Not with the Door Open Young Man

I was having a conversation with a female Korean friend over lunch the yesterday. We shared some brown rice that I over steamed, Kuk (light soup) and several Panchan (side dishes). I thought this an excellent opportunity to dig into some social questions I had in my ‘whenever I get a chance’ section of the brain waiting for a willing informant on Korean culture. I was ready to seize the moment like the shark I can be at times.

But first we had some business to discuss. I was meeting a mutual person few know for language exchange later on that evening and needed to work out the details since she does translating via phone for us sometimes. Like most folks learning a foreign language, my exchange partner does better in person with understanding me where she can utilize facial expressions, energy, hand signals and lip reading to aid her comprehension of words and phrases. My friend asked, “Where do you want to meet her tonight, that same coffee shop you went to before you went to Malaysia again? You both liked it there.” We did, but caffeine at night is not something that is supportive of positive circadian rhythms for folks like me. So, with ignorance and naiveté as my guides I asked what I thought to be a reasonable question, “What about my apartment? I do not have a good table for us to work on but the floor would be fine.”

“No michael, she cannot do that.”

Wanting more information and an explanation, Curious George became my next guide into ignorance, “Why not?” Simple, direct and to the point.

“Michael, in Korean culture, a woman cannot be in a man’s apartment or room unless they are married or there is another woman present.”

Stunned and a little embarrassed, I proceeded with clarification to make certain I didn’t get things lost in translation, “You mean that you or her can never come to my place for dinner, to watch TV or drink tea without the other one present?” I was hopeful there was a communication problem.

“No. The only way is if we leave the door completely open so that your neighbors can see in.”

“You are kidding right?” Still hopeful but starting to fade.

“No, I am not kidding Michael! Korean women cannot go to a man’s room or he cannot come into ours until we are married.”

“So your boyfriend has never been to your room?” Reaching now, knowing they have been best friends for seven years and a couple for the last year.

“No.” I gulp and try not to let the Kimchi in my mouth choke me. I succeeded at that endeavor but am struggling to swallow with the deeper one.

“Really?” I had nothing else.

“Michael. We can’t be seen with a man on the floor of his room or on the couch without another woman present unless we leave the door open. People will think something is happening. And it is also for the girl’s safety too. Bad things happen to girls when they are left alone with guys with the door shut.” She hesitates reflectively, “Do women do this in America?”

I am able to answer without laughing at her, Koreans or American values and boundaries or the lack of them. I silently reflect on how many different women’s couches and assorted other sleeping arrangements I have been offered and accepted through The CouchSurfing Project in the last year. “Yes, all the time. It is very common now for men and women to even share apartments together as friends. We hang out together at each other’s places all the time and it is not a big thing for a guy or girl to just crash at the friend’s home if they are too tired to go home or something. It is very normal in America. I know that some married women will not be alone with a man that is not their husband down South but I think that is even becoming rare these days.”

“Really?” Her face looked like she just saw a ghost, maybe two.

“Is this about rumors and gossip?”

“Yes, a lot if it is about rumors and gossip. If people say the wrong things about a girl she may not be able to get married.” My turn to wear the ‘I just saw a ghost or two look’.

We finished lunch with more digestible topics like children, English, Hangeul and Kimchi. But is stuck with me all day! At night, after our language exchange session at the coffee shop, I asked my language partner who does not command the English language as well at this point about this conversation. It took nearly five tries to communicate the content enough for her to understand. Her reply put this whole thing to bed for me, errr, maybe not a good choice of words. “No Michael. A woman cannot do that Michael. I do not know why but it is never allowed.”

“So you or her will never be able to come to my place across the street from both of you and eat dinner or watch a movie with me and talk? Ever?”

“No Michael. I am sorry but we cannot do that. It is Korean culture. I do not know why but it is this way Michael.”

I shared with her the part of my earlier discussion about safety and gossip. “Yes, that must be why Michael.”

“This makes me sad.” I stopped there.

I am still sad a day later. Partially since I cannot hang out with my friends individually and I for the most part, do not like crowds larger than two people. That is the self-centered sadness. The greater ache is that of social norms that prevent love, friendship and relationships based on gossip and perceived or potential safety hazards. Have we not gotten past some of this yet? How can a college professor still not be able to keep male friendships and maintain her social and professional status? AAAHHHHHHH!

