally, Chloe started crying out. She’d been complaining of a sore throat and a stuffy nose all day so we decided to let her sleep with us – so we’d get a good night’s sleep. There are two things that grate on my nerves when I’m trying to fall asleep: snoring and teeth grinding. Chloe was doing both.

So, I picked up my two pillows and my cup of water and trekked to her bed. Before I got comfy, I decided to go to the bathroom one last time. I felt a drop of water hit my face. I did what anyone else would do…I told Vinz about it and went back to Chloe’s room. In the darkness I knocked over the baby phone, which Paige heard and responded to. In the darkness I couldn’t find her pacifier, so I had to turn on the light. She finally settled. I finally settled.

Drip…drip…drip…drip…drip…drip…drip…drip…drip…drip…drip

I don’t care where you are in the world. If you have children, especially small ones, you’re priority in life is to get a good night’s sleep. When you commit the cardinal sin of going after your goal, you pay the price. Drip…drip…drip…drip…drip. I don’t care which language you speak. Dripping water sounds the same and is torturous when all you want to do is sleeeeeeep.

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Q: How far can chocolate cake batter splatter?
A: Roughly the distance between the mixing bowl and my new white sweat pants.

Indeed, I decided to take a break from writing seeing as I’d managed to start a draft of “Sauerkraut and Brussels Sprouts” another chapter of my memoir. As I had dinner food on my mind, I figured I’d bake a nice cake. As I was measuring, sifting, and beating I was struck by how relaxed I become when I bake or cook (if I have the time and space, meaning no kiddies pulling at my apron strings. Sorry. I just couldn’t resist). Anyway, I got to reflecting on how far this little girl from Indiana has come, and I don’t mean only geographically. My older sister Felicia always cooked so I didn’t have to – nor did I want to. The only meal I could make was bacon and scrambled eggs. When I was thirty, I went to Alcala de Henares, Spain for about seven months to prepare for my doctoral comps and begin research on my dissertation. I had very little money so I had to buy groceries and actually cook. That was seven months of fried potatoes (my sister made them all the time; I watched), pasta, and fresh fruit. I realized I liked knowing exactly what I was putting into my body. Then we moved to Holland. I quickly learned just how cultural eating out is. Let me put it like this: during the three weeks we were in America visiting family last summer, we ate out more than we did the entire year at home. Each time I go home, though, I realize I’m not missing out on much by cooking at home because the food in restaurants isn’t all that (unless it’s a fancy one). And, I’ve discovered a new side of myself, the side that loves trying out new recipes, “foreign” cuisines, and baking.
Yes, I’ve come a long way, but apparently not long enough yet to invest in a good apron!

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I’ve been on this earth for damn near 42 years, and I’ve never – let me repeat – I’VE NEVER given a second thought to my weight or my shape. I’ve never had to. Thanks to my father’s GENES, I’ve always been long and lean with a super fast metabolic rate.

Thanks to my two beautiful daughters, joining the 40s club, and quitting my job (traveling to which I racked up about 30 kilometers a week riding my bike) my body fat is 4% above what it “should” be for my age, my stomach sticks out if I don’t suck it in, and most of my clothes are tight. To make matters worse, I quit smoking a few months ago, right about the time I started nibbling on comfort food all day. But it doesn’t end there. No, sir.

After a few months of my favorite work out, body balance (a hefty class that mixes tai chi, yoga, and pilates), I started having problems with my knee – for the second time in less than a year (I never realized how critical a healthy knee is for most activities, even the most mundane like crawling around after baby Paige). So, I’ve had to find an alternate source of movement. I decided to go back to weight training.

I wasn’t familiar with all the weight machines so I went to the trainer on duty and asked a few questions. About ten minutes into the discussion, she asked me where I’m from. When I said America she laughed and asked, in perfect English, why we were speaking Dutch…she was also American.

I met with her again this morning to learn how to use a few other weight machines as well as get some tips on toning up old Bessie. As she was repeating the work-out wisdom that I’ve heard over the years, I sighed at how much easier it all was to take in because I’d found someone who was speaking my language, and I don’t just mean English. After all my years at graduate school studying Latin American literature and critical theory, discussing weight training in Voorschoten I finally learned what I what all those linguists, sociologists, anthropologists, etc. never managed to teach me: that language is culture and one’s culture is written in language.

