Causerie

A few more words...

So, Mr. Man said, "Every day I've been checking Causerie and all I see is "My Words are Few".  He looked at me a few seconds then added, "I know your words are few, but do you think you can add a few more?"  He's right.  It's been too long since we last talked.

The transition from our conversation about Trayvon to something else left me speechless. I hadn't been able to move on respectfully, so I remained silent.  I've been checking in to read new comments and there's one that I can't shake off.  It's something KT said a few days ago.

In her comment, Katy mentioned that she doesn't watch television (so she wasn't aware of the Trayvon Martin tragedy).  My first thought was, "But how can she know what's going on in the world? And then I wondered, "How will she know when the zombies arrive?" 

Years ago when the Rodney King "incident" took place, Mr. Man and I were in Colorado.  We intentionally did not watch television (except for a bowling tournament because my father-in-law was interested), nor did we listen to the radio.  I can't remember if we even had a computer back them.  The point is, purposefully we censored ourselves from all things media. A black-out of sorts and it was great.

When we returned to Kansas City, I turned on the television for local news and the seemingly on-going, never-ending news footage of the violence in California made me almost vomit. I was terrified and horrified.  Shocked and confused.  I was so discombobulated it felt as though I was watching it through a thick plastic bubble that had somehow been manipulated by the man behind the curtain.

I remember thinking that it was foolish for us to have tuned out the world during our little vacation paradise and that it was potentially dangerous to have been so uninformed.  (After all, I was Black and Mr. Man was White --- not necessarily a good combination during race riots).

After that, I purposed to try to be aware of what is happening locally and nationally - at least knowledgeable about the "big" stories. But, as I've "matured" and I've seen the worst of the worst on my old non-high-def television screen, I must admit, Katy, I totally get it.  There's something in me that wants to shut it all down and turn it all off, too.  I'm not saying I want to bury my head in the sand (because, believe me, I want to know when the zombies are headed towards my house) but, sometimes, I just get so weary and so fearful that a media blackout is exactly what my soul, my mind and my body needs.

So Say We All

Here is my "State of the Real World" Address:

1. I am my neighbor.  You might not dress like her or share his taste in coffee, but there's something to be said of community.  At least there should be.

2. Each one teach one.  Very "Bono"-ish, yet still good, good advice.

3. Affordable food is a necessity, not a luxury.  Greens and beans, people.  Not prime rib.

4. There's dignity in honest work.  Heck, there's dignity in looking for honest work.

5. Most of us will never have a million dollar bank account. (Even if the Sweepstakes promise that someone on our block is going to win!)

6. Those curly-q light bulbs aren't all that.

Care to share your own "State of the Real World Address?"

Arm Chair

I don't like football.  I've never understood it and frankly, I think it's silly for grown men to run up and down the field while knocking each other upside the head and making millions doing it.  Football, I find boring but, I must say that I'm awfully intrigued with this Tim Tebow.  Apparently, he is stirring up feelings in fans and non-fans alike - hatred, reverence, anger, frustration, confusion and awe.

Some people have said that Tim's rise to fame is reminiscent of the Biblical David (of the Goliath fame); but, the more I hear about this fascinating young man, I think his journey here on Earth is more like the Bible's Daniel.

Daniel was loved and hated by many and yet he remained true to his beliefs.  God did amazing and  unexplainable things through Daniel and for Daniel and people were confused, fearful and amazed.  Though a humble man, Daniel was also fierce and determined.

Sort of like this Tim.

Intentional Harm

Think about this.

Go to any major city and find out where the majority of the Black population lives and, if you dare, drive through those neighborhoods.  What do you see? 

More than likely, you'll find on almost every few corner a liquor store, a cigarette shop, a pawn shop or a raggedy corner store that sells just about anything a pimp, prostitute, drug addict or dealer may want.  You'll see more trash and garbage and tires dumped in this part of the city than anywhere else.  You'll find gas stations that sell marijuana papers right up front, adjacent to those pocket-sized bottles of whiskey.  And you'll see boarded up businesses and vacant houses.  And if - if you are able to locate a grocery store, you'll be so appalled by the quality of food (especially the produce) that you would never, ever, consider putting it on your table.

Think about it...