I am sad, very sad. I was happier standing in my cultural bliss of ignorance less than thirty-six hours ago.

His Moment

It was the bottom of the sixth inning on Meadowbrook’s best field. All we had to do was hang on for three more outs and we would win in front of all the people in the bleachers at the older kids field on opening day. Before the game, I felt weird about playing in “c” league when all my friends were in “a” league but that was in the first inning before I hit safely three times including an inside the park home run.

I love playing shortstop because I receive the most hits and I made a bunch of good one’s already this game. The best was the hot grounder I scooped up after passing the third baseman and threw it just in time to get the hitter out at first base.

Joey, the teams pitcher was starting to get tired. He had pitched a great first game. He walked their first batter and the second one hit a double to center field making it second and third with no outs. He walked the third batter in four pitches- bases loaded and no outs and only a 4-1 lead. Coach Eddie called time and walked out to the pitcher’s mound to talk with Joey. A minute later he signaled me to come to the mound to join them, since I was the team captain.

“Michael, I need you to get me three outs.” And he handed me the ball and walked away with Joey trotting over to play shortstop.

I froze. I had never pitched before in a real game at any level. Here we were with the bleachers full at the good field, bases loaded, no outs, bottom of the sixth and the ball was in my hands now.

I took a deep breath and my seven warm-up pitches, only two were over the plate and would have been strikes. A big red-headed boy with freckles stepped up to the plate and the umpire yelled, “OK. Let’s play ball”.

I fixed my glasses, turned the ball around in my hand three times, leaned forward to start my wind-up, kicked my leg up in the air, reared my arm back and threw it as hard as I could to the plate. The red-headed boy swung, missed and the umpire yelled, “Steeerike One”. Phew ! Made it through the first one. Since that worked, I did everything all over again and threw it as hard as I could and the red-headed boy with freckles swung and missed again, “Steerike Two”. Another deep breath and starting with fixing my glasses I went through the whole routine again and the red-headed boy swung again and missed, “Steerike Three. Batter Out”.

One down, two to go. All the kids on my team were yelling stuff and the peopel in the bleachers were starting to get into too.

The next batter stepped up to the plate and he was a lefty. None of my friends were lefties, so I had no experience trying to pitch to any of them. OK, here we go again. Fixed my glasses, rolled the ball around in my hand, kicked my leg and threw it as hard as I could and Bang, right into the catchers’s mitt with the lefty missing the ball by about two feet. “Steerike One”.

“Steerike Two,” this time the lefty didn’t even swing. My first called strike.

All right, I got this one now. I was starting to sweat a lot now in my grey uniform with blue trim. “Steerike Three. Batter Out. Two Outs”.

Now everybody was really yelling from both teams. They were down to their last out and we were one out away from winning the first game of the year on the good field. My heart was pounding and I had to take my blue hat with a “C” on it for Chargers off to wipe the sweat off my forehead that was dripping down onto my glasses. I wiped them off on my jersey. Kenny Costa was up next and stepping up to the plate. When he connects with the ball, it is gone every time. No room for error here with the game on the line.

I threw it as hard as I could, even harder than the other two kids and Crack!, he hit a long fly ball down the left line, the ump runs over to watch the ball, then yells, “Foul Ball. Steerike One”. Both benches were screaming and then there was a big exhale for everybody. It’s just strike one.

I did my whole thing again but this time instead of throwing it as hard as I could, I threw it softly and Kenny missed it by a mile. “Steerike Two”. A bunch of kids laughed and Kenny banged the bat on the plate with his face all red.

One pitch to go, just one pitch. I took a little longer this time before starting my delivery. Kenny Costa looked straight at me with his face red and gripping the bat like his life depended on it. I looked at all the three runners since they would be running on two strikes with two outs. I went through my whole routine, and this time I threw it harder than I ever had in my life, Kenny took a big swing and just missed the ball, “Steerike Three. Batter Out. Game Over!”

My whole team ran to the pitcher’s mound and jumped all over me, even Coach Eddie.

Nine pitches, nine strikes and a one two, three relief appearance my first time on the mound in a real game on the good field.

