Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Book Signing!
Hello ladies and gents.
And We Write: Surviving Cancer will be available for purchase early in the New Year.
I will be holding a book signing at Every Thing Goes Book Cafe in Staten Island on Saturday, February 5th 2011 from 3 pm to 6 pm.
The cafe is within walking distance from the Staten Island ferry.
More info to come soon!!!!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Minutia!
Isn't it funny the random things that we remember from our childhood? Isn't even funnier how the memories pop into our minds at the most unusual or inopportune times?
I few days ago I was making my way to Manhattan. I cannot, ironically, remember where I was headed. When I was on the 1 train, sitting down, minding my own business, this image of my grandmother (God rest her soul), popped into my head. It was a long forgotten memory in which I wasn't any older than 10. My mother, father, and I believe my siblings were there, too, standing on my grandmother's front porch, waiting for her to come outside. We were all heading out for the evening.
We heard the doorknob turn and saw my grandmother standing behind the screen door. It was August in South Carolina and the sun was especially brutal that day. The sunlight hit the screen in such a way that my grandmother's silhouette beamed with sporadic hues of red and black. I noticed that my grandmother's face, obscured by the translucent screen, seemed abnormal. It was a bit elongated and contorted.
When she pushed open the screen door, my grandmother stood adorned in a red blazer, red pencil skirt, a white ruffle blouse and black patent leather pumps. She finished off the look with a textured gold broach that was pinned to the lapel of her blazer. My grandmother was old but had an implacable sense of style.
When I looked at her face, though, I gasped. She had dentures that where at least 2 sizes too big. Despite her best efforts, my grandmother couldn't keep her mouth shut.
My smirk turned into a chuckle that crescendoed into a deep and hearty laugh. I laughed so hard that tears wailed in my eyes. I almost had an accident ...
I few days ago I was making my way to Manhattan. I cannot, ironically, remember where I was headed. When I was on the 1 train, sitting down, minding my own business, this image of my grandmother (God rest her soul), popped into my head. It was a long forgotten memory in which I wasn't any older than 10. My mother, father, and I believe my siblings were there, too, standing on my grandmother's front porch, waiting for her to come outside. We were all heading out for the evening.
We heard the doorknob turn and saw my grandmother standing behind the screen door. It was August in South Carolina and the sun was especially brutal that day. The sunlight hit the screen in such a way that my grandmother's silhouette beamed with sporadic hues of red and black. I noticed that my grandmother's face, obscured by the translucent screen, seemed abnormal. It was a bit elongated and contorted.
When she pushed open the screen door, my grandmother stood adorned in a red blazer, red pencil skirt, a white ruffle blouse and black patent leather pumps. She finished off the look with a textured gold broach that was pinned to the lapel of her blazer. My grandmother was old but had an implacable sense of style.
When I looked at her face, though, I gasped. She had dentures that where at least 2 sizes too big. Despite her best efforts, my grandmother couldn't keep her mouth shut.
My smirk turned into a chuckle that crescendoed into a deep and hearty laugh. I laughed so hard that tears wailed in my eyes. I almost had an accident ...
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Funny Folks ...
People are real funny. You'd think that your friends would be happy for you when you're productive, that they'd be supportive and encouraging when your productivity proves to be fruitful.I have never attempted to discourage any of my friends from pursuing their dreams or have frowned upon their pursuits. If I ever have, then please forgive me. With both drive and determination, there isn't anything that you cannot accomplish. You just have to be smart about it and do your research so that you can truly reap the rewards of your work.
Whether they be friends, acquaintances, or family, you will have some haters. You'll have folks who will try their best to poison your mind with words of discouragement, while mimicking your actions for their personal gain. It's really amazing to observe, really.
But, like my mother always told me, if you have a devoted band of dismissive copycats, then you're doing something right!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Daddy's Weakness Continued: The “Daddy” Trilogy
The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside...
Slowly, my father's layers began to unravel. He was handicapped in more ways than one. My father merely brought home the bacon. My mother did everything else. She wrote the money orders and checks, she withdrew the money from the bank, she prepared all the meals, she washed the clothes for the entire household, she was the true backbone of the family.
My father was handicapped without my mother. She was still alive but visibly weak and incapable of carrying out her daily routine. On several occasions, she asked me to tend to my father. He wasn’t the type who would willingly turn to his children for aid (though he believed that his kids were obligated by blood to be of assistance).
As I walked into the apartment, I saw my father sitting at the dinning room table with a frustrated look on his face. The cause of his frustration lay in front of him. I asked what he was filling out and if he needed help. He barked at the gesture, so I kept it moving and proceeded to walk toward the bedroom where my mother rested. After confirming that she didn’t need anything, I informed her about what dad was doing. She asked me to go look over his shoulder to make sure that he was filling out the paperwork accurately, and I did.
My father was sitting at the head of the dinning room table. I figured that he had already made a mistake. I spotted a bottle of whiteout near him. It wasn’t on the table when I had entered the apartment. The microwave was on top of the cart behind my father, so I proceeded to heat up some leftovers while glancing over my father’s shoulder. He noticed that I was looking and asked what I wanted. I replied by shacking my head to say nothing and then ate my dinner in my room.
When my mother was hospitalized, my father had no choice but to ask for help. I do recall a degree of reluctance at first, but eventually he was able to ask without hesitation. He needed help using the microwave and the washing machine. He didn’t know how to use either one. He really didn’t.
During that time, my father made a point of expressing his affection for my mother at every opportunity. I wasn’t accustomed to these displays of love. My father was never an emotional person, especially not emotional toward my mother. As he did with most things, my father took my mother for granted, but once her illness began to take a toil on her physically, my father’s perception changed. He actually saw my mother. He knew that she was there all before but he never really saw her! It took cancer to open his eyes, if only slightly, to the fact that life is fleeting and that no person or moment should be taken granted.
Do not get me wrong. I’m in no way denying the fact that my father loved my mother. After all, love is only as good as the lover. I strongly believe that a person can deeply love someone yet betray the subject of his or her affection. The greater the person, the greater is the quality of his or her love and the greater is the manifestation of that love.
