Yesterday was Mother’s Day. I want to talk about capitalism. (Might sound like a non-sequitur, but stay with me). Feeling so full today. Full of love — coming in and going out — filled with hope and gratitude and excitement. And a little sorrow. Missing my mother, even as I was so celebrated by my children yesterday. This cycle of life can be a rough one, can’t it? Babies are born, we become mothers, our mothers are grandmothers… Mother’s Day is a funny holiday for many of us. It certainly was for Anna Jarvis.

Anna Maria Jarvis “invented” Mother’s Day in 1908. She wanted something concrete to honor her mother who had died that year. In fact she wanted to honor all mothers, and even identified the white carnation (why is that flower so often reviled? could this be the answer?) as a perfect symbol for the Day. Well, things soon started going awry as far as Miss Jarvis was concerned. The floral and confectionary industries were banking big bucks on the back of her idea. Two years later Hallmark was born — coincidence?! Jarvis had had it:

“A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother—and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment.”^[21][22]

Jarvis had lost control of this idea, she was no longer at the steering wheel of her original idea of mom-commemoration. So she worked to rescind it! How cool is that? She was like, if you’re going to take my idea and commercialize it into something no longer recognizable as mine, then I want take-backs. Well, we all know what happens when women and other power-minorities cry “appropriation”: a smear campaign ensues. Jarvis was eventually placed in a sanitorium, her stay funded by the nice “people connected with the floral and greeting card industries.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Jarvis

So, yeah this is a blog about Mother’s Day, kind of, but it’s more a reminder of how for centuries those who are not at the top of the capitalist (social and economic) food chain have things snatched away from them on the regular. Why only recently did Jack Daniels, the Tennessee whiskey distiller, acknowledge that an enslaved man named Jack Green was the one who taught the good men there to make whiskey in the first place. He was even named “head distiller” for a minute, until the realization that that optic would not sit right with too many of the libation’s consumers. And yes, the man has been acknowledged now, but have his ancestors been paid for his labor? You know, the Reparations word. Doesn’t look like it.

Capitalism is pretty fabulous for those who have money to make money. You might notice that many of us suggesting a more expansive thinking on our country’s economic systems are not the ones at the financial top. (Though not always, thanks Bernie Sanders)! I do understand that I participate in, and benefit from, capitalism in a myriad of ways every day. I’m just saying, imagine if financial power was not our country’s top religion, its measuring stick of success, the lofty goal we have been inculcated with. Maybe Miss Jarvis could have kept her day to commemorate all mothers as a simple ceremony of white carnations. (The flower industry actually ran out of white carnations at one point and so introduced the idea of red ones to compliment the holiday bouquets)! And imagine if Mr. Green had a place at the table from the start of the now billion dollar spirits industry, commensurate with his contributions. His family could have enjoyed the benefits of wealth passed down through generations by now, like so many of the White families associated with this particular industry.

Maybe you have an example wherein the love of money (because the Bible does not say that money is the root of all evil, it specifies, “For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows” (1 Timothy 6:10 KJV). Seems like lots of folk get pierced through by money-lovers. Has there been a time that you, someone you know — or know about — has had their humanity removed in the name of capitalism? I’d love it if you shared that story.

Anyway, Happy Mother’s Day to all. (For some of us lucky ones, most every day feels a lot like Mother’s Day anyway). Peace, love, and white carnations.

I just need to say some stuff about poetry and what a medicinal cure it can be. It’s holistic, like poets are a fringe society of healers. Many of you have heard a poem — or even written one — and felt transformed. Like your molecules were rearranged. Or put back in order. Or floated to a grounded place. Whatever the experience, someone said something just right and you were seen, heard, and moved to live larger than you were living the moment before. That’s poetry to me.

My amazing daughter and her fabulous friends gave an online reading from her latest collaboration. The book is called b sides: loose translations in English. It is a collection of poems Kayla wrote, alongside her friend and collaborator Cosi Schietekat’s translations of these works — into her home language of Spanish. Buy it now: https://nueoi.com/Kayla-Ephros

An extremely talented poet, Tatiana, started off today’s reading with several poems of her own, and then Cosi read some of Kayla’s poems in English, as well as a few of her own works, both in English and Spanish. Kayla followed suit with several poems from the book (which is just a gorgeous production) and then some select others not included in the book. Sitting back against a pillow, taking in the magic — words painting thoughts and feelings and shadows — was ever so restorative. We could all use some restoring right about now. Here’s one of Kayla’s:

Lest you think I have tunnel vision when it comes to poetry and this is all just about one of the most talented and beautifully-spirited daughters anyone could ever have, well, there’s more. I read an article in the Los Angeles Times today about Marianne Faithful and the recordings she has made of old-school English poets like Byron and Keats. Who knew? There is this beautiful music by Warren Ellis that accompanies these powerful readings. Check it out: https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/music/story/2021-04-27/marianne-faithfull-courtney-love-poetry-cheating-death-sober-sex

The Bible has poems, too. Lots of them. This can really help us challenge what the definition of a poem even is. Where’s the rhythm and the rhyme, Old Testament!? These devices don’t appear too much in books of poems from the Bible, at least not in the translations we have access to. But oh there is most certainly poetry. Hebrew (the early language of the Bible) poetry is apparently big on parallels and opposites. Ecclesiastes was so poetic in its parallels and opposites that some folks a few thousand years later turned around and wrote a song to it.