I started eleven of the final twelve games that year winning every one of them. My name was in the West Essex Tribune every Thursday that summer. But my favorite memory of that season was the first game of the year when I got to pitch in the bottom of the sixth with the bases loaded and no outs for a one, two, three inning on the good field.

But Not When Hiding

When does waiting end
and fear begin?
Patience is a Virtue,
but not when hiding.

When does Now begin
and the past conclude?
Now is all we have,
but not when hiding.

When does the future start
and become the present?
Karma clears the Path,
but not when hiding.

When does a day
last a whole lifetime?
Today is our Redemption,
but not when hiding.

When does the night
escape without notice?
Life is short,
but not when hiding.

When does a calendar
freeze and disappear?
Birth and death are quick,
But not when hiding.

When does time
prevail forever?
Love is the answer,
but not when hiding

The Korean Haircut

Looking in hair salon and barbershop windows like a stalker in search of his prey, I roamed the streets of Ssang-yangdong neighborhood for a place to get a haircut. No, not the place with the hairdressers in fake brown hair. I’ll pass on the salon with the sign stating their cheapest haircut is 29,000 won, equal to about $29.00 US dollars. I keep looking and staring in windows. As I pass the Lotte Mart on the right across from the Baskin Robbins Ice Cream shop, I see a sign for 4,000 won in the large glass window of a hair place. Of course, it must be 4,000 won for some specific service that is additional to the haircut itself, maybe shampoo or a shave?

I step up the single step to enter their front door and an older man wearing black slacks and a button down shirt comes from the back of the shop and greets me and says, “Do you want a haircut?” in perfect English! What a relief.

I ask, “How much?”

He replies promptly, “Are you a member?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

I knew there was a catch or something to the 4,000-won haircut. “No.”

“OK. It is 4,000 won. Do you want a haircut?”

“Yes.”

He points to a seat on the couch on the other side of a coffee table covered with scattered newspapers that have been read and reread throughout the day, or week. “Sit down.”

I sit following orders. I scan the newspapers in HanGul and see a picture of a baseball player. It must be the sports section. I pick it up and remember I cannot read HanGul yet. I put it back down and sit patiently staring at nothing.

Less than five minutes go by and he walks over and says, “OK.” And points to an open station in front of a young woman wearing a nice comfortable black dress with short black hair simple but stylish.

I get up and start to sit and he points to a little plastic covered series of men’s pictures to demonstrate styles of men’s haircuts. They are all cuts made for Asian hair, not my thick, heavy Italian hair. I get nervous thinking of having to pick one that will not be successful for me. He recognizes my confusion and asks, “Do you se a style you want?”

“I would like the same I have but shorter” pointing to my head. As if he didn’t know wear my hair was.

“OK” He then has a brief conversation with the woman about to cut my hair in HanGul and she starts right in while he is still carrying on a conversation with me. “Where are you from?”

“New Jersey, I mean America, right outside of New York City.”

“Good.” He nods his head in affirmation of something and walks away. She is cutting away like a trained technician. In America, it seems there is more of a need for making the customer feel special, cared for. They are not technicians as much as service providers. She was a technician.

At one point about five minutes later, she said something in one word that I did not understand that I think was q question. I just nodded my head yes and hoped I did not just give her permission to shave my head. She continued cutting.

The rest of the haircut was in silence. I have never had a silent haircut before. I am not sure I have even ever had a haircut when I was not flirted with as part of the “service” whether woman or gay man cutting my hair. I closed my eyes and relaxed. One of the benefits of very poor vision is the lack of ability to see your hair being cut. When you put on your glasses after completion, it doesn’t matter if you like it or not; it is already cut.

When I was in my early twenties, I tried wearing hard contacts for a little while. During those few months of dry eyes and always being tired with headaches; I got a haircut at a neighborhood salon by a killer babe with long brownish-black hair, a dangerous body and a soft smile. I saw every chop and clip of my hair falling away for the first time in my life and it was horrific. I stopped wearing haircuts and made a promise to myself I would never wear glasses, contacts or anything else while receiving a haircut again. I have kept my promise so far.

She said something in a short phrase and looked at me for a response. I assumed she was asking me if I liked it or wanted it shorter. I pointed to my glasses with a smile and when she handed them to me gently, I put them on and looked. I liked the cut, simple and short. She is a technician. The man came over and asked, “Is it OK?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

He nods and walked away. She cleaned me up including this really cool wide vacuum hose that took all the little hairs off my scalp and head in just ten seconds! She finishes and nodded at me.