 (It's called structural racism and from time to time, I'd like to talk more about this)

Kidz in the Kitchen Not Cooking (or Cleaning)

After being told to help me out, a young man of 14 and a young woman of 19, came into the kitchen, stood next to me at the sink and watched as I washed some greens that had just been pulled from community garden.  I told the young man, "L" to get the largest bowl he could find and to wash it out.  He found the bowl, set it in the sink, got the dish washing liquid and began to pour almost 1/4 of the contents in to the bowl. 

I grabbed the bottle and stared at him.  Instinctively, I wanted to smack him upside the head, but this wasn't my son and I was at work, so instead I asked calmly, "Why so much soap?"  He shrugged.  "Do you usually put that much soap in when you wash dishes?"  Now he stared at me.  After what seemed like 15 minutes later, he finally said, "I don't do dishes."  Just like that.  "I don't do dishes."

I raised an eyebrow.  "What are your chores?" I asked while trying to get rid of all of those bubbles.

"Chores," he said in tone that made it sound vulgar. "I don't do no chores."

I looked at  "A" the young woman and asked if she had her own place.  She said no.  She still lived at home. "What are your chores?" I asked.

She gasped and jumped like a bug was crawling up her back, then crossed her arms and said, "I don't do chores either."

I looked at both of them, completely at a loss for words. 

In the Backyard: My Thoughts on Opportunity and Priviledge

Jacqui wondered why did children from disadvantaged neighborhoods need to know the difference between a Renoir and a Warhol?  And she questioned the need for those children to be exposed to the arts at all.

At the risk of sounding like I know what's best for the young people in the hood, I will say that I believe that those without the exposure and opportunity to look, listen, taste, feel and learn beyond their own backyard will often stay in their backyard.  Now, there's nothing wrong with being in ones own backyard, if one is content to stay there; however, what I see over and over with the kids I work with, is not only are they content and to a certain degree compliant to stay where they are ---- most don't even realize that there's a front yard just on the other side of the house.

When we took the museum trip, one young man was intrigued to point of giddiness when we toured the area where a poet was seated at an old electric typewriter.  The kids were given the chance to say a topic --- anything --- and the artist would immediately tap, tap, tap out an original poem.  The kids yelled out, "Hamburgers!  Nike's!  My sister!"  and the poet took each word they said and ultimately combined it into one really clever poem.  I wish I had the finished piece here so that you could read it, but the young man who was so intrigued by the artistry of it all,  grabbed the piece of paper, folded it neatly and tucked it in his pocket.  Now that was incredible.  

A few days later, I learned that the young man ---  this boy from the hood --- had a renewed interest in writing and that he was encouraged to learn that people actually got paid to sit at a typewriter and write poetry.  Who knew, was the look he gave me as we discussed the museum.

So now, it seems like the only right thing for me to do is to gently nudge him towards the front of the house.  

Opportunity and Priviledge

Last week I accompanied seven, fifth through eighth-graders and five high school students to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.  Once in inside, I asked for a show of hands of those who had already been there and not one hand went up. I was stunned.

As we toured the museum ---  and even though I thought I would have a heart attack when a few of the kids got way too close to several pieces of art ---  I believe that I learned more about the condition of urban youth and the arts than what those kids may have learned about art and history.

"Why are they naked?!" I heard over and over in squealing tones of laughter and giggling.

"It was very common to create statues and to paint portraits like that," I would say uncomfortable by their innocence, ignorance and loud inquiries.  "Ohhh.... that's nasty!" some replied pointing to the "private parts" of some of the most beautiful and renowned pieces of art in the world.

"You haven't learned about this in school?"  I wanted to know and they would shake their heads no.  I kept looking at them and wondering what in the world was going on and how could that be --- especially with the 16- and 17-year-old students.  Why had they not been exposed to this world-class museum, that sat only a few miles from where most of them lived and it was free?

I've been blessed to be able to send my children to private school where the teaching of the arts is still important.  And when I home-schooled, I made sure that my children's lessons included art and art history.  We went to museums and we got books at the library and we rented movies about great painters. On my walls were (and are still) copies of Monet and Cassatt.  When Miss P was about ten or so, she questioned me extensively about the Girl with the Pearl Earring and there I was with teenagers who didn't know the difference between a Renoir and a Warhol. By the end of the field trip, I was saddened and distressd by the lack of opportunity these children had and I was frustrated and angry with our school system.

Later that day when I got home, I looked Sir Richard's attempt at Matisse's Pot of Geraniums and realized that even though I sometimes feel like we don't have much, we are, in fact, living a privileged life.