My father’s only remaining layer unraveled right before my mother died. The rock, the alpha-male who ruled his brood with an iron fist, broke down on his recliner as reality engulfed him. He was losing his wife of 44 years, losing the mother of his four children, losing the person who had fulfilled his every whim without question, losing the subject of his innumerous insults, losing the only woman who would be able to bear his demeanor. He was losing and because of that acknowledgment of loss all that remained was regret.
Slowly, my father's layers began to unravel. He was handicapped in more ways than one. My father merely brought home the bacon. My mother did everything else. She wrote the money orders and checks, she withdrew the money from the bank, she prepared all the meals, she washed the clothes for the entire household, she was the true backbone of the family.
My father was handicapped without my mother. She was still alive but visibly weak and incapable of carrying out her daily routine. On several occasions, she asked me to tend to my father. He wasn’t the type who would willingly turn to his children for aid (though he believed that his kids were obligated by blood to be of assistance).
As I walked into the apartment, I saw my father sitting at the dinning room table with a frustrated look on his face. The cause of his frustration lay in front of him. I asked what he was filling out and if he needed help. He barked at the gesture, so I kept it moving and proceeded to walk toward the bedroom where my mother rested. After confirming that she didn’t need anything, I informed her about what dad was doing. She asked me to go look over his shoulder to make sure that he was filling out the paperwork accurately, and I did.
My father was sitting at the head of the dinning room table. I figured that he had already made a mistake. I spotted a bottle of whiteout near him. It wasn’t on the table when I had entered the apartment. The microwave was on top of the cart behind my father, so I proceeded to heat up some leftovers while glancing over my father’s shoulder. He noticed that I was looking and asked what I wanted. I replied by shacking my head to say nothing and then ate my dinner in my room.
When my mother was hospitalized, my father had no choice but to ask for help. I do recall a degree of reluctance at first, but eventually he was able to ask without hesitation. He needed help using the microwave and the washing machine. He didn’t know how to use either one. He really didn’t.
During that time, my father made a point of expressing his affection for my mother at every opportunity. I wasn’t accustomed to these displays of love. My father was never an emotional person, especially not emotional toward my mother. As he did with most things, my father took my mother for granted, but once her illness began to take a toil on her physically, my father’s perception changed. He actually saw my mother. He knew that she was there all before but he never really saw her! It took cancer to open his eyes, if only slightly, to the fact that life is fleeting and that no person or moment should be taken granted.
Do not get me wrong. I’m in no way denying the fact that my father loved my mother. After all, love is only as good as the lover. I strongly believe that a person can deeply love someone yet betray the subject of his or her affection. The greater the person, the greater is the quality of his or her love and the greater is the manifestation of that love.
My father’s only remaining layer unraveled right before my mother died. The rock, the alpha-male who ruled his brood with an iron fist, broke down on his recliner as reality engulfed him. He was losing his wife of 44 years, losing the mother of his four children, losing the person who had fulfilled his every whim without question, losing the subject of his innumerous insults, losing the only woman who would be able to bear his demeanor. He was losing and because of that acknowledgment of loss all that remained was regret.
The Daddy' Trilogy
Monday, August 23, 2010
Daddy's Weakness: The “Daddy” Trilogy
A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but I do recall my father saying that he didn’t want to catch me watching his television and that I had, “better just watch that sh@t back there in my room.” He was referring to my computer. I found his “logic” amusing since I had actually bought the television that he was referring to and that he sat daily on the couch that I had bought for my mother and ate at the dinning room table that I had also bought for my mother.
Again, I saw my father’s insecurity, in addition to his selfishness. Not once had he even asked if my mother was okay or if she needed medical assistance. Granted her bruises were minimal but I would still have expected some degree of concern. My father was concerned but about himself.
Daddy’s Weakness
My father is several different entities wrapped up into a compact package. I thought that he had hit an all-time low when he told me that my mother wanted to abort me. The fact that my father had made it seem the way he did, like my mother wanted the abortion, is what really upset me. He knew that my mother was no longer alive to explain herself. Little did he know, my mother had already told me the story. The fact that I was expected to be “a little person” who was def and mute. She explained to me that the doctors mentioned abortion as an option. My mother and I were very close. She didn’t withhold much from me.
I spoke to my sister about what my father had said and she wasn’t remotely offended. She was actually indifferent. “Well, he once told me that he should have just jerked off,” she responded. What he said to me paled in comparison to what he had said to my sister. Despite the circumstances, I actually felt better after speaking to my sister.
Though his tongue could pierce like a knife, he sometimes used it in the most approving manor. His accolades were rampant when things went his way. They were grand and pedestal boosting, so much so that the subject of my father’s momentary affections naively assumed that the praises would usurp all perceived injustices. I cannot speak for my other siblings; we all grew to know our father, and mother for that matter, differently. Our experiences are not the same, but my experience/observation has proven that his praises can be and are often short lived. Granted when a child disappoints his parents, that child should expect that the disappointment will be expressed. However, the articulation of that disappointment shouldn’t serve as a catalyst for future letdowns. I have watched as my eldest brother, for example, has attempted to live up to some standard that he hasn’t yet been able to achieve, primarily due to my father’s continuous expression of sheer disappointment.
Despite it all, I do believe that neither myself nor my siblings ever perceived our father as weak. He always embodied the alpha-male persona. Even when my mother was diagnosed, he still embodied that male bravado. This was due largely to the fact that he really didn’t understand the severity of my mother’s condition: stage three colon cancer. Also, as I describe in greater detail in "And We Write: Surviving Cancer", my mother was a trooper. It wasn’t until her operation, in which her surgical oncologist told us that she would only have about 5 years to live, that I saw my father’s persona change. The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside.
To be continued...
Again, I saw my father’s insecurity, in addition to his selfishness. Not once had he even asked if my mother was okay or if she needed medical assistance. Granted her bruises were minimal but I would still have expected some degree of concern. My father was concerned but about himself.