I got up, put my glasses back on and went to see the man at the small black counter near the front door. I asked, “Should I give her a tip?” Since there is no tipping at restaurants, I thought it was a fair question.

He laughed a little and said warmly, “No.” Then a minute later, he added, “If you want to give her 1,000 won that would be OK” I did. The total for my haircut was 5,000-won including tip! This is about $5 US dollars. No flirting or conversations about celebrities while being flirted with and an occasional breast rub against the back of the neck for extra service but she was a technician I and I got a 5,000 won haircut. Things certainly are different here. A haircut costs less than the tip in America. And, I did not have to hear the latest about Britney, Lindsay, Angelina’s new baby or Paris being naked
August 5, 2008

All It Takes is The Courage to Step Out

I remember as a child hearing about all the protests and riots. It was the sixties, when young and old were inspired by the force of change. People were willing to risk their jobs, education, families and freedom to stand for what they believed in. I have vague memories of feeling that I too wanted to be part of The Movement, The Revolution.
By the time I was old enough, the voices had been silenced and I was swirling in Hurricane Cocaine. 



Tonight I watched the movie Walkout. WOW! I cried about every ten minutes, I was moved to the core by the force of the collective human spirit. It seems there is nothing we can't achieve together when inspired by the Higher Good. 


I was trembling with the illustrations of the suffering Chicano students in East L.A. during the sixties.

Why do we do this to each other?

Why is "Looking out for #1" such a way of life for us?

Have we had enough yet?

Several times during the movie, I reflected on how comfortable we have become as a culture in the last thirty years. Where has that collective human spirit gone?

Has taking care of our own, replaced taking care of each other?

Have we had enough yet?

This past January, I reformatted one of the programs I am involved with to include a Youth March on MLK Day. Four hundred or so, predominantly youth of color, put on their coats and bared eighteen-degree weather during a heavy snowstorm to march for youth education and rights, much like the Chicano students did in East L.A. If you have ever participated in any marches/protests, especially a youth lead rally, it reaches deep down inside in a way that few things in life can. 




Abraham Herschel once said something to the effect of, "Marching is praying with your feet". When was the last time you prayed with your feet?

Have we had enough yet?

Please watch Walkout. It is a powerful experience. I can't imagine what the real events must have been like for those high school students. 


Have we had enough yet?

Being One Of Them

Today I was a consumer. Not just normal Michael-type consumption; today I was one of them.

Typically for me, shopping consists of several visits to the local thrifts shops. It entails being open-minded enough to letting the store lead me toward the style I want, as opposed a pre-conceived notion of what “I need”. Thrift shops serve many supportive functions. They are the original and most effective form of recycling I know of. Modern day recycling of glass, plastic, paper and cans, use more energy resources than producing new products. This gives us the illusion, an unspoken license to use, use, use, as long as we put the USED item in the city-recycling bin. So, I have a genuine appreciation for the real recycling that transpires at thrift shops.

Thrift shops are also an effective means of sweatshops. Simply put, if nothing new is sold, therefore, production goes down and the twelve year old who works eleven-hour days for one dollar will actually see his/her family that day. Less use, less abuse.

It is so much fun walking out of a thrift shop with an Old Navy or J. Crew pair of jeans for $2.99. It is my way of giving corporate America the finger. They will not get my money. My Soul is too precious, and I have worked too hard to reclaim it. It is no longer up for grabs, especially not for them. This is my way to let The Gap, Tommy Hilfiger, Nike, Wal-Mart, Kmart or any other mart feel the consequences of their actions; I am not for sale thank you!

No ownership. Thrift shops are typically not owned by anyone. There are the privately owned “vintage” shops, but they are a different breed that typically charges more for a lime green polyester sport coat from 1978 than you would pay for anew one-and a more attractive version too. I feel good about giving my money to no one. Mr. or Mrs. No One cannot do much cannot do much with the money I give them. In fact, they do the reverse, they hire people that typically not very employable or volunteers. And, they give their profits away. They actually give the money they make away to an organization or church or temple or something non-profit. For me, if there is no Co-op in town, this is how Michaels shop.