Here’s the Bible version:

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, New International Version

I’m just saying, go find a poem. Or write one. Be one: free verse, sonnet, epic. Look, I know National Poetry Month is over, but just like Black History Month most of us are way behind in the knowledge and experience of the month’s topic. So go for it, extend the month. Extend the months as a matter of fact and read a Black poet. Like this painful beauty right here, which I memorized as a kid:

Incident

BY COUNTEE CULLEN

(For Eric Walrond)

Once riding in old Baltimore,   
   Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,   
I saw a Baltimorean
   Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
   And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
   His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore
   From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
   That’s all that I remember.

I want to write about today’s sermon. (So yeah, God’s gonna show up in this blog). I imagine it’s not easy to give an inspiring sermon from a screen. I mean you are literally flattened as a preacher, expressing ideas and observations through a medium that everyone is tired of looking at. But today “my” Pastor (I haven’t had a chance to officially join this church yet so I have to put that in quotes, I think) Lucious Smith of Friendship Pasadena Church gave a sermon!

Now a lot of times when we hear sermons –or TED Talks, or literary readings, or the like — that speak to us it is because, as much as anything, we were meant to hear it. I mean sometimes it’s a snippet of dialogue on a bus (remember buses?!), or a poem shared on social media, but when a preacher preaches well then it really travels deep inside you. Preaching, really preaching, in my amateur view necessitates humility plus passion. Take a moment to think of how many people you know who walk around with those two characteristics. Pastor Smith seems to be one of those people.

The sermon title today was The Road to Revival. Friendship Pasadena Church apparently has a history that includes a moment where friction turned to faction in the church. Friendship is not alone in this experience, as many churches undergo seasons of change. Pastor was briefly recounting, in his sermon, that particular history while also paralleling the moment with the times we are in now. “From Survival to Revival,” was the theme. As in, we’re not trying to “go back to normal,” but instead to go forward to what is yet to come, what we are yet to do. I love this right here. After all, no one I know really believes we should be going back to much of anything. Logistically, perhaps (like attending concerts), but not socially(racism), culturally(individualism), politically(nationalism), etc. We clearly have far, far to go.

Part of being revived, of participating in a revival, is following visions that we Christians believe emanate from God. It’s so cool to see visions, to imagine what could be. I am sure many of you have had such visions, and followed through on them. You may well be sitting in your vision at this moment. I am in one of mine, for sure: California living with a yard to call my own. I saw that. Thing is, it’s what we do with these visions that really matters, Smith reminds us. Like we need to be patient and not push to make the thing happen immediately. We also have to be faithful, to God, and also to the process, whatever that seems to be looking like. And we have to be diligent. Like you have stuff to do in order to facilitate that vision. As Pastor Smith said, and has repeated in the past several times, sometimes we are waiting around for God to do the thing God’s waiting around for us to do! Crazy to think about, right?

Another component of being revived — individually or collectively — is repentance. You’re about to see one reason I really vibe with this Pastor, because he’s interested in word origins, too! So, repent comes from the Greek for think differently. It’s not necessarily about rending your clothes so much as about changing your mindset. “…rend your hearts and not your garments” (Joel 2:13). And by the way it’s much easier to tear a shirt than change a thought. Just saying. One of the things Smith suggests we might need to repent for? “Small expectations.” Yeah, like if we really want to learn to sew, as a friend revealed to me recently, then make a big plan. Sign up for a class because you have the goal of sewing a dress for your first day back at the office; or making shirts for all the kids on the team you coach. Whatever you do, don’t just say, “I’m going to learn to sew some day.” That’s kind of insulting to God, like going to the ice cream store and exclaiming how good everything looks and then walking out the door. (Top of my head metaphor, c’mon)!

Pastor Smith said that “God gives us everything in seed form.” Wow. I was thinking how impatient I am with planting seeds in my garden. How they just take too long to bear flowers and that I end up buying potted plants and herbs because I don’t want to wait! Yikes. Plant the seeds and do whatever it is you need to be doing while the seed grows. Prepare yourself for the fruit of the seed. For me that might mean learning how to garden in the desert after living for three decades on the East Coast. (Where I wasn’t such a Green Thumb anyway)!

There are things we just might not be able to do. Truth. But God can do anything. If I believed all the people who said I couldn’t do anything, that I was making a mistake, a dumb decision, I would be so far from my revival path. But I had faith that the visions would not have come to me in the first place if I was not supposed to see them, and act upon them. One can be “responsible,” explained Pastor Smith, that’s a good thing to be at times. But, “then there’s God…” That’s the supernatural stuff we don’t have the ability to create, but sure have witnessed in our lives. All I can say is, Can I get a witness?! Seriously, what are you reviving? In yourself? Your family? Your community? This weary world? I’d love to know. And peace be with you as you go.