Daddy’s Weakness
My father is several different entities wrapped up into a compact package. I thought that he had hit an all-time low when he told me that my mother wanted to abort me. The fact that my father had made it seem the way he did, like my mother wanted the abortion, is what really upset me. He knew that my mother was no longer alive to explain herself. Little did he know, my mother had already told me the story. The fact that I was expected to be “a little person” who was def and mute. She explained to me that the doctors mentioned abortion as an option. My mother and I were very close. She didn’t withhold much from me.
I spoke to my sister about what my father had said and she wasn’t remotely offended. She was actually indifferent. “Well, he once told me that he should have just jerked off,” she responded. What he said to me paled in comparison to what he had said to my sister. Despite the circumstances, I actually felt better after speaking to my sister.
Though his tongue could pierce like a knife, he sometimes used it in the most approving manor. His accolades were rampant when things went his way. They were grand and pedestal boosting, so much so that the subject of my father’s momentary affections naively assumed that the praises would usurp all perceived injustices. I cannot speak for my other siblings; we all grew to know our father, and mother for that matter, differently. Our experiences are not the same, but my experience/observation has proven that his praises can be and are often short lived. Granted when a child disappoints his parents, that child should expect that the disappointment will be expressed. However, the articulation of that disappointment shouldn’t serve as a catalyst for future letdowns. I have watched as my eldest brother, for example, has attempted to live up to some standard that he hasn’t yet been able to achieve, primarily due to my father’s continuous expression of sheer disappointment.
Despite it all, I do believe that neither myself nor my siblings ever perceived our father as weak. He always embodied the alpha-male persona. Even when my mother was diagnosed, he still embodied that male bravado. This was due largely to the fact that he really didn’t understand the severity of my mother’s condition: stage three colon cancer. Also, as I describe in greater detail in "And We Write: Surviving Cancer", my mother was a trooper. It wasn’t until her operation, in which her surgical oncologist told us that she would only have about 5 years to live, that I saw my father’s persona change. The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Father Knows Best? The “Daddy” Trilogy
It was bound to happen. I knew that I would eventually have to discuss Mr. Lewis. I think that I was purposely avoiding the topic. I actually planned on writing about something else, about what my mother told me about relationships (platonic and otherwise) and not considering everyone my “friend.” I had actually written a few paragraphs on the topic and had titled the piece “Friends, Associates and Foes,” but something else needed to be said, something else has been clawing at the back of my neck while holding on with hind legs. It is time to shake it off And I write…
When my mother was alive and well my father, Mr. Lewis, ruled his brood with an iron fist and piercing tongue. My father was an old school disciplinarian. As long as we abided by his rules, which weren’t always the most diplomatic, all was well. Don’t get me wrong. My father was incredibly strict but also very loving. He just needed to be in constant control.
The financial decisions, the dinner we ate, the television shows we watched, the vacations or weekend getaways we took, were all pretty much made at my father's discretion. My mother's input was minimal at best.
I remember when we visited a cousin who lived in Harlem. It was winter and I had to be about 10-years-old. My father was a drinker (he has since given up the yack) and so was his cousin, Johnny. Johnny must have hit the bottle rather hard by time we had arrived. Shortly after we had taken off our coats and made ourselves comfortable, Johnny began to recount his encounter with the devil. Yes Ol' hoofed foot visited Johnny. I remember my father asking jokingly as he lounged, one leg hanging over the arm of the couch, what did the devil look like? Johnny replied that he had a head shaped like a motorcycle helmet with two huge bulging, glossy black eyes and he was as black as coal (blame it on the al..co...hol).
Noticing how comfortable my father was as he lay on the couch, I couldn't help but comment, Dad, you must think you're at your house, sitting with your leg up like that. Everyone laughed at the remark, including my father. It wasn't until the ride home that the I learned of my error.
As we rode toward our house, my father looked at me from the rearview mirror. He informed me that I shouldn't have said anything about him lounging in the chair. I didn't understand what I had did wrong, so I asked why? At that moment, I recall that my mother, who was sitting in the front passenger's seat, looked across at my father. With a farrowed brow he stared at the rearview mirror, his eyes locked with mine.
He spoke softly but with clear intent. Because it is embarrassing. I was a smart kid and knew that I shouldn't purposely embarrass anyone, or hurt anyone’s feelings. I had not meant to embarrass him and if I had embarrassed him like he claimed, then why did he join in when everyone laughed? My mother could tell that I was confused and turned her head slightly to the left so that she could clearly see my face as she looked over the headrest. She smiled at me and that was the end of it.
I learned something about my father that night that is just as true today as it was then. My father is insecure. I didn't really know how to describe it then but time has helped to name it. His insecurity is what caused him to bolt into the apartment when my mother had fallen in front of the building. She wasn't diagnosed at the time but had broken a bone in her foot and had to use crutches. My father could walk like a speed demon and he “forgot” that my mother was on crutches. In her haste to keep up with him, she fell. She scraped her knee, elbow and ego. He was more concerned about how embarrassed he was and didn't even bother to help her up, from what my mother later told me.
When I heard the key unlocking the door, I proceeded to open it. My father walked across the threshold, ranting about how my mother had fallen and how embarrassed he was. She's out there fallin' on the ground. She doesn't understand how embarrassing that is? I disregarded his questions. I scanned my mother's body as she stood, defeated, on crutches. I noticed a few scrapes and bruises. I told her to come in and have a seat while my father still complained about the episode in the background. When I had gotten her into a chair, I asked if she was alright. She said she was and I then went to get some alcohol and cotton balls to clean up the scrapes and bruises. My father was still ranting and raving in the background. Once I was informed of what had happened: my father had walked ahead of her toward the car, leaving her behind on crutches. She said he was walking quickly and she tried to keep up and subsequently hit the pavement. There were a bunch of folks in front of the building non-of-whom came to her aid (Bastards ).
My father made the God awful mistake of admitting that he had walked ahead of her while she was on crutches. He mentioned that he turned around when he noticed that she wasn't behind him and saw her in the distance on the ground and had to walk back to where she was stretched out on the ground. I was no longer 10-years-old. Needless to say, Ms. Lewis went in...
"Where were you? Why were you walking so far ahead of her? You knew that she's on crutches. What husband does that?" I calmly asked while still tending to my mother’s wounds.
A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but...
To be continued...
