Livin' Life Like It's Golden

Went out with few alumni the other night. It has been a while (almost a year) since I had the pleasure of hanging with any of my folk of the Blue & Gold persuassion. It has been a brisk year, though. I have moved closer to publishing a book and finally crawled out of the dead-end job pit. Or should I say, finally doing what I went to school for and love unconditionally.

As with my college years in general, I sometimes feel a little awkward at these gatherings. I started college in my mid-20's; I was divorced and had 2 kids. Being around people, even the ones I spent the best four years of my life with, who are 8, 9 or even 10 years younger than me, can be a little weird. No one has ever dissed or dismissed this old head with the raggamuffins. In fact, most of my fellow classmates thought it was pretty cool that I had kids, especially ones as interactive and polite as mine are. My awkward feeling usually passes after a moment or two. However, sometimes, Sean B., usually has to tell me, "Yo, we're here to party. Stop talking about them kids!" That almost happened at this gaterhing the other night. But then someone asked me about my new job and I started rambling about that for a few minutes.

After answering a barrage of questions, I listened to the others relay the exciting happenings in their lives. I looked around the table and beamed. Everybody is growing up: new homes, careers advancements, vehicle upgrades, etc. (it is how Aggies do).

Now here is where I would have usually started to feel old again. Except I felt oddly quite comfortable. This feeling was not a superior one, either. Yet, I do in fact, have something on these Aggies: parent'hood. None of these buppies/b-boys/bohos have any children, yet. Mine on the other hand, will both be out of the house in about 6 years. When this realization hit me, I smiled and nodded my head.

I am not a gung-ho parent ready to push the kids out the door. Headly, Sneadly and I have been through a lot together. And I pray that the good times continue, always outweighing the bad. I will be as close as they will allow me to be through the college years (oh, they are going; if I can do it, they will, too). But I will be done with worrying about who has or has not eaten and concern over wardrobe issues. It is going to be tough going from full-time parent mode to the chick in her mid-forties who still thinks she is a kid. I still drop it like it's hot everytime I hear a Luke cut or a jam from my clubbin' days (I love the Sprint commercial with Salt 'n Pepa's "Push It.") Yet, I am a conscientious, half-way decent parent that tries to keep the kids active while I maintain a stable lifestyle. No revolving door on the personal life or such.

The thing that makes me happiest, though, as I reflect—and this is not hate, is that we are now past certain phases. Teething, potty training, car seats, tooth fairy, baby-proofing—damn, I am breaking out in a sweat just typing this. No doubt there are parents with children older than mine laughing and saying, "Just wait. It gets much easier." I do not expect that parenting will be a cake walk from here until my youngest graduates, or even beyond that. Being a parent is an over-rated position that everyone wants to do, but few are really cut out to handle. You must take one day at a time.

I listened intently as one of the Aggies mentioned sponsoring an Aggie cruise soon; I am actually considering going. The last time I even thought about taking a trip of this sort, it fell on the same weekend as my youngest kid's birthday and I passed; not this time. While the kids will definitely have to stay with a relative, it should not be too much of a hassle; they are not babies anymore...they are damn near grown.

Ladies First

The following are just some brief notes on The Revolution...yes, it was televised.

Lots of thoughts come to mind regarding the passing of Coretta Scott King. There is the irony that Dr. King was killed April 4, twenty-three days before Mrs. King's birthday and Mrs. King died January 30, fifteen days after his birthday.
And, although I was personally against it, Mrs. King laid in state at the Georgia Capitol today. When Dr. King died, then Gov. Lester Maddox refused to fly the flags at half-staff, let alone allow the Drum Major for Justice lie in state.