Once again I am moved not to say much. I am left speechless as I learn of yet another Black American murdered by law enforcement. There are things we can do. Today I have nothing left to say that has not been said by others more qualified.

I share here a blog from public scholar RENÉE ATER. Last year, in May, she wrote about her anger and anguish at the police killings taking place. She made a list of those recently murdered. Unfortunately, she has had to update that list many times since. I’ll paste the beginning of that very long list of lost lives here, and include a link to her blog at the end. Peace, if at all possible.

Daunte Demetrius Wright, October 27, 2000 – April 11, 2021
Brooklyn Center, Minnesota
Shot: Brooklyn Center Police Officer, April 11, 2021

Marvin David Scott III, 1995 – March 14, 2021
McKinney, Texas
Peppered sprayed/Restrained with spit hood/Asphyxiated: 7 Collin County Jail Detention Officers, March 14, 2021

Patrick Lynn Warren Sr., October 7, 1968 – January 10, 2021
Killeen, Texas
Shot: Killeen Police Officer, January 10, 2021

Vincent “Vinny” M. Belmonte, September 14, 2001 – January 5, 2021
Cleveland, Ohio
Shot: Cleveland Police Officer, January 5, 2021

https://www.reneeater.com/on-monuments-blog/tag/list+of+unarmed+black+people+killed+by+police

Still don’t think we need to defund militarized policing? Please consider visiting this ACLU site — or other likeminded sources — to learn, support, act…

https://www.aclu.org/issues/criminal-law-reform/reforming-police

“We are all in this together.” That hollow phrase has rung throughout the halls of this pandemic. And even if some of us at times were actually with and for others, there were a whole bunch of people that never really felt they were part of that bigger whole — the community’s, the state’s, the nation’s, or the world’s. I am afraid that any semblance of that sentiment is now fading ever quickly, as folks post their “I’m vaccinated” selfies and plan parties in celebration. Meanwhile, shop keepers in East LA, and farmers in India continue to struggle mightily due to this pandemic.

I, for one, never felt “we” were all in this together. I saw my life, one where I could easily choose comfortable isolation, where my children did not have frontline jobs, where my excellent health kept me even further away from the possibilities of contracting COVID, as far removed from so many others’ realities. This year has spanned two coasts for me, and both times spaces of comfort, where walks could be taken free from crowds, and fresh air was plentiful. I am not “in it” with the men and women who clean the hospital rooms of COVID patients, nor the doctors and nurses who approach these bodies daily. I am not in it with the many, many families whose furloughed jobs brought them homelessness. Nor am I in it with my students who continue losing family members to the virus because they belong to at-risk groups of many categories. When folks back East were begging me to be careful during Southern California’s spike last year, I explained that I was, and that, also, I was not living in the same LA as others. Later, when an article in the LA Times covered the glaring differentials of pandemic experience, entitled, “The Two LAs,” I had a catch-phrase to explain what I meant.

Some say we have learned to think more collectively this last year, we Americans. That this has been a year of truly understanding that when our fellow humans are not well, then no one is well. We often quote/post bits and pieces from Dr. King’s letter written in his Birmingham jail cell. For example, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” But we tend to neglect the following sentences which project an air of implicit responsibility upon the reader. (This was something King was so good at doing, and thus his words are often truncated in pretty memes before we get to the part where we’re called to action). The Birmingham letter goes on to say, by the way, “We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

Right now, because of the pandemic, which is not over, people are dying from this virus. Countries like Italy and India are dealing with new surges and we have to pay attention. One reason is simply pragmatic, that if people are carrying the virus somewhere in this world then all of us are still at risk. And then there is the affective reason: these people are our brothers and sisters, the ones we watched in videos singing from balconies, or whose food has been a mainstay of our take-out orders this past year. We are all connected. Yes, it feels good to be vaccinated, to have my one body in a sea of so many, allegedly immune to this killer disease. But there are so many at greater risk than I who have yet to receive a vaccine. They are ringing us up at grocery stores, delivering food to our front doors, and living unhoused because they cannot afford shelter due to a waterfall of COVID-related circumstances. I mean, I qualified for the vaccine as early as I did because I volunteer at a food pantry. That is privilege.

So what do we do? We keep paying attention to everyone. For example, after checking in on the bogus trial surrounding the murder of George Floyd, we pay attention to the fact that Minnesota’s COVID cases are rising. We learn more about the lingering effects of this disease so as better to understand our neighbors, students, and friends going forward. We read articles that look at the bigger picture, like one in Medical News Today regarding the inequity in vaccine availability. It reads in part, “Such vaccine nationalism perpetuates the long history of powerful countries securing vaccines and therapeutics at the expense of less-wealthy countries; it is short-sighted, ineffective, and deadly.” https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/herd-immunity-may-take-4-6-years-due-to-vaccine-nationalism#Continuing-the-inequity

It’s not that we cannot celebrate the progress. I, for one, am relieved to have been vaccinated, that my children, and so many friends, have been vaccinated. And I am glad for those small-business owners who somehow survived this catastrophe and are once again serving their communities. I am thrilled at the prospect of students returning to campuses, and eager to return to a physical classroom myself. All that. And yet, we cannot forget this time. Our country has a history of forgetting, of pushing news out of the way because it’s killing our vibe. During the darkest times we pay attention, take solace in the fraternity of people across the land. But now the light is shining again, more brightly on some than others, and we shift to the “hopes and prayers” phase of that inevitable march towards blissful ignorance.