When my mother was alive and well my father, Mr. Lewis, ruled his brood with an iron fist and piercing tongue. My father was an old school disciplinarian. As long as we abided by his rules, which weren’t always the most diplomatic, all was well. Don’t get me wrong. My father was incredibly strict but also very loving. He just needed to be in constant control.
The financial decisions, the dinner we ate, the television shows we watched, the vacations or weekend getaways we took, were all pretty much made at my father's discretion. My mother's input was minimal at best.
I remember when we visited a cousin who lived in Harlem. It was winter and I had to be about 10-years-old. My father was a drinker (he has since given up the yack) and so was his cousin, Johnny. Johnny must have hit the bottle rather hard by time we had arrived. Shortly after we had taken off our coats and made ourselves comfortable, Johnny began to recount his encounter with the devil. Yes Ol' hoofed foot visited Johnny. I remember my father asking jokingly as he lounged, one leg hanging over the arm of the couch, what did the devil look like? Johnny replied that he had a head shaped like a motorcycle helmet with two huge bulging, glossy black eyes and he was as black as coal (blame it on the al..co...hol).
Noticing how comfortable my father was as he lay on the couch, I couldn't help but comment, Dad, you must think you're at your house, sitting with your leg up like that. Everyone laughed at the remark, including my father. It wasn't until the ride home that the I learned of my error.
As we rode toward our house, my father looked at me from the rearview mirror. He informed me that I shouldn't have said anything about him lounging in the chair. I didn't understand what I had did wrong, so I asked why? At that moment, I recall that my mother, who was sitting in the front passenger's seat, looked across at my father. With a farrowed brow he stared at the rearview mirror, his eyes locked with mine.
He spoke softly but with clear intent. Because it is embarrassing. I was a smart kid and knew that I shouldn't purposely embarrass anyone, or hurt anyone’s feelings. I had not meant to embarrass him and if I had embarrassed him like he claimed, then why did he join in when everyone laughed? My mother could tell that I was confused and turned her head slightly to the left so that she could clearly see my face as she looked over the headrest. She smiled at me and that was the end of it.
I learned something about my father that night that is just as true today as it was then. My father is insecure. I didn't really know how to describe it then but time has helped to name it. His insecurity is what caused him to bolt into the apartment when my mother had fallen in front of the building. She wasn't diagnosed at the time but had broken a bone in her foot and had to use crutches. My father could walk like a speed demon and he “forgot” that my mother was on crutches. In her haste to keep up with him, she fell. She scraped her knee, elbow and ego. He was more concerned about how embarrassed he was and didn't even bother to help her up, from what my mother later told me.
When I heard the key unlocking the door, I proceeded to open it. My father walked across the threshold, ranting about how my mother had fallen and how embarrassed he was. She's out there fallin' on the ground. She doesn't understand how embarrassing that is? I disregarded his questions. I scanned my mother's body as she stood, defeated, on crutches. I noticed a few scrapes and bruises. I told her to come in and have a seat while my father still complained about the episode in the background. When I had gotten her into a chair, I asked if she was alright. She said she was and I then went to get some alcohol and cotton balls to clean up the scrapes and bruises. My father was still ranting and raving in the background. Once I was informed of what had happened: my father had walked ahead of her toward the car, leaving her behind on crutches. She said he was walking quickly and she tried to keep up and subsequently hit the pavement. There were a bunch of folks in front of the building non-of-whom came to her aid (Bastards ).
My father made the God awful mistake of admitting that he had walked ahead of her while she was on crutches. He mentioned that he turned around when he noticed that she wasn't behind him and saw her in the distance on the ground and had to walk back to where she was stretched out on the ground. I was no longer 10-years-old. Needless to say, Ms. Lewis went in...
"Where were you? Why were you walking so far ahead of her? You knew that she's on crutches. What husband does that?" I calmly asked while still tending to my mother’s wounds.
A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but...
To be continued...
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Oh No, Not the Nails!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Cancer Risk at Your Fingertips?
The rules of summer tell us to cover ourselves from head to toe with hat, sunscreen, and clothing so we won’t fall victim to harmful UV rays.
But if you’re a regular at the nail salon, danger may be lurking closer than you think. According to a recent story in the New York Times, that UV nail light used to dry freshly polished nails acts like a mini-tanning bed, making the device especially questionable for those in the nail-tech industry who use it every day.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
There is Progress
The book is currently in the interior and book cover design stage. It has already been edited and is a good read, ya'll. The publisher will send me a few cover design mock-ups based on the purpose of the book and a few of my ideas. I cannot believe that it is almost done, ya'll. Well close to done. From my understanding, I will receive a PDF of the book for review, which I should peruse several times before I say "it's done." Nevertheless, there is progress. Now, book release ideas... Hmmmm. I want to do something, a book release party or something along those lines.Any ideas?
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Are You a Skutter Butt?
For the past few weeks, I've watched as folks have been inconsiderate, rude, nasty etc, and I wonder where the devil they've picked up such shameful habits? My mother made sure to teach myself and my siblings how to say “thank you” and to be polite and mindful of others' space and time.
I hate to say it, but some New Yorkers can be disgusting, just really nasty; these folks are skutter butts, (skank + gutter + @ss). Are ... you ... a ... skutter ... butt?
Don't get me wrong. No one is perfect. I too at times am guilty of not saying "thank you" amongst committing other social offenses. I am fully aware of the oversight(s) and am making every effort to extend my gratitude when the situation calls for it, but I really wonder if folks are conscious of their mishaps.
Can one be such a skutter butt that he isn't even aware of his skutter butt ways?
Consider the middle aged woman who resides in my complex. For the past couple of weeks, we have both taken the same bus home from the Staten Island ferry terminal and have both exited the bus at the same stop, walking almost with the same stride toward the complex's back gate. Once we have neared the gate, she has proceeded to take out her keys and has swiped herself in, holding the door for me. Naturally, out of common courtesy, I have said, "thank you." She has merely let the gate go and has proceeded to walk toward her building not even looking back to acknowledge my comment.
I was almost certain that she disliked me, but it just so happened that the next day one of my neighbors (Jan) happened to get off the bus as well. Jan too said "thank you" only to receive no response.