We watched the beginning of the service from home. It made my heart swell a million times over as the horse drawn carriage approached the capitol. The two drivers, one standing, one sitting, covered their hearts with their hats. When Mrs. King's casket was withdrawn from the carriage, the sun broke through the clouds and let out some awesome rays. The gloomy morning paused to acknowledge this historical moment. The crowd cheered and roared thunderously as Mrs. King, carried by Georgia State Troopers, made her way up the first set of capital steps. Via the Troopers' synchronized motions, her casket strutted past the statue of Eugene Talmedge, former Georgia governor and proud segregationist. I declare Talmedge's outstretched hand went limp, dropping his hankerchief, and his jaw dropped.

My eyes filled with tears as Mrs. King's body ascended upon the second and final set of outer steps. Breaking the threshold, she passed under the flags that sit atop the capitol, which under the ordrers of Governor Perdue, have been at half-staff since her death was announced. The crowd's response grew even louder, as if they were gently, lovingly pushing her through the door with their vocal encouragement. I believe that at that very moment, Lester Maddox' dust, buried a mere sixteen miles north of the capitol doors, burst into flames. Her body safely inside, representing for all mankind, the sun nodded, drifted behind the clouds and then a light rain began to fall.

I had mixed emotions as we made our way towards the capitol; it sits at the intersection of thoroughfares named for the father of this nation (Washington Street) and the father of the civil rights movement in America (Martin Luther King Jr. Drive). Although I sometimes pass this building several times a week, this would be my first time actually inside since moving here six years ago. Up until it was announced that Mrs. King would lie in state, I had no previous desire to enter the building. In my admittedly sometimes jaded mind, it has always represented racism at its finest. Still, I was determined to pay my respects to a woman who's picture should be in the dictionary next to the words sacrifice and integrity. The forty-five minute wait only seemed like ten; though it was a bit chilly, the atmosphere was light. People fellowshipped and reminiscened. My family and I were three of over 40,000 to honor her memory. Mrs. King looked beautiful.

On the way home, we talked a little, mostly reflecting. I wondered aloud how Mrs. King is enjoying Heaven. The spiritual, "Hush, Somebody's Calling My Name," came to mind. It's been over 20 years since I have heard this song. It was sang by characters in Roots when they received word that Abraham Lincoln had been shot. I have been humming it all evening.

The Revolution is still being televised. Come on out...we'll save you a spot in line.

Functionally Addicted

Yet certainly not proud of it. But at least I own up to my addiction. You see, I have a dependency. It is sugar. Not just any sugar, either. I am a complicated addict. Like most people, I love ice cream, but it has to be butter pecan. Cookies are a straight up sore spot. And most of the time, I crave chocolate chip with pecans. Not walnuts or almonds--pecans. My response to most cakes is the same as with the no-good brother with the smooth lines, clear complexion and irresistible smile: I simply cannot say no.




I am, however, a sort of sugar-snob. There are certain things I just do not eat. Fudge? No thanks. Double chocolate (anything)? Pass. Kripsy Kreme donuts? Gag me with a spoon. And generally, I am not a big fan of candy. Guess I share Whitney's "crack is whack" attitude. M & M's with almonds (once almonds hit the scene, peanuts just seemed to taste so cheap), Hershey's Kisses, Snickers (hell yeah, they satisfy) and select breath mints are pretty much it for me.

A friend of mine has been sugar-free for over a month now. I applaud her effort (you go, girl!), but know any attempt to give up sugar is a feat my psychie is sure would kill me. In my teenage years and adulthood, I made several earnest, conscious attempts to kick the habit, but to no avail. It is sad, but I know there are others, who cannot overcome their addictions, either. Moreover, I often think of the character Fran Boyd in the HBO mini-series The Corner. The award winning six-part production chronicles the lives of several people in a drug infested Baltimore neighborhood. There is a poignant scene where Fran (flawlessly played by Khandi Alexander) is being turned away from a rehab center; they just do not have room for her. "Come back next week and there will be a bed for you," they advise. But Fran protests that they simply had to let her in; she could NOT go back. She had made her mind that this was the week she would stop. No, she just could not go back. The final shot of the episode (Fran's Blues) is a wide shot of Fran walking down the street. She is dragging her belongings in a trash bag behind her, returning to the house she lives in with other addicts. She is forced to carry the monkey on her back little while longer...