As a woman in her prime, she understood the issues of body image after having children. As an American she understood the issues America has about weight in general. In short, she understood me, and I understood her. She did what a great trainer should do: she motivated me to get my ass moving again!

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I never thought this would happen to me (or that I’d actually admit it), but I’ve missed hearing Christmas caroles. I used to get so irritated that we barely finished Thanksgiving and we’d already moved on to Christmas. I was downright pissed by mid-December that all I heard on the radio was “Silent Night” and “Come All Ye friggin’ Faithful”. By the time the 25th rolled around, Rudolph could have burned in hell for all I cared. Ten years living abroad seems to have mellowed my rancor, clearing a nook for nostalgia to nestle up in my ipod. I’ve waited all year to be able play my Christmas playlist, and I’ll do so until New Year’s day. God bless iTunes and Limewire. This is what’s on my playlist so far (See right)

Have I missed anything good?

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I heard something very interesting today when I was at at the fish market getting fish nuggets for lunch this afternoon. I was chatting it up with the woman as she prepared my food, and as usual the conversation was about Barack Obama. She is one of the many Dutch people who stand behind Obama, and she’s certain he’ll only bring about positive changes. In the meantime other customers walked in and were listening to the tail end of our conversation. In between taking the other customers’ orders she turned to me and said “I think I must have some black in me because I feel so good about your president.”

I was stunned. At least in an American context, not too many non-blacks would be so willing to suggest they have black blood, no matter how far-fetched such an idea may be. Hell, I’m sure some blacks would be hard-pressed to make such an admission.

Anyway, I just thought I’d share what happened today at the fish market as I was waiting for my fish nuggets.

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This marks my eighth Thanksgiving day celebration abroad. The only thing cooking in this house right now is a batch of steamed pears, a typical Dutch concoction that my mother-in-law taught me how to prepare. I hope the sharp scent of nutmeg wafting in from the kitchen doesn’t mean I used too much. This is the only time of year I sorely want to be back in the Midwest. There’s simply no similar holiday in The Netherlands.

On a positive note, I’d like to send up thanks to Mother Necessity. I will be preparing a Thanksgiving feast of turkey, dressing, ham, sweet potatoes, macaroni and cheese, green bean salad, fresh cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. Being the youngest, I never had to lift a finger on this day of prandial celebrations, so, until last year, I had no clue what to do with a turkey. A Dutch butcher instructed me on this most delicate of operations. Tomorrow, I’ll take my 18-month-old along with me to the store and buy all the last-minute things on my list. Surprisingly, I can get everything I need to make a down-home meal on Saturday…except greens. In fact, I haven’t met a Dutch person yet who can even tell me how to say greens in Dutch. No worries, we’ll make do without them. Fortunately for me I’ve living abroad has forced me to learn to recreate (in my own little way) that mood of family and belonging because I love Thanksgiving.

What am I most thankful for today? Each time I stand in the kitchen for two days preparing this spread, I’m creating a new tradition. My daughters have never experienced Turkey Day in America, so they don’t know what it’s like to go from house to house eating all those fattening dishes all day and relaxing with family they don’t get to see all the time. They won’t hook up with their favorite cousins and go to the movies after they’ve had their fill of good eats. But, they will have something that no other Dutch kids can boast: a mama standing in the kitchen for two days preparing to pass on a treasured tradition and share a part of herself. My greatest wish is that fifteen or twenty years from now my kids will call me from where ever and ask me how to make those delicious sweet potatoes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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I’m taking a close look at how my family relationships shaped my relationship with my black female body as I continue to develop the issues that’ll figure in my memoir. But, I get stuck when it comes to writing about about my sister Felicia. Maybe that’s because I don’t have too many kind words for her or even too many kind memories about her. This is painful to be honest. Our relationship – if you can call it that – has always been troubled. I reread this piece I wrote a year or so ago. It’s terribly raw and hasn’t been edited, but I hope I can use bits of it to stimulate a deeper look at our entangled lives.

Felicia’s just like my mother. They’re too much alike. Hard-headed. They can’t stand to be together, yet when they’re apart, they spend so much time talking about the other one (not always in positive terms, either) that a strong drink is in order.