The guilty party is a chronic repeat offender. I have watched as she has committed the same offense over and over again. Is she aware that she is a skutter butt? Given the frequency in which she neglects to say "thank you," it is fair to say no.
On countless occasions, I have observed some of the females from the company that shares office space with the organization that I work for use and then exit the bathroom without washing their hands. Someone from the company even brings what appears to be a washcloth into the stall and when she is done leaves the damp cloth balled up on the floor directly underneath the toilet. Highly unsanitary, ya’ll and simply gross!
All of them may not fit the description but a select few are, without a doubt, skutter butts who are repeat offenders. Again, are they aware of their skutter butt ways? Hmmmmm...
There was an attractive young Asain girl riding on the same Manhattan bus as myself in route to the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan. When the bus had reached her requested stop, she began to make her way through the crowd, her cardigan dropping to the floor in her hast. A kind passenger picked up the cardigan. With a warm smile, he handed it back to its rightful owner who snatched the cardigan from his hands, turned around, and proceeded to exit the bus.
She is a skutter butt.
Please be sure to thank the person who, despite the early morning weekday rush, is kind enough to place a hand or foot in front of the door so you can board the train.
If a young man or woman compliments your hair, clothes, even your toes (compliments them in a non-offensive manner), smile and say “thank you.”
If a random stranger, smiles or attempts to strike up a conversation, do not assume that the individual is a nut who is up to no good. You may very well be looking at your future husband or wife. Do not be rude.
Do not be a skutter butt.
I hate to say it, but some New Yorkers can be disgusting, just really nasty; these folks are skutter butts, (skank + gutter + @ss). Are ... you ... a ... skutter ... butt?
Don't get me wrong. No one is perfect. I too at times am guilty of not saying "thank you" amongst committing other social offenses. I am fully aware of the oversight(s) and am making every effort to extend my gratitude when the situation calls for it, but I really wonder if folks are conscious of their mishaps.
Can one be such a skutter butt that he isn't even aware of his skutter butt ways?
Consider the middle aged woman who resides in my complex. For the past couple of weeks, we have both taken the same bus home from the Staten Island ferry terminal and have both exited the bus at the same stop, walking almost with the same stride toward the complex's back gate. Once we have neared the gate, she has proceeded to take out her keys and has swiped herself in, holding the door for me. Naturally, out of common courtesy, I have said, "thank you." She has merely let the gate go and has proceeded to walk toward her building not even looking back to acknowledge my comment.
I was almost certain that she disliked me, but it just so happened that the next day one of my neighbors (Jan) happened to get off the bus as well. Jan too said "thank you" only to receive no response.
The guilty party is a chronic repeat offender. I have watched as she has committed the same offense over and over again. Is she aware that she is a skutter butt? Given the frequency in which she neglects to say "thank you," it is fair to say no.
On countless occasions, I have observed some of the females from the company that shares office space with the organization that I work for use and then exit the bathroom without washing their hands. Someone from the company even brings what appears to be a washcloth into the stall and when she is done leaves the damp cloth balled up on the floor directly underneath the toilet. Highly unsanitary, ya’ll and simply gross!
All of them may not fit the description but a select few are, without a doubt, skutter butts who are repeat offenders. Again, are they aware of their skutter butt ways? Hmmmmm...
There was an attractive young Asain girl riding on the same Manhattan bus as myself in route to the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan. When the bus had reached her requested stop, she began to make her way through the crowd, her cardigan dropping to the floor in her hast. A kind passenger picked up the cardigan. With a warm smile, he handed it back to its rightful owner who snatched the cardigan from his hands, turned around, and proceeded to exit the bus.
She is a skutter butt.
Please be sure to thank the person who, despite the early morning weekday rush, is kind enough to place a hand or foot in front of the door so you can board the train.
If a young man or woman compliments your hair, clothes, even your toes (compliments them in a non-offensive manner), smile and say “thank you.”
If a random stranger, smiles or attempts to strike up a conversation, do not assume that the individual is a nut who is up to no good. You may very well be looking at your future husband or wife. Do not be rude.
Do not be a skutter butt.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
My Mojo is Back ... Yeah Baby!
Okay, I haven't posted anything lately that relates to the book, so I figured I should get back on track.
Of course I will continue to mix things up a bit. I aim to impress not depress with a litany of fine literary musings. I am a hot mess of a trip. I crack myself up, but I digress ...
It has been a little over four years since I started working on the book and there were a slew of bumps and hurdles along the way. They say that death comes in threes, and that's exactly what happened. Shortly after my mother died, her 1st cousin died and then my father's mother passed. This all transpired within the span of two years, and I just couldn't bring myself to write. It's weird because I initially approached the project with so much energy and enthusiasm that I thought the book would be completed in a year. It's shocking how life can take a toll on you to the point where you're no longer motivated. Life kicked me in the backside, and I just decided to lie down so it could get a real good view, make sure that it wedged its boot in really good. I was physically and emotionally drained.
Nevertheless, I never once stopped thinking about the project; it was always on my mind, and I would periodically attempt to crack open my laptop and write or post something on the Google group, but I just couldn't do it, at least not as regularly as I would have liked. Emotionally, I just wasn't ready. When I attempted to write my own entries, I would breakdown before I could complete a sentence.
I did manage to write a few things here and there but those writings were, until recently, incomplete.
I threw myself into both work and school to cope, and I welcomed the distractions, no matter how fleeting they were.
Ironically, I didn't really start to miss my mother, really miss her, until about 2 years after she had died. By that time, I had completed school, had a salaried position and my own apartment. I had achieved the goals that I had set for myself at the time, so I slowed down and when I did, her absence was greatly felt.
I cannot recall exactly what reactivated my mojo. I was definitely concerned that those whose submissions were selected for the compilation would want to know what was going on. I certainly would. I didn't want to give anyone the impression that the book was merely a scam to steal others' work.
I think that there was something going on internally that also made writing a bit easier. Perhaps it was just time passing to the point where it hurt a little less, yet the pain tended to resurface with the same degree of intensity at times, sometimes hurting just as much as it did when she had first died. Time cannot be the sole answer.