But not today. I tried the thrift shops in search of something specific to no avail. I tried to bend to meet the available selections but it really wasn’t what I needed. So, I broke my rule and went into franchise/chain stores.

People like me do not do well in these kinds of stores. The music annoys me since I am not seventeen anymore. The fragrances offend me since I like the way humans actually smell, as well as air. The energy is sterile prostitution and the semi-dressed, twenty year old girls that haven’t eaten since 2005 sales associates remind me of everything wrong with this country. Their pre-programmed smile, verbiage and perky demeanor smell of Hell- the place where Spirit and love are devoid. Corporate Hell. I visited C.H. today, willingly. The first sweet young thing with cleavage, midriff and the curves of the brim of her butt exposed was entertaining, even a little seductive in a sick kind of creep middle-aged guy kind of way. I mildly reciprocated her flirting for a brief moment. Then I said to myself, “OK, so these are not really what I wanted to buy, but she is really cute, friendly and attentive… maybe I need to be more flexible in my purchases.” Then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her shiny, red cell phone for dear life and remembered how old I am, and NO; these are not what I need to buy- regardless of cleavage, midriff or butt-crack! After a few of these experiences replicated to varying degrees, I found a store that had what I was looking for and I bought it. I bought it knowing that a woman or child with their sweat made it in China and suffering on the sandals, even before I will wear them. Knowing that this corporate chain has put mom and pop shoe stores out of business all over the country. Knowing that I am now “one of them”- Corporate Consumer. I am almost was in tears when I left wearing my new Spalding sandals.

After further review, the replay shows indisputable evidence I AM NOT ONE OF THEM! I rode my beat-up, black Trek bike what ended up to be five or six miles to get there – I could have used my van. My shirt and shorts were bought at Savers last spring. I did not accept the temptation of BOGO just because I could. I put my old sandals in my canvas bag that a local grower at the Eastside farmers Market in Madison, WI gave me two seasons ago as a gift for being such a strong supporter of local growers and her. I do not need your plastic shopping bag, a second pair of footwear at half off or anything else. Eleven dollars. Brand new Spalding athletic sandals for eleven dollars. An incredible deal but at what cost to those whose sweat mixed with my while pedaling my bike in the hot Virginia sun?

I am not one of them
I am not one of them

Me and my Soul are not for sale. We are not on the open market.
WE ARE NOT FOR SALE ANYMORE!

TV Dinners

“Mom. Why can’t we have TV dinners like everybody else? Are they too expensive?” David asked in his typical demanding manners that never really felt like a question.

“Yeah. Why can’t we have TV dinners mom?” I was only eleven but was q quick learner; if it worked for David for fifteen years, why not try it myself?

Her face turned red, her head tilted a little like it does when she doesn’t like the conversation or people. This time it was the conversation. “Because they’re no good, that’s why.”

“But we want them! Why can’t we have them just once to try them?” Again he used the question that was a demand more than a question. “Just one time and then we won’t ask again.” Not remembering when “we” became a “we” in this plan of his but I sat there silent to see if it would work.

Mom hesitated for a moment. Her face got redder, her forehead got all squished up and she was shrugging her shoulders, “OK. You want TV diners, we’ll have TV dinners tomorrow night for supper.”

“YAY!” We both yelled in harmony.

Thanks mom,” I said as David walked away with that smirk he has after successfully bullying somebody, especially adults.

All day in school all I could think about was having TV dinners tonight. What are TV dinners I wondered? Do you eat them while watching TV? Why would anybody want to eat while watching TV? Do you eat them differently than regular food?

When it started getting dark, I stopped playing kickball at the cul-de-sac at the bottom of Berkeley Terrace with my friends to see what a TV dinner looked like. I had already three times seen commercials on TV about them, since I really only watch Saturday morning cartoons on TV, three times was a lot. And, we were going to have one for dinner tonight.

I threw open the front door, ran up the steps through the living room to the kitchen and asked out of breathe, “Are the TV dinners done yet mom?”

“Don’t run through the living room, use the steps from the hallway! David will be home any minute and the TV dinners are almost done. Go wash your hands and set up the den for dinner.”