In my religious tradition we are reminded to look to God in all circumstances. Don’t just praise Him because life is going great; and don’t only come to Him when you need help, but be in His presence at all times. (I will at some point write about that He pronoun). If you don’t include a concept of higher power in your life, then consider simply resting in the presence of humanity. Yes, we must all heal, seek shelter and solace and fellowship right now. Those of us fortunate enough to have access to such things must use those gifts — that is how we show gratitude. But then we need to, I believe, duck out of those caves of comfort and step into the glare of reality. Stay informed, send a check, go to a rally, sign a petition, call a representative, write a letter, tell a friend. These are actions that make the air move, that can gather momentum if enough of us are performing them.

According to NASA’s explanation of Newton’s Laws of Motion, “The property that a body has that resists motion if at rest…is called inertia. Inertia is proportional to a body’s mass, or the amount of matter that a body has. The more mass a body has, the more inertia it has.” The United States has a lot of mass. Some of it has been in motion this past year, but a lot has remained inert. Imagine if we created, through collective action and love, a giant body in motion. Like pebbles cast onto still waters, the ripples would multiply and things would change. Change is needed. Big change. Each of us can affect some change. It has never been easy or comfortable or even obvious to do this. It requires consciousness, something I continue to practice and am far from mastering. I remember my dad used to exhort me and my sister to “pay attention to the world around you.” It didn’t really resonate with me much back then. It sure does now.

What an elevated eight days it’s been, from Passover to Easter/Resurrection Sunday. Elevated in that I could clearly see that my life was full of blessings, so much goodness just playing out at eye level.

Last Saturday we had a Seder in the backyard. While I may not worship as a Jew anymore, I certainly embrace the culture and traditions of my late — albeit assimilated — Jewish father, and of a life once lived as an observant Jew, and most importantly of my beautiful children whose identity includes their Jewishness. As well, this time of year opportune for acknowledging the intersections of religious practice, such as Maundy Thursday in the Christian tradition being the day Jesus shares Passover dinner with His disciples. There is so much to celebrate.

Monday my deeply passionate, funny-as-hell, incredibly intelligent, and very good looking (I’m not the only one who thinks so) son returned East. He had been out here for most of March, as we bookended a pandemic year by living together during that month on each end. Along with my beautiful, multi-talented, spiritual and generous daughter we had a blast with each other, with friends, and with my new home of Los Angeles, California. Hikes and thrift shops, beer gardens and picnics highlighted a month that took us just a little bit closer into the world we were forced to abandon a year ago. And let me tell you, it was exhausting! To be so active after a year of relative isolation… But we powered through, all in vacation mode, willingly leaving work by the wayside. What a gift to be a part of this team.

Tuesday I got a new car. New-to-me. My son had accompanied me on the first round of the process the week before. Without inciting suspicion in the reader that I receive any kind of fee for this, CarMax rocks. I traded in my fourteen-year-old Toyota Rav 4, purchased when I was still was driving kids around in the back seat, for a two-door white Honda Accord with very sexy hubcaps. I am still in the process of learning how to use the many bells and whistles included on the dashboard of this thing (is there a class I can take?!) but I did figure out how to tune to my favorite radio stations. The Wave and NPR’s local station, KPCC, are my go-tos. There’s also a great old-school hip-hop station I play when feeling that OG vibe. And I tune in to a reggaetón station once in a while, too, when attempting to catch up with the 21st century.

Wednesday I recovered from Monday and Tuesday — and taught class. Then Thursday came wherein I returned to the parking structure at Pasadena Community College for my second Moderna vaccine. Still worried it would not happen, that I would not have the correct paperwork, that they would run out, or that the sky would fall (because, really, how has it not yet?) I arrived early and cried once again as I got the injection. And not because it hurt. Although maybe, yes, because it hurt — it hurt my heart. I hurt for the year that’s been, and for all those who have suffered so much, and for all things wrong still not righted in this country, and in this world. Like the Passover tradition of removing a drop of wine from your glass to acknowledge the pain that the Egyptians endured during the plagues — and like the drink offering that has gone from Biblical times to urban street corners — I felt sorrow during my joy. I feel sorrow that people are actually being asked if the police officer who murdered George Floyd actually did; sorrow that mass shootings have returned, and yet lawmakers still hold tight to the “right” to own rapid fire weapons; sorrow for the immigrants fleeing violence and pain, only to find that we inflict that pretty well ourselves… Joy. Pain. Sunshine. Rain.