It may very well be a combination of various factors that twisted the top off of the creativity bottle and allowed the juices to flow again. Whether it was time, concern about reconnecting with those who had made submissions, and/or a particular individual (Mr. Archbold) who whispered words of encouragement into my ear, one thing is definitely for certain. I got my mojo back ya’ll!
Of course I will continue to mix things up a bit. I aim to impress not depress with a litany of fine literary musings. I am a hot mess of a trip. I crack myself up, but I digress ...
It has been a little over four years since I started working on the book and there were a slew of bumps and hurdles along the way. They say that death comes in threes, and that's exactly what happened. Shortly after my mother died, her 1st cousin died and then my father's mother passed. This all transpired within the span of two years, and I just couldn't bring myself to write. It's weird because I initially approached the project with so much energy and enthusiasm that I thought the book would be completed in a year. It's shocking how life can take a toll on you to the point where you're no longer motivated. Life kicked me in the backside, and I just decided to lie down so it could get a real good view, make sure that it wedged its boot in really good. I was physically and emotionally drained.
Nevertheless, I never once stopped thinking about the project; it was always on my mind, and I would periodically attempt to crack open my laptop and write or post something on the Google group, but I just couldn't do it, at least not as regularly as I would have liked. Emotionally, I just wasn't ready. When I attempted to write my own entries, I would breakdown before I could complete a sentence.
I did manage to write a few things here and there but those writings were, until recently, incomplete.
I threw myself into both work and school to cope, and I welcomed the distractions, no matter how fleeting they were.
Ironically, I didn't really start to miss my mother, really miss her, until about 2 years after she had died. By that time, I had completed school, had a salaried position and my own apartment. I had achieved the goals that I had set for myself at the time, so I slowed down and when I did, her absence was greatly felt.
I cannot recall exactly what reactivated my mojo. I was definitely concerned that those whose submissions were selected for the compilation would want to know what was going on. I certainly would. I didn't want to give anyone the impression that the book was merely a scam to steal others' work.
I think that there was something going on internally that also made writing a bit easier. Perhaps it was just time passing to the point where it hurt a little less, yet the pain tended to resurface with the same degree of intensity at times, sometimes hurting just as much as it did when she had first died. Time cannot be the sole answer.
It may very well be a combination of various factors that twisted the top off of the creativity bottle and allowed the juices to flow again. Whether it was time, concern about reconnecting with those who had made submissions, and/or a particular individual (Mr. Archbold) who whispered words of encouragement into my ear, one thing is definitely for certain. I got my mojo back ya’ll!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Destitute Have Grown Bold
Gone are the days when I could walk the streets and passive aggressively deny the neighborhood beggar the meager remains of my paycheck, could ride the train and merely close my eyes to evade the pleads of the less fortunate, who, despite the obvious movement of my eyeballs behind closed eyelids, took the hint and moved along. The times have changed, for I was verbally attacked by a vagabond.
As the 2 train’s car door opened, he entered, pushing a shopping cart filled with his preferred trinkets. Everyone, including myself, watched anxiously as an unlit torch protruded from a mound of blankets, tattered clothes, key chains, and approximately 4 pairs of aged, Puma sneakers. He immediately began the shtick that all New Yorkers have grown accustomed to. He began to work the car as he spewed poetic gibberish that poked fun at every creed and denomination. As the car pulled into every station, the shopping cart with unlit torch and accompanying items, banged into the guardrails, which rattled seated passengers.
Despite my attempts to avoid eye contact, our eyes met in what can only be described as a carnivorous trance. He looked in my direction a few times before, but our mutual gazes hadn’t locked. I was actually heading to Brooklyn College and was dressed in a blazer, jeans and pointy, kitten heals with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. With our gazes locked, he neared me and exclaimed, “You’re a very pretty girl, but you have an ugly attitude.”
What the hell? I was terribly vexed, to say the least and proceeded to argue with a homeless man. My mother always told me to keep my mouth shut in such circumstances, but I just couldn’t help it.
“What? Kid, you’re homeless. You don’t know me from a hole in the wall. How you
know I have an attitude? Please!”
“I know your type. Think you’re too good. High yellow ass.”
“What? Say’s the homeless cat with the torch! You’re homeless, man. You ain’t got nothing on me, freaking nut!”
Should you ever find yourself in a similar predicament, please use caution and not entertain the aimless ramblings of a torch toting nut on the number 2 train. You may have already seen him. Be forewarned.
Old School Cookouts!
I’m a homebody. This is very true, but there is nothing that I enjoy more than an old school cookout. My family is from the South, and I can recall the numerous cookouts I’d attend during our summer visits to South Carolina. There was a smorgasbord of Southern culinary delights: catfish, whiting, fried shrimp, cornbread, potato salad, and peach cobbler … pretty much everything that could cause diabetic shock. My family is big on cooking. We’d always have a nice spread.
More than the food, I enjoyed both the company and the tomfoolery. The Lewis clan is rather large and the only time that I’d get to see all of my cousins, aunts, uncles etc. was during the summer. Both of my parents are from the South and we’d split our vacation between visits to my father’s folks and then my mother’s, spending a week with each clan.
My dad’s parents lived in Little River, South Carolina. My grandmother owned a stretch of land on which all of my father’s siblings had built their homes, a combination of trailers and wood panel houses. The road leading to the homes, which were less than 100 feet apart, was unpaved. As we drove toward my grandparents’ house, my father would delve into an impromptu history lesson. The land was allegedly once a slave plantation (I haven't been able to confirm this claim). Hidden amongst the trees adjacent to the dirt road leading to my grandparent’s house, were a slew of wooden stumps marking the spots where houses once stood. As we drove aside one particular location that was riddled with wooden slabs protruding from the ground, my father told us that our great grandparent's home once stood on the spot. The slabs were the reminants of the house's foundation.
When we'd pull up to my grandparent’s home, there would be two billowing lines of smoke trailing behind the car, the side effect of driving on a dirt road.
We’d always arrive around the 4th of July, which is when one of my aunts would host a fish fry. There would be folks all around the house, in the front yard and the back, munching on fried whiting and shrimp. My uncle would light up the grill to charcoal burgers and hotdogs. We'd be outside until the early morning.