Ever since I can remember, my mother’s been hammering education into our heads, and since my sister’s is so hard, my mother’s had to invest in jackhammer tactics, which are borderline abusive) over the years. Felicia’s never been interested in school. I remember the truant officer knocking on our door a few times back in the day. The funny part is this – mom used to tell me how she’d hide behind the bushes half the day so my grandmother wouldn’t see her playing hooky. She seems to forget these stories when she’s mercilessly jacking up my sister up for not wanting to “better herself”.

The deepest source of contention between the two is Felicia’s drinking and apparent drug abuse, which have been going on for a good twenty years now. She regularly loses low-paid jobs resulting in her being evicted from her apartment, which invariably results in her staying with mom – in a small one-bedroom apartment. When mom gets fed up, she kicks her out and then breaks off all contact for a while.

We had a traumatic childhood, Felicia and I, what with our favorite sister dying a slow death of aplastic anemia, our brother being stabbed to death, and our mother suffering from schizophrenia and depression. A piece of my mother stopped living when those kids died. She had no affection for us. I never considered mom to be a warm person. She did her best to keep me and Felicia with her, so when she wasn’t working the secretarial job she abhorred, she was sleeping; this went on for years. Felicia turned to the bottle for her comfort. The interesting part is they both tuned out, each in her own way.

Where do I figure into all this? In the middle. According to Felicia I was the favorite; according to me it was Cory and Dawn, dead but at the center of my mother’s everything. My mother repeatedly committed the cardinal sin of parenting: comparing children. Unfortunately, Felicia always came out wanting, and that caused resentment – understandably, but kind of shitty for me. I moved away when I turned twenty-five, but every time I called home, I felt like I hadn’t moved a mile. I heard about every misstep my sister took. So, while I was feeling sorry for my mother and pissed off at my sister for putting so much stress on my mother’s back, I was slowly sinking into a depression of my own.

This has been going on now for twenty years. Twenty years of drinking and suicide attempts and depressions and tears and anger. When are they going to stop? More importantly, when am I going to stop letting it get to me? Generally, I can put their relationship out of my head and heart. I have two small daughters who need me. Felicia and my mother have had lifetimes to sort through their issues. My girls are so vulnerable; they don’t know how to deal with a depressed, anxiety-ridden mother. My worst fear was establishing the same type of emotionally dysfunctional relationship I had at home, so I focus on being tuned into my family and available to my kids.

I also made a decision that would take me out of the triangle: I firmly told my mother I didn’t want to hear anything else about my sister’s life or her intervention in it. I couldn’t take anymore. And I meant what I said. Every time I heard her mention my sister’s escapades, I gently said I had somewhere to go and told her I’d call her back in a few days. I stopped giving her a chance to pull me back into the middle. I stopped even talking to my sister when I heard the heavy drunkenness on her voice. I stopped judging myself for enjoying the beautiful life I’d created in the meantime. For the most part, it works for me.

So why do I sometimes feel so guilty?

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Just sitting here drinking my second cup of coffee (with whole milk, my new indulgence) and taking stock of where I am, i.e. I’m trying to be in the moment. Sometimes I wonder how I got here. I mean I consider myself an ordinary person. Not much separates me from the countless poor black girls who were raised in broken homes and broken communities. How did I come to be living this extraordinary life?

When I tell people I live in Europe, they’re so impressed at what seems like an utterly glamorous lifestyle. In this day and age I suppose having a loving, respectful husband and two beautiful daughters is out of the ordinary. And, yes, skiing in Austria at Christmas or vacationing in Brittony and Sao Paolo are a far cry from ordinary for some. Working from home as a freelance writer/translator so as to be there when my five-year-old is home from school is out of reach for most people especially for poor black girls from broken homes and broken communities.

Yet, as I sit here in my “office”

having my second cuppa and looking around my living room, I see that much of my life is indeed ordinary. I long to replace the wood floor, worn by the glaring Dutch sun and forty years of ordinary wear and tear. I smile at my toddler’s favorite little shoes she left laying on the floor after failing to put them on over her sister’s hand-me-downs that she was already wearing. I laugh at the doll my girls were fighting over just a few hours ago and both abandoned when something more interesting came along, like cartoons.

These are the mundane experiences that keeps this poor black girl from a broken home and broken community grounded and connected to the moment. This is also an issue that repeatedly pops up as I continue to develop in my memoir, and I hope that writing about the past connecting with present will help to lay it to rest.

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