I ran down the hallway steps to the bathroom on the right past the laundry room before the den and washed my hands. I noticed the only book we ever had in the bathroom was Race Riots, which was jokes about everybody from Micks to Spics, whatever that meant. I ran back up the steps to the kitchen and asked, “How do you get ready to eat TV dinners in the den mom?”

She handed me three plastic trays with cups, forks, knifes and spoons for the three of us. I guess dad isn’t coming home for dinner again tonight, too bad he’ll miss out on TV dinners. I slowly walk down the steps to not drop and break anything and through the hallway to the den with the colorful, shag flowered carpet and black leather couch. We had a color TV, so the TV dinners will probably even taste better than when we had just a black and white TV.

David came barreling through the front door slamming it as he ran up the living room steps to the kitchen and again my mom yells, “David, don’t go through the living room to the kitchen, use the hallway steps!”

“Are the TV dinners done yet?” not even acknowledging mom spoke.

“Yes, we were just waiting for you.” She opens the door to the oven with both of us staring wide-eyed, grabs her oven pads and takes out these little bendable metal trays with three little compartments that separated the Eggplant Parmigiana from the Linguine with Marinara Sauce and applesauce in the left hand corner compartment. “Go get the three trays your brother left in the den and bring them back with you, hurry.”

David was back in a jiffy. We each carried our own TV dinner down to the den and sat on the black leather couch that had the Afghan my mother crotched last winter. We were so excited we didn’t even notice the TV wasn’t on for our TV dinner. My mom turned on the TV with its cool remote control device she held in her hand that was able to turn the TV on and off, and change channels without even getting up. She put on the evening news with Walter Cronkite on CBS but we didn’t care because we were eating our TV dinners. After a few minutes, I noticed that our TV dinner was identical to what we ate last night and most nights in our home. Eventually David got mom to confess that she borrowed the little metal trays from The Graifmans and just put last night’s leftovers in the three little compartments and heated them up in the oven. “I just can’t feed my children frozen TV dinners!” she said.

Like with everything and everybody else in life then and till the day he died in 1997, David wore her out and she gave in and bought “real” TV dinners for us the next night. We had Swanson Hungry Man Turkey Dinner with dried out turkey with a boring gravy, fake mashed potatoes and awful peach cobbler. They sucked. We all went up to the kitchen, threw them in the garbage and raided the fridge for some Rigatoni in the white Corner Ware dish and my mom made some fresh salad in the big dark brown wooden bowl we always ate salad in.

It turned out David was telling the truth when he said if she would let us try them once we would never ask again, we didn’t. But my mom wanted us to feel like we were like the other kids in the neighborhood, so she would make a real meal in the soft metal trays with three little compartments about once a week and eat in front of the TV in the den together as a family. It was the only time we didn’t talk, laugh and have fun during dinner in my family because the TV was on.

She filled up the big downstairs freezer with these TV dinners for “Whenever I am too busy or tired to make a fresh dinner.” They lasted in that freezer for quite a while until my mom got breast cancer, whatever “cancer” was and my grandmother stayed with us while she was in the hospital getting “chemo”. My mom wanted to be sure we still had her food even while she was on the verge of death herself. My grandmother used to walk around complaining, “I don’t know why your mother wasted all that time making you kids these frozen dinners when I can make you dinner myself.” That was my mom, always seeing dinner as how you show and share love. It worked

There is More Work to be Done

Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo. I will eat at a Mexican restaurant here in Charlottesville, VA. So far, it seems like a great town and UV is really nice. The students all seem soft and friendly.

I’m sitting in my van in a mostly empty parking garage a little past midnight. I was at the library but it just closed. How does a library close at midnight on the Sunday night before finals week? I was online catching up on stuff, emailing couch surfers and one of my former supervisors at the Urban League Ed. Oh yeah, I applied for a job at Villa Julie U in Maryland in my shorts, t-shirt and sandals.

Today was my second travel day after leaving Danbury. Somehow my door fixed itself enough for me to be able to open and close my door to get I and out but more importantly- push the switch that opens my gas lid on the outside of the van. I stuck a small mirror that I bought to be a temporary replacement for the driver’s side mirror, which was crushed. Not the best situation but it works till I get it all fixed. I guess I need to stay somewhere long enough in order for that to happen.