My cousins and I would venture off along the road barefoot, walking from house to house, the dirt making its way in between our toes. In hindsight, it probably wasn't a good idea to go off by ourselves. Although an aunt or an uncle always knew our whereabouts, the area was heavily wooded, and pitchblack ... we were an adventurous group of girls--my cousins and I.
As we walked, we kept a look out for snakes. We had encountered one in the past and went off running and screaming back toward my aunt’s house. A cousin claimed to have heard us hollering from up the road. You’d think that someone would have come to see what we were yelling about …
During our walks, we would reach Cousin Net's house. There were two graves in her front yard, off to the right in front of the woods. From what I can recall, the deceased had no blood relationship with the family. I'm not quite sure who they were, but they were layed to rest in Net's front yard. There was actually a graveyard a little ways from her house; all that separated her home from the graveyard is a small wooded area. Both the graveyard and the graves in her yard have been there for as long as I can remember.
We were adventurous but not that adventurous. Once we reached the woods near Net's home, we would begin the journey back toward the cookout, where we would load up our plates once again before searching for something else to get ourselves into.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Time We Share
A year after my mother passed, my father remarried. There is some debate about the length of his relationship with his current wife, but I do not care to entertain such ill thoughts ...
It was incredibly difficult to watch my father and his “girlfriend” gallivant about town, partaking in activities that he had frowned upon when my mother, his wife of 44 years, was alive. I honestly believe that my father’s actions/behavior took more of a toll on the family than my mother’s passing. I suppose my siblings and I were all looking for him to take on the patriarchal role. We viewed our father as the alpha male, tight with a dollar (he’d squeeze a quarter until the eagle cried), spanked us into submission, objected to his wife working, never washed his own clothes, and was served his dinner and breakfast ...
My father didn’t have to lift a finger when my mother was alive. He worked, came home, and then sat in his recliner and channel surfed while my mother waited on him hand and foot.
Shortly after my mother’s passing, the tides began to shift a bit more than I had anticipated. My father had to take care of himself. Granted I cooked and cleaned, he had to prepare his own meals on those days that I arrived home late from school or work. He now had to personally pay bills (my mother would often fill out the checks/money orders and mail them out), he stayed at home alone (he had retired from his job when my mother was diagnosed). A man who was married to the same woman for 44 years was now alone.
This sense of “aloneness” puzzled me. My brother visited my father every morning and I tried my best to stay at home as much as I could to look after my father, but despite these efforts, my father was alone. When my brother would visit, my father wouldn’t want him to leave and my father would call me while on the way to school, then while I was at work, and then when I was on my way home, just to talk about nothing.
My father somehow thought that his loss was greater than ours. He felt as if the amount of years that he shared with my mother trumped the years that we respectively shared with her. I was so pissed when he mentioned this, but now as I think about it I wonder if there was some truth to it.
For the most part, all of my siblings have moved on and have excelled in their endeavors. Their success isn’t merely external but internal, as well. We have grown spiritually since our mother’s death but my father still seems the same in a lot of ways. Don’t get me wrong, my father is different (a topic for a future blog), but now that he is remarried, I see signs of the ubiquitous male bravado for which he is known.
I cannot speak for my siblings, but I do not cry as much now when I think about mother, but my father literally falls apart when someone mentions my mother’s name; he will sob in front of his current wife without any concern for her feelings, as well.
Do you think that my father’s notion is correct? Does the time shared with a loved one who is now deceased have any barring on the severity or depth of the loss and play a roll in how quickly one can move on?
It was incredibly difficult to watch my father and his “girlfriend” gallivant about town, partaking in activities that he had frowned upon when my mother, his wife of 44 years, was alive. I honestly believe that my father’s actions/behavior took more of a toll on the family than my mother’s passing. I suppose my siblings and I were all looking for him to take on the patriarchal role. We viewed our father as the alpha male, tight with a dollar (he’d squeeze a quarter until the eagle cried), spanked us into submission, objected to his wife working, never washed his own clothes, and was served his dinner and breakfast ...
My father didn’t have to lift a finger when my mother was alive. He worked, came home, and then sat in his recliner and channel surfed while my mother waited on him hand and foot.
Shortly after my mother’s passing, the tides began to shift a bit more than I had anticipated. My father had to take care of himself. Granted I cooked and cleaned, he had to prepare his own meals on those days that I arrived home late from school or work. He now had to personally pay bills (my mother would often fill out the checks/money orders and mail them out), he stayed at home alone (he had retired from his job when my mother was diagnosed). A man who was married to the same woman for 44 years was now alone.
This sense of “aloneness” puzzled me. My brother visited my father every morning and I tried my best to stay at home as much as I could to look after my father, but despite these efforts, my father was alone. When my brother would visit, my father wouldn’t want him to leave and my father would call me while on the way to school, then while I was at work, and then when I was on my way home, just to talk about nothing.
My father somehow thought that his loss was greater than ours. He felt as if the amount of years that he shared with my mother trumped the years that we respectively shared with her. I was so pissed when he mentioned this, but now as I think about it I wonder if there was some truth to it.
For the most part, all of my siblings have moved on and have excelled in their endeavors. Their success isn’t merely external but internal, as well. We have grown spiritually since our mother’s death but my father still seems the same in a lot of ways. Don’t get me wrong, my father is different (a topic for a future blog), but now that he is remarried, I see signs of the ubiquitous male bravado for which he is known.
I cannot speak for my siblings, but I do not cry as much now when I think about mother, but my father literally falls apart when someone mentions my mother’s name; he will sob in front of his current wife without any concern for her feelings, as well.
Do you think that my father’s notion is correct? Does the time shared with a loved one who is now deceased have any barring on the severity or depth of the loss and play a roll in how quickly one can move on?
Monday, July 19, 2010
A Grandmother
While seated on the Staten Island ferry on Saturday morning, a hoard of tourists snapped shots of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis island and the city skyline. I snagged a seat on the observation deck, which quickly filled with spectators of every domination and creed. From amongst the crowd, I spotted the cutest little girl in a blue stripped sun dress and pink flip-flops; she was watching a nearby family snap shots of the Statue of Liberty as the ferry neared Manhattan.