It does pain me that I cannot seem to function without sugar, so I am not a "happy adddict." This type of dependancy is a dangerous game indeed since my mother is the first generation not to have diabetes, a disease that claimed the lives of my great-grandmother, a great aunt and several cousins. Still, I fully comprehend that sugar is something I should not live with, but just cannot seem to live without. The consolation, I guess, is that I can admit I have a problem. Plus, and most importantly, I work and can support my habit; that hit of hot chocolate made with soy milk and two teaspoons of natural sugar is paid for with money I earned.

I try not to belittle or dog anyone's dependency--drugs, alcohol, sex or even shopping. No matter who we are, there is some sort of hell we endure; duplex, condo, mansion, or studio-sized. For some it is private, for others it is out in the open. All I can say about mine is that my high does not interfere with the "live and let live" motto. The sugar I crave does not cause me to break into anyone's home or hit a person over the head to get it. Noboby gets hurt.

Kiss and say goodbye

I want a divorce. It wouldn't be the first time...hell, it may not be the last. I have tried, but the differences are simply and undisputably irreconcilable: I am tired of being married to my vehicle. We spend way too much time together. To work, to play, to the movies, to the grocery store, the doctors, the park...even to the bus station (!)

Tonight, at 7 p.m., on my way from mid-town Atlanta to the "unnamed county 30 miles east of Alabama," there were as many cars on the road as there were during my early morning drive 11 hours earlier; maybe more. Two accidents and more vehicles weaving through traffic than yakki hair at a beauty parlor in the 'hood. Days like these have me seriously longing for the pungent, sometimes straight-up funky smell of a big city subway system--after 8 hours at the j-o-b, that odor is almost like scent of a dozen roses. Well, okay, not roses, but it is better than the exhaust fumes of a urban southern highway.

It is also less dangerous. Now, I am no wuss. I traveled the autobahns of Germany doing 80, maybe 90 miles per hour and rushed through the streets of Lloret de Mar, Spain (tourist trap) on a moped with no license. But back then, before earning a college degree, way in front of being selected for and accpeting the parenting gig, prior to acquiring a 9-to-6, and ahead of the whole "responsible" phase...I didn't care. Hell, now, I got a thing or two (or three) to live for. But how does one actually live when they are braving the elements on the sometimes fatal highways of the South?


The commute is not always bad; just most of the time. Music is the bond that has kept my vehicle and I together this long. I listen to everything from Kirk, to Jill, to Donnie, to Donny, to Donnie (if you do not know the difference, holler and I will explain), to Anita, to Mariah, to Norah, to The Sounds of Blackness, to the Five Mo' Tenors. The kids and I even listened to Al Roker's book, Don't Make Me Stop This Car, together while riding around a few weeks ago. Still, it feels a little weird "listening" to a book. But it is my only recourse in getting some quality reading in. At home, back in the Big Apple, I read while riding the train or bus. While Al vivdly relayed his parent 'hood tales, I felt like we were committing sacrilege.

Nevertheless, the un-Godly amount of traffic plus poorly planned roads has forced a girl to use what she has, to get what she wants. Since arriving in Georgia six years ago, I have skillfully learned the main roads, back roads, alleys and such throughout Atlanta and a few surrounding cities. It has been an adventure of sorts. My Mother is from South Carolina, but has lived in New York City almost 40 years. Every time she visits Atlanta, she marvels over the fact that my sister and I know how to get to from point A to point B as if we were born here. Her compliment is a small consolation to my quandary.

Still, I long to be an unhappy straphanger, a slave to the token and at the mercy of mass transit. Yes, maybe it is time for this Nu Yawker to pack it in, head Norf' and not look back, lest I turn into a pillar of grits...I mean salt.