I emailed a bunch of couch surfers earlier this evening but both that responded that they were too busy with exams to host tonight; I will sleep in my van. After I finish writing, I will search for a place for me to hide and rest without being bothering or being bothered by others. This being a college town, I need to be more attentive. It was warm today here, so I will not have to worry about the temperature tonight.

Last night I couch surfed with a young woman who rents a loft out in the country on a horse farm about 30-40 miles from Baltimore and a little further form D.C. She was nice, friendly and accommodating but we really never hit it off. We are different in too many critical ways. A few are pace/speed of life, need for control/freedom and general ease with life. We went to an old town named Ellicott Coty this afternoon. That went better but our variance in walking speed was a little uncomfortable. She lives alone and has no friends in the rural area she lives in. This affected her social skills and need for connection I think.

While being tourists, we visited historic “Colored School” that was restored. The history and feel of the place were re-assuring to me. Somehow I felt hope form being there and seeing and feeling the courage that was necessary for them to have such a school. I take schooling and so many other privileges for granted. This was subtle ad heartfelt reminder of the struggles that many folks have endured and still do. There is more work to be done. We are not free yet.

I have experienced what Reiki students go through that I had not personally felt in a real long time. It is the fall-off in intensity, focus and rhythm after a group intensive. The separation from the Teacher and the group energy has demonstrated that I have just begun this new process with new meditations. What we feel in the force, depth and connection to the energy deceases significantly when we are by ourselves in the world again. I already miss the intensive and the group. There is more work to be done.

Old Bricks

I love the way old bricks feel under my bare feet in the summer. They have many seemingly contradictory but actually contrasting textures; smooth and rough, soft and hard, natural and manufactured. I cam feel some of the cracks on the ball of my foot letting me know they are real. This is especially true when the bricks are old, and time, water and footsteps have created a surface with out any sharp edges. These reed bricks are aged well into greens and browns as well. The William and Mary campus only has red bricks like these on al their walkways.

Leaning back against a short brick wall of three layers equally about eight inches, I feel at home here. The steps, eight in number lead to and from the Sunken Gardens. I still do not know why they are called “gardens” since it is just a grass field, one that I enjoy but still just a field surrounded by a dozen sets of brick steps with a lining of the shrubs on the horizontal sides and trees on the ends. The trees appeal to me more then the shrubs. Shrubs usually look too manicured and un-natural to me, these are no exception. Trees, well they’re tress and tell me great stories, sometimes I can hear them. They tell us where we came from and who we are and our greatness.

There is a white male sunbathing at the far end. He brought a folding chair with him but he is now lying face down on a blanket, no correct that, face up. It is not as easy to tell which is which with a man at a distance as it is for a woman. Women’s sunbathing attire is drastically different front and back, not men's. Why do white people sunbathe? Why do they not like their natural skin color? It s interesting to me that many of the folks who sunbathe are prejudice and discriminate against people of color but spend hours ad days sunbathing every summer trying to get darker. And then they pay to go in microwave-type machines in the winter to further avoid looking like themselves. What is wrong with their skin that they need to try to change races to appear sexy? Why does they attach healthiness to tanning? For people like me, it is not a matter of health or anything else. My skin gets darker even when bike riding in the snow of winter.

If one knows the history of “tanning”, they know that before passenger planes were invented, having a “tan” meant you were a low-income, uneducated outside worker. Those with money and wealth would go to great lengths to not be exposed to the sun to not be confused with “the servants” who had “tanned” during the summer. The came passenger planes and vacations to Florid and other southern USA beach destinations. The cultural climate changes because now having a “tan” in the winter demonstrated wealth. Even “the servants” were not “tan” in the winter like them. Then came the bikini, the supermodel and finally “tanning salons”/microwave ovens for humans. Why do white people want top change their skin color, hair color, nail color, lip color and now with fake colored contact lenses, their eye color so much? If “white is right” then why are they are trying so hard not to be white?

Of course, this is just one example of us humans not accepting ourselves for who we are. White peoples obsession with looking different is not ht beginning nor the most glaring example of lacking self-acceptance. For me personally, this takes many shapes and forms. As an Italian male like many others similar to me, I have a lot of body hair. Depending on the day and my feelings about myself on that day, will determine whether I will be wearing a tank top on the beach or shirtless. Ironically, two of the women that I have been serious partners of mine, partially chose me because they like men with thick dark body hair. But this did nothing to ease my insecurities.