I wasn’t too sure what had attracted her to the family but as she inched closer and closer toward them, I noticed that she was looking off at the figure in the distance behind them. She wanted a clearer view of lady liberty and as if on cue, a older woman appeared and lifted the young girl up into her arms and whispered into her ear. There was an undeniable family resemblance, so I assumed that the woman was the young girl’s grandmother.
I couldn't help but smile as the young girl let her head fall onto her grandmother’s shoulder as her body sunk into her arms. It was such a genuine display of affection, this little girl trusting that she was in secure hands.
I began to wonder who my daughter would resemble. Would she be the splitting image of me, a combination of both me and her father? Would she resemble my mother?
I was also a little envious. My daughter will not get the chance to meet her grandmother. I’m aware that my child will have two sets of grandparents, so I shouldn’t feel the way that I do. She will still have the chance to do all the things that a granddaughter is supposed to do with her grandparents, like being held snugly in her grandmother’s arms in route to Manhattan while on the Staten Island Ferry. Nevertheless, the site was bitter sweet.
I wasn’t too sure what had attracted her to the family but as she inched closer and closer toward them, I noticed that she was looking off at the figure in the distance behind them. She wanted a clearer view of lady liberty and as if on cue, a older woman appeared and lifted the young girl up into her arms and whispered into her ear. There was an undeniable family resemblance, so I assumed that the woman was the young girl’s grandmother.
I couldn't help but smile as the young girl let her head fall onto her grandmother’s shoulder as her body sunk into her arms. It was such a genuine display of affection, this little girl trusting that she was in secure hands.
I began to wonder who my daughter would resemble. Would she be the splitting image of me, a combination of both me and her father? Would she resemble my mother?
I was also a little envious. My daughter will not get the chance to meet her grandmother. I’m aware that my child will have two sets of grandparents, so I shouldn’t feel the way that I do. She will still have the chance to do all the things that a granddaughter is supposed to do with her grandparents, like being held snugly in her grandmother’s arms in route to Manhattan while on the Staten Island Ferry. Nevertheless, the site was bitter sweet.
Friday, July 16, 2010
To Blog or Not to Blog?
I must admit that the idea of blogging is a bit off-putting. I created a blog a couple of years ago, and planned to use it as a promotional platform for the book. I created a Google group, as well. The group was a more ideal means of communicating with contributors and allowed me to email contributors simultaneously, so the blog fell to the wayside.
I do not mind having my work critiqued. I think that I am a good writer, but my spelling skills are horrible. Really, ya’ll. I cannot spell! Spell-check is my very, very, very best friend! My atrocious spelling coupled with my work schedule just made daily blogging less appealing.
When my Wheatmark Inc. Account Manager suggested that I create a blog to market the book, I thought score. I already have a blog, but then it dawned on me that I would have to actually use the blog on a daily basis and try to figure out what I would discuss and then proof what I write so that I do not make a complete @ss out of myself. Yes, my spelling is just that bad.
So this it ya’ll. This is my venture into the opinionated and hopefully non-fleeting world of blogging. More to come soon...
I do not mind having my work critiqued. I think that I am a good writer, but my spelling skills are horrible. Really, ya’ll. I cannot spell! Spell-check is my very, very, very best friend! My atrocious spelling coupled with my work schedule just made daily blogging less appealing.
When my Wheatmark Inc. Account Manager suggested that I create a blog to market the book, I thought score. I already have a blog, but then it dawned on me that I would have to actually use the blog on a daily basis and try to figure out what I would discuss and then proof what I write so that I do not make a complete @ss out of myself. Yes, my spelling is just that bad.
So this it ya’ll. This is my venture into the opinionated and hopefully non-fleeting world of blogging. More to come soon...
Monday, July 12, 2010
Almost Published
Hello all,
The book that my sister and I began working on a little over four years ago will soon be available for purchase. And We Write: Surviving Cancer is a compilation composed by a variety of individuals from India to California to New York. The entries are in an array of literary styles that uniquely convey contributors’ experiences with the disease.
Though the book is in honor of Mrs. Clara May Lewis, (my mother) who succumbed to cancer in 2006, the project is also a testament to the strength and endurance with which all cancer victims cope with a debilitating and life altering illness.
Cancer just doesn’t attack an individual; it attacks an individual and his or her loved ones. We all become victims of this disease once someone who we love is diagnosed.
I will let you all know the official release date. It will be available on Amazon.com(with available overnight shipping), Barnes & Noble’s website, Borders’ website, Books A Millions’ website, and by special order to “bricks and mortar” bookstores. It will also be available for purchase directly through Wheatmark Inc.
All proceeds from the sale of the compilation will be donated to cancer research and or cancer support services. We cannot physically fight the disease, but we can aid those who are diagnosed and financially assist research efforts.
The book will be $15.95. If you do not think that you will be able to make a purchase, then please spread the word …
Best,
Shell
The book that my sister and I began working on a little over four years ago will soon be available for purchase. And We Write: Surviving Cancer is a compilation composed by a variety of individuals from India to California to New York. The entries are in an array of literary styles that uniquely convey contributors’ experiences with the disease.
Though the book is in honor of Mrs. Clara May Lewis, (my mother) who succumbed to cancer in 2006, the project is also a testament to the strength and endurance with which all cancer victims cope with a debilitating and life altering illness.
Cancer just doesn’t attack an individual; it attacks an individual and his or her loved ones. We all become victims of this disease once someone who we love is diagnosed.
I will let you all know the official release date. It will be available on Amazon.com(with available overnight shipping), Barnes & Noble’s website, Borders’ website, Books A Millions’ website, and by special order to “bricks and mortar” bookstores. It will also be available for purchase directly through Wheatmark Inc.
All proceeds from the sale of the compilation will be donated to cancer research and or cancer support services. We cannot physically fight the disease, but we can aid those who are diagnosed and financially assist research efforts.
The book will be $15.95. If you do not think that you will be able to make a purchase, then please spread the word …
Best,
Shell
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