Friday found me continuing work on a book proposal, propped up by a longtime writing buddy via Zoom. She and I wrote dissertations together in various North Jersey libraries a few years back, always breaking after our four-hour stints for wine and gluten-free pizza. We are writing with another woman now who is at the tail-end of her own dissertation work. We encourage her as best we can, but before we know it the post-traumatic stress of graduate school gets a hold and we begin babbling, reciting facts and naming theories so that I’m not sure how much we’re really helping. P.S., My pastor just defended his dissertation last week, so now he’s a Reverend Doctor. School — some of us just can’t get enough.

Saturday I worked my shift at Pasadena’s Friends In Deed food pantry with my daughter. (Meanwhile my son was working at a Lenape community farm in New Jersey — did I mention my children have big hearts, too?). The food pantry has been such a blessing; it is why I qualified for a vaccination when I did, and how I have already met some really cool people in my new home during a pandemic. I am lucky to be associated with this amazing organization and you all are free to donate at any time. I see the work they do, I watch its direct impact on humanity. https://friendsindeedpas.org/fid/what-we-do/our-programs/the-food-pantry/

Mom’s birthday was Saturday, too, and I found myself missing her in fresh ways. A friend told me recently that the three-year mark after a person’s death is unique in its time away from the loss, and time into the realization that that person will not return. It’ll be three years this fall that Mom passed. It seems to me this period also entails forgetting the trying logistics of death and dying, difficult feelings and the like, while recovering happy mental snapshots. Kind of how we forget labor pains and begin to remember only the joy of giving birth, any negativity that arose around mom’s last years is slowly slipping away from me, replaced with images like the Easter baskets she used put together for us when we were very young, replete with malted milk chocolate eggs and cute underwear. Why underwear, I ask now. That was mom.

And then here it is Easter Sunday, Resurrection Sunday, a day celebrating Spring, renewal and hope. Seems like a good time for all that, doesn’t it? I solemnly and heartily pray for these things for humankind; for our earth that continues to take a beating; for all the animals that bring us unconditional love. Blessed Sunday to everyone, powerful Spring, joyous Resurrection. Here’s hoping that you find happiness staring straight at you. And if that’s not the case, then here’s to seeking it like a child hunting for precious Easter eggs, thrilled at the discovery each and every time.

Yesterday was International Poetry Day. I was reminded by a dear friend’s text this morning. I typically write my blogs on Sundays but, as anyone who is reading this series knows, I am not “on schedule” these days thanks to the extended visit of my fabulous son. So, let’s pretend it’s yesterday and dedicate this space to poetry today. Because any day is a good day for a poem!

One thing I inadvertently did do in homage to Poetry Day yesterday was have dinner with my daughter, one of the most gifted poets you’ll read. Here’s one of her many:

8th Grade Layer Cake

by Kayla Ephros

the horny 8th graders in my art class
are all taller than me and it is
horrible
their performance of coupledom
under the table
all the shaved knees knocking
gobstopper manicures and remember
ink poisoning?

the other day Iʼm looking for
money from the old me
and feeling guilty for it too,
feeling like a flimsy
piece of trash
digging in the pockets of
my misfits jacket with
the visitor sticker

visiting the 5th graders
who are still kind
I am meant to teach them science
but itʼs easy, we talk about
mind/body or landscape
but imaginary…

cross-section layers
shapes
biodegradable dolls
clothing
mind/body wigs
chair
body extensions
cake
exquisite corpse
pillows
doll burial
digestion
safety costumes
shapes

when I was in 8th grade,
I was told that wearing a sweatshirt
all winter
would create the effect of
bigger boobs come spring

I think of the Jubilee
the renewal of the land
my haftarah and its
transliteration
always cheating all the time freeze-ing
that sweatshirt with the cat pee

the other night I was working
at a brothel and this guy
in a Spiderman thong asked me
If I actually had boobs
I was about to show him but then
just said yes
and walked down the long
hallway identical to the one
in my apartment
Iʼm certain itʼs only a veil
certain I woke up with
those wages

sleeping beside the spell book
and the almanac, ever a keepsake
waking up to my naked neighbor
amidst the bamboo, having
come straight down the mountain
speaking with Joanna of inky
art projects, shooing Spiderman
because he found me there too

turning over into a new kind
of sleep, a version
that’s brighter
like if sleep were a job
I’d be paid better

all of the brothel rooms have
windows on the doors
big cracks, leaks
for looking on

deja-vu and movies, party girl
and the other party girl

up and down and open
and shut and up and down
and in and out until the
mirror shatters

I reverse this omen
into a time capsule
while the early chapters at the brothel
lie beneath the scalloped
edge of each day,
an ant farm

we used to treat our science teacher
like an ant, of course because
we all felt like ants ourselves
punished, low

I imagine sometimes getting high
before class, but now
Iʼm the teacher
haha

body extensions
cake
exquisite corpse
pillows
LOL

at work I never know
what anyone is talking about
when he says how quiet it is
I say
I guess we are now used to
the drum of rain?