The red bricks are still here. After sitting ion them for a while, my butt is starting to hurt. What felt pleasurable then, now feels rough and stiff on the heals of my feet. Time to go. I say goodbye to a good friend at dinner tonight. I will miss her even though I am the one leaving. I will miss these Sunken Gardens without a garden. Time to go…

De-Expresion

It is now white, very white. You can see the spots that are not as white but still very white. I am sure the landlord will only see the places that the orange, blue, red, green, purple and black refused to be hidden. Just like early in the twentieth century when American women refused to have their voices and votes hidden any longer. Just like when the Voice of Nelson Mandela refused to be hidden or silenced by prison, hate or violence. When Brother Malcolm returned from his Pilgrimage in Mecca and refused to support division, and in fact promoted inclusion, and reformed, open-heartedly a vision of what we need to do to be free. The Creative and Inspired Voice has a way of making itself known no matter how many coats of paint one tries to hide it with.

How can we accurately represent or portray six months of days and nights filled with love, tears, songs, laughter, dances, sharing, huge hugs and community after its visual evidence has been whitewashed away? Did we just commit treason of the highest order by submitting to the system constructed to whitewash creativity and uniqueness? But, who would be better assigned to such a task than the creators and lovers themselves? Is there anyone else qualified to dissolve James De La Vega’s chalk masterpieces on the sidewalks of Harlem than De La Vega himself or Mother Nature herself? NO, I think not.

I am writing this knowing the answer but fighting hard to hold back the tears. Real hard. I am leaning against the cement base of the UVA flagpole in front of the newly painted columns of The Rotunda. It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning including tourists with cameras, and Christians in Khakis coming from Church strolling around campus. This is not where and when someone cries hysterically over participating in the process of de-expression. No, not here or now. Maybe I am not courageous enough to let myself breakdown and mourn over being one of the Brillo-scrubbers this morning. I am not strong enough to be that man. After centuries and millennium of witnessing de-expression, the wounds in my belly, heart, mind, ears and eyes are too deep, I am not man enough to embrace the kind of paint that deep.
But they are.

They, the ones who together produced the playlists on his MacBook that was the soundtrack of this loving family of a small, special group of humans. Young humans with friendship, trust, passion and wide open arms perfectly sculpted for hugs that make my knees weak by the sheer force of their love, compassion, hope and humility. They drew the purple sketches of the girl with the amazingly straight nose standing tall next to her soft, pillowy cheeks. They wrote The Welcome in all its bright undeniable colors that spoke the Universal language of Welcome to anyone fortunate enough to enter this Temple of love and community. They who as a group created their own Ten Commandments that lift and include us all, while simultaneously letting us know that we may not be there yet, but know where to go and why.

Purple and blue was the hardest to de-express. The vitality and boldness of these two pigments would make The Buddha, Jesus, Abraham, Kwan Yin and Mohammed proud parents of children like blue and purple. Just look at the sky or any flower garden for proof of their force. The orange was easy to de-express, just like the bag of tangelos we inhaled to quench our thirsts on this hot day while scrubbing.

The handprints on the ceiling had pigments glorifying the colors of the rainbow and de-expressing them took our whole bodies to distinguish. We had to stretch and bend to make sure all evidence of this experience never happened, the lost votes in Florida in 2000 were easier to hide than the tempura paint handprints holding and hugging all below them with love, warmth and forgiveness. These hands caressed and massaged the wounded hearts that Mother Culture beat and abused. The hands reached down to them providing safety and protection. A place where being you was what was expected of you. Not in spite of who you are, but because if who you are!

When I walked up the stairs to the living room this morning, the whiteness startled me. I have many friends of Color who experience being startled by whiteness every day of their lives, for me, this morning was too much. No, I am not man enough to face this pain. How can I allow these tears trying to purify and cleanse my heart and Soul for this act of heresy but I will de-express them too.

If I am experiencing this level of violation and stripping of their outward expression of their days and nights they shared meals, words, arms and dreams together; what about them? I am just a weary traveler grateful for a place to rest my head. This is their collective creation.
When will we choose expression over oppression?

Today, my vote in the primary of life is to express and create. No more de-expression, not one more day!

May 25, 2008, Charlottesville, VA