Monday, July 27, 2015

My Beach: A Story in Haiku

My Beach
Feeling the sun in the presence of The Son.


Can’t keep hidden, smiles
Inspired by thunderous waves,
Sun rays, sand and God.

Perfect summer day.
Alone with thoughts of gratitude.
Hypnotized by waves.

Magical motion, land’s end.
Life energy from sunshine.
At one with the sea.

Ingesting the sun,
Fresh air cleansing my soul,
with each deep inhale.

Salt scented sea mist
Quiets that voice in my mind.
A taste of heaven.



Tamarack State Beach - Carlsbad, CA



Saturday, July 25, 2015

Sometimes being "Wise" is Knowing When to Quit




All them, no me!
Being grown is knowing your limits. My recent toe dip into yet another dance-exercise-session-on-steroids should have never been. (I do not have a positive track record in gyms; too many looks of not belonging sent my way, the proverbial you’re not skinny so why are you here, but how are you to get skinny if you can’t work out? Some of you know what I’m talking about.)

Any time your first reaction is, “tha’ f*ck?!” from step number one, you know something is wrong.

Image result for middle aged black woman cartoon
In all my glory
From the get go, that little voice inside said, “Hey, middle aged, ‘moderately obese’ lady, this is a bad idea,” but in keeping with the new me, which is trying to make new friends and try new things so I can shake the feeling that life is passing me by, I went. Knowing I wouldn't know the convoluted steps and could potentially be so utterly sore I couldn’t brush my afro, or even my teeth, I went anyway. Knowing my oversized cut off tee and simple black dance shorts outfit was not cute, but practical, I went anyway. Knowing I was years older and pounds heavier than most in attendance in spite of my tightly toned quads, hamstrings and calves, I went anyway. And somehow I knew, going anyway was setting myself up for failure.

In knowing it was going to be a trial of a day, I planned my wake up with enough time for a protein rich breakfast with a hint of carbs, all accented with coffee with a touch of creamer. Ready to go 30 minutes early, I tried to self-talk myself into believing this was going to be the opposite of what my gut was telling me.

I was picked up in a convertible of the likes my teacher salary will never be able to afford without committing a crime or dawning the pole: neither of which are possible because a) I’m a good girl and b) I’m too fat for the pole. Sitting in the windblown backseat while a long haired, big diamond ringed, suburban princess in the passenger seat snapped  and posted selfies, should have told me leaping out of the car at the next stop light would have been a better choice than seeing it through. Yet, I went anyway as self-consciousness and apprehension kicked into high gear, not quite as strong as walking down a shady-looking alley, but enough to raise my spidey senses.

Image result for suburban princess

As we arrived and were given legit tickets and the type of paper bracelets you get when you purchase limitless rides at the Fair, I spotted the waiver about promotional filming. “Aww hell,” is all that popped into my head and I noted the number of “long haired, tight abbed, smiling excited, perfect” people prancing about along with the colorful tees that could match a bag of Skittles. At that point, I wished I could turn and run.

Although a plethora of ages, shapes and colors were represented, they had a few things I didn't. They'd done this before so they knew the insane step combinations and codes that went along with them and this was not their first time exercising at this level in countless years like it was for me. The hyped music and pulsating beat helped me survive the first class with success at a few steps and not suffering cardiac arrest. It was even a little fun and I knew I could out technique many there if I’d just known where my damned feet were supposed to be. Let me freestyle these fools and I’d own many of them, even at 44.