I cry a tear with all this
information but itʼs just
from the sunscreen
the watercolor
the early morning

what have I learned today?
the origins of chrome yellow,
Marigold, what have I forgotten
the teacher survey
the plaid skirts
what time of year is it here
I never know if we’ve just summited
winter or summer, which
dent of vacation on the soft egg

I learned that if youʼre eating
you should just eat, and if youʼre walking
you should just walk but if youʼre eating
and walking you should just eat and walk

And here’s one of my favorite poets – way ahead of HER time:

We never know how high we are (1176)

Emily Dickinson – 1830-1886

We never know how high we are
  Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
  Our statures touch the skies—

The Heroism we recite
  Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
  For fear to be a King—

Now, this man’s work I was only somewhat knowledgeable about. When he died, the West Coast papers schooled me!

“The world is a beautiful place”

Lawrence Ferlinghetti – 1919-2021

                The world is a beautiful place

                                                           to be born into

if you don’t mind happiness

                                             not always being

                                                                        so very much fun

       if you don’t mind a touch of hell

                                                       now and then

                just when everything is fine

                                                             because even in heaven

                                they don’t sing

                                                        all the time

             The world is a beautiful place

                                                           to be born into

       if you don’t mind some people dying

                                                                  all the time

                        or maybe only starving

                                                           some of the time

                 which isn’t half so bad

                                                      if it isn’t you

      Oh the world is a beautiful place

                                                          to be born into

               if you don’t much mind

                                                   a few dead minds

                    in the higher places

                                                    or a bomb or two

                            now and then

                                                  in your upturned faces

         or such other improprieties

                                                    as our Name Brand society

                                  is prey to

                                              with its men of distinction

             and its men of extinction

                                                   and its priests

                         and other patrolmen

                                                         and its various segregations

         and congressional investigations

                                                             and other constipations

                        that our fool flesh

                                                     is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all

                                                           for a lot of such things as

         making the fun scene

                                                and making the love scene

and making the sad scene

                                         and singing low songs of having

                                                                                      inspirations

and walking around

                                looking at everything

                                                                  and smelling flowers

and goosing statues

                              and even thinking

                                                         and kissing people and

     making babies and wearing pants

                                                         and waving hats and

                                     dancing

                                                and going swimming in rivers

                              on picnics

                                       in the middle of the summer

and just generally

                            ‘living it up’

Yes

   but then right in the middle of it

                                                    comes the smiling

                                                                                 mortician

And this one here pulled at my already frayed heart-strings

For the Sake of Strangers

BY DORIANNE LAUX

No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waiting patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day it continues, each kindness
reaching toward another—a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them—
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/152177/for-the-sake-of-strangers?utm_id=24104&sfmc_id=3291130&fbclid=IwAR3NeRC38cO-9rH6MPWO6wLnVUisrjd66z3KE67on5kX_T259rvkBG5egmI

And finally, here’s one I wrote in my journal in January. (This is straight from the journal, not a crafted piece).

It’s cloudy-

notable in LA

in LA where the sun shines hard and bright

Mountains, my mountain, shows shadows today

and I marvel at the ins and outs of darkness

Cars whiz down North Verdugo

often I don’t hear of them –

until there are none

and it is silent

And then I wonder if, perhaps,

I like noise these days more than peace.

Why not share your favorite poem — in the comments on my blog or on this platform.

May you give and receive love, health, and poetry in your life.

It’s been chilly in Los Angeles these last few days. People here like that. It’s a change of pace, a chance to wear sweaters and Uggs instead of t-shirts and Nikes. My son is visiting from New Jersey. He does not like this weather. I mean he chose to ride an airplane during COVID in order to escape the snow and cold and gusty winds of the East, to bask in sunshine under palm trees. But after a few sunny SoCal days upon arrival, it has turned blustery here — even as New York City recently hit the 70 degree mark. But what’s a person to do? He also came to see me and his sister and we are enjoying each other immensely.

Los Angeles is not one place. There’s no L.A. experience that I can decipher so far. For the past ten years I’ve been visiting here, staying with or nearby my daughter as she took me around to gardens, bars, galleries, and mountains. So many neighborhoods, so many experiences. Chinatown, Silver Lake, Eagle Rock, Highland Park… And that’s just the city. L.A. county, where she and I both live now, has Pasadena with its historic downtown, Glendale with multiple hiking trails, and Burbank — which always makes me think of Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In when the announcer would say, “coming to you from beautiful downtown Burbank.” I go there now to play tennis at a beautiful public park.

Southern California honors its winter season, too. People go indoors — relatively. I’ve been having a smattering of folks over, all outside, hosting COVID-safe “parties” as we circle the firepit left here graciously by the last tenants. We’ve grilled salmon for fish tacos, and served burgers with tomatillo chutney. People bring firewood. We hang out in the back until we can’t take it anymore, layers of jackets and sweaters warming us along with the alcohol. It feels really special to be able to socialize this way right now. At the same time, there is always a kind of self-consciousness about what the “neighbors must think” of us COVID-deniers living it up like that.

Since my son’s arrival, he’s gone thrifting in Pasadena, gallery-hopping in Chinatown, outdoor dining in Glendale, and hiking in Alta Dena. We took a hike the other day that started out as a hot and sunny ascent. As we began our trek back down the trail, we watched a sheet of rain move quickly over the Verdugo Mountains and float across the valley, growing ever closer to our location. Hail began to softly pelt our sweatshirts as we retraced our steps back down the Beaudry Loop Trail. And then, once again, the sun appeared. Verdant grasses seemed to spring up instantaneously, responding to that rare taste of moisture.

I really like it here, having only been a resident for six months. My daughter says I don’t even know what it’s like yet, what with so many cultural venues and dining establishments closed. The person coloring my hair at Paul Mitchell the School Pasadena last week said the lore is that it takes East coast folks six years to love L.A. They continually swear that they are heading back home as soon as possible. And then, after that sixth year, they are here to stay. I’m here to stay. I believe that this place — this vicinity — is my destiny. It turns out I never told my kids the story of coming to Palo Alto as a child. My parents rented the house of an academic mother and her very cute teenage son for the summer so that my father could guest-lecture at Stanford. I fell in love with the place. And the son. And their houseboat. And the inground pool at the house. I decided then that I wanted to live in California. Destiny, like I said.

Tonight the kids and I will have Mexican food. We’ve been busy with Armenian take-out, brew-pub appetizers, and a German biergarten replete with beer made by Monks in Munich. So it’ll be tacos or tamales or maybe one of my favorites, chile rellenos, tonight. And some cervezas, of course, or maybe a nice shot of mezcal. One always indulges when visitors come. Lots of consuming, of food and material goods. It’s really fun to consume here. But it’s also been a fun place not to do that, too, to simply gaze off at the mountain view from my backyard, or take a walk along the L.A. River. (Which we actually saw flow the other day, thanks to that rain)!

I look forward to hosting others in my home soon. As things open up and people get vaccinated, the city and county will spread before me, offering that much more to explore. You know, a lot of folks wondered about the wisdom of moving across the country during a pandemic. Turns out it’s kind of genius. In a time where so many are thirsting for something new, something outside their four walls and established safety protocols, I am in a place where everything is new — from the neighborhood Von’s Supermarket to the Fremont Tennis Center, five minutes away. New spots, new people, and most of all new views — literally as well as figuratively.

This is an ode to Los Angeles, to the privilege of being able to relocate to sunny California, and most of all to the joy that is being the mother of my two beautiful children. The best of all worlds, my children are both forever new to me and the most familiar humans I know. How lucky can I get? Peace, love, and health. We are getting there.

On Friday, Amanda Gorman was followed by a security guard en route to her home. She looked “suspicious,” apparently. Once it was clear that she indeed resided in the building in question, the guard did not acknowledge any kind of culpability on his part regarding the surveillance, according to Gorman. “This is the reality of black girls: One day you’re called an icon, the next day, a threat,” she Tweeted. Yup. That’s the reality of Black people as a matter of fact.

And it makes me wonder if all those folks who posted her poem and picture on Facebook after she read at the inauguration, are also sharing this somewhat less “uplifting” news. Or has their focus already shifted elsewhere? And what about those teachers who leapt at the chance for a “teachable moment,” incorporating Gorman’s inauguration poem into their lesson plans? Are they also teaching their students that Americans who look like Gorman get followed, stopped, questioned, and more on a daily basis? Or is that not part of the curriculum?

I wrote this in my blog on January 26:

I am somewhat nervous about our country’s response to Amanda Gorman. Mostly about the White people’s response. We do this to African Americans a lot. We lift one up and celebrate them — as long as they keep us somewhat comfortable while still allowing us to show just how supportive we are of “them.” And then… There are so very many stories of talented, brave, intelligent Black Americans being lauded one day, and forgotten — or worse — the next.

I am not prescient, only someone who pays attention to history’s patterns. Frederick Douglass? First lauded as a great orator for the cause of abolition, Douglass soon tired of the paternalism of William Lloyd Garrison, the White abolitionist. Feeling more like part of a dog and pony show, not the intelligent and experienced representative against slavery, Douglass finally went in a different direction. He was fortunate to escape (once again) the White man’s tendency towards feelings of ownership.

Jack Johnson, world famous boxer, revered by Black and White fans alike. He made a lot of money in the sport, and in subsequent business ventures. He also showed a disdain for the racist norms of the day. He even married a White woman. Johnson was ultimately arrested under the guise of the Mann Act, “aimed at moral reform …its ambiguous language about “immorality” resulted in it being used to criminalize even consensual sexual behavior between adults (Wikipedia). Johnson ended up in the Leavenworth Penitentiary.

Rosa Parks? Well, we all know what a “great” African American she was. Mrs. Parks received numerous awards and even had a street named after her. Feted by various organizations and individuals throughout her life, she was almost homeless at the end of it. Since the 1970s she had struggled with ill health and financial troubles, often relying on local groups’ charity to keep her afloat. In 2002 a church took up a collection in order to pay her rent after she was threatened with eviction.