Although I survived the first of three classes, my calf tightened as it reminded me that it had been less than a year since I tore said muscle and had donned a stylish “boot” and crutches for over a month. My cut off Mardi Gras tee was drenched and probably showcased the fat and plain white sports bra underneath. Tears fought to escape out of pure frustration. “Resilience,” I told myself. I ask my students to fight through the tough times so I was up to try the second class. Every muscle in my body began to let me know how much it resented this and promised it would be waking me up as I slept just 12 hours later. The step combinations for this second class now included boxing moves making this class harder than the first.Harder? Really? WTF? And...they were filming a promo video so everyone affiliated was going “ham” for the camera.  Punch, step, quick three steps, half turn, knee, ‘uggh.” Extra enthusiastic grunts, cheers, punches and grinds to my just trying to follow the footwork.That’s 

when I hit the wall.Image result for boot cast
So I did it. I quit. A word I never let creep into my vocabulary. But unlike when I was younger, this time, quitting was the right thing to do. Why put myself through that hell? I'm not going to lose 50 pounds in one afternoon. I don't care what these people think of me and I have errands to run and groceries to buy anyway. So, I walked out. At first it was to get some air, then, my sanity. I had nothing to prove, had tried and saw quickly that this class on this day wasn’t for me. Is it rational or reasonable to expect a yellow belt to face a black belt on the mat? Or for a 5th grader to take AP English? Why should an overweight, albeit cute and sassy, middle aged lady who only knows trails take a class from a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo wannabe and expect to be a star?
Image result for leave a room
Peace out, yo!
All-in-all, knowing yourself and knowing your limits is part of being wise. Knowing that I could “hang,” but not go beastmode was a given, but repeatedly, three classes worth with the best of the best? When I summoned my chariot to pick me up (my husband), he laughed, yet was on his way without question. He knew I’d given it my best and that his wife is not a quitter.  He could relate to my frustration without question and simply suggested I ice my calf, take some motrin and drink lots of water to stem a fast recovery. Tears of laughter ran down his face as I gave a play by play complete with a pain provoking reenactment. He was proud of me for trying. Not more proud than I was of myself, however. “In my day,” I still wouldn’t have competed with those people. That’s not who I am. Hit the dance floor for three hours, even now, in heels to boot, try me bi-atch! Hike a mountain, lets go. And write, don't get me started.

You see, wisdom and being grown are knowing who you are, what you are and what you believe. It doesn’t matter who is or isn’t in your corner, it’s about that voice inside. The ability to march forth or throw in the towel, without guilt or shame, is what defines a person. Head high, marching your happy ass right out of a situation may be what’s called for. No shame in your game is what being grown is truly about.
Image result for wisdom
So will I go back, maybe to a class dominated by mere mortals. I will never be that person on the poster, but that doesn't mean I can’t pack a mean punch, kick and booty shake. Until next time, or not...I bid that shit adieu.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

The Gun Control Debate

The Gun Control Debate


Another day, another mass shooting in America.
From a quiet, shy man with
Several gun-related arrests.
A pattern of misconduct.
There’s no one size fits all conversation
To blame for this merry-go-round.


People continue to die in the streets
From gunshot wounds.
Assumptions are made.
Well intentioned stances.
The argument is compromised.

Is it poverty,
Mental health
And failing schools?
Or guns.

Public debates,
Or attacks,
On the NRA.
Meanwhile,
There are thousands of other victims.

The sentiment should be made clear.
The United States has slipped its moorings.
To some that may seem eminently reasonable.
There is no one enemy.
Thus there is no one solution.
Focus on something that could work.


This is a “Found” Poem created solely from the words in an Anti Gun Control article called “Gun Control is Not the Answer,” by CNN Contributor LZ Granderson and Pro Gun Control article “Making Gun Control Happen” by Patrick Radden Keefe for The New Yorker. The answer to gun violence comes in weaving ideas they way I harvested these words from opposing articles, not by taking stances. When will we listen to understand and make decisions for the greater good, instead of holding fast to our own platforms with no room for compromise? Even Kindergartners know the benefits of compromise. Let's grow up, America.



Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Longing for House Parties and a Light Heart

House Parties and Light HeartsImage result for 70s house parties

My career in music began in tandem with the house parties my parents used to throw. Mom scurrying to throw on her pressed and laid out party clothes after a day filled with thoroughly scrubbing the house from top to bottom and preparing a spread worthy of the finest hotel buffets