Hank Aaron, Marian Anderson, Arthur Ashe, James Baldwin, Lorraine Hansberry… So many famous Black Americans have been “done dirty” by White folks. Whether by individuals or institutions, through active assault or simple erasure, far too many African Americans have been lifted up and then dropped directly to the curb when no longer useful to us. And so often the surrounding narrative is shaped such that the responsibility of said downfall rests on the Black American’s shoulders. Mike Tyson, as yet one more example. Yet, the real responsibility quite often rests squarely on the same shoulders that once hoisted up these so-called heroes.

I hope Amanda Gorman survives this life she’s been given. I hope she doesn’t get handcuffed and pepper-sprayed like the 9-year-old girl in Rochester last month. Or attacked by a mob of White supremacists like happened to Berlinda Nibo in LA in January. I hope the next time Ms. Gorman gets followed home — and she will — that the worst thing that happens is a lack of apology. But it doesn’t look good. And it hasn’t for some time. And we really need to be cognizant of these trajectories next time we decide to hoist someone up as an icon. I mean, will we still be there when others begin the process of tearing them down? It seems to me the least we can do.

Black History Month is over. For some. For others it doesn’t really end. I’m not going to go into how it’s the shortest month and all that. I mean an African-American scholar is the one who chose it — albeit to celebrate Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, as well as Frederick Douglass’. (Historical narratives have developed over the years to allow for a more “complicated” version of the Great Emancipator). But Dr. Carter G. Woodson, early on, was aware that American history (and culture) was being taught and purveyed absent of Black people. His idea was to inject his people, his ancestors, back into the stories that kept getting told by and about White people. Now, he also had intended for February to be a celebration, a culmination of all the amped up study and programming occurring throughout the year around Black history. And that’s where Black History Month, as it is today, has failed.

This month has certainly provided a bevy of lectures, panels, creative presentations and historical documentaries surrounding the history of Black America — which is, of course, the history of America. Networks, government, educational and cultural institutions make big plans each year about how they will acknowledge the African-American citizens of this country. There is an embarrassment of riches, really, making it difficult to even catch all that is being offered. There is a real sense of urgency for some of us that we better catch as much as possible before the airwaves and video screens and classrooms return to the foregrounding of Whiteness for another year. I mean, doesn’t the fact that there is just so much to say and show — from the PBS Black Church series, to CBS’ features on Black athletes, to YouTube’s Black Renaissance — get these folks in charge to consider that maybe, just maybe, they need to keep up with the programming throughout the year?

I think “the firsts” are the worst for me. All February we see little mini-showcases about the first Black fill-in-the-blank. And it’s usually the same handful of people. And it’s rarely mentioned just how utterly egregious it is that, for example, the the first Black woman to appear in Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit edition (Tyra Banks) did not happen until 1997; or that the first African-American Secretary of State (Colin Powell) did not hold office until 2001; or that the first Black anchor to have his own newscast (Lester Holt) only occurred 6 years ago?! That’s a lot-hundred years of Whiteness, wouldn’t you say? These firsts come with a subliminal message that, yes, there have been some African Americans who made something of themselves — and 28 days is sufficient to list them all, thank you very much.

Oh and one more thing, the “statements” put out by various institutions — from education to entertainment:

The White House: “This February, during Black History Month, I call on the American people to honor the history and achievements of Black Americans and to reflect on the centuries of struggle that have brought us to this time of reckoning, redemption, and hope…”

New York Stated Education Department: “…Certainly, there is tremendous value in recognizing these contributions that helped advance our knowledge and our civilization in so many ways. …”

Catholic Diocese of Arlington, Virginia: “…In his recent Christmas message, Pope Francis  reminded us, ‘Our differences, then, are not a detriment or a danger; they are a source of richness. As when an artist is about to make a mosaic: it is better to have tiles of many colours available, rather than just a few.’”

As Eliza Doolittle sang in My Fair Lady, “Words Words Words/I’m so sick of words/I get words all day through/First from him, now from you/Is that all you blighters can do?”

So what do I want? Why the complaining? I want African Americans, Americans of African descent whose ancestors built this country in the most literal as well as figurative way possible, to be a regular part of the grand discussion. I want history teachers who teach World War I to spend time on the plight of Black American soldiers’ return to “their” country; I want African-American writers to be mainstays in literature courses; I want to be able to find a movie with a Black cast, in a myriad of genres, any day of the year. I really just want there to be a time when we don’t have to continue this crazy catch-up, this reinsertion of Americans into their own culture and history. Why do we have Black History Month — and Women’s History Month, and Hispanic Heritage month, to name a few months? Because we’ve ignored the majority of our citizens for so very long.

The problem is, by the time next February rolls around a whole bunch of new important things will have been done by African Americans. Yet we’ll still have little kids coloring in the face of Dr. King, and grownups watching the latest documentary about select “heroic” African Americans of past centuries. Reparations cannot be limited to financial compensation, but must also include cultural compensation, a shifting away from our White (male) focus to a lens that sees all of this country’s actors. Until then, I guess February will continue to provide us with a packaged version of Black History, a check-marked box on the to-do list of our nation’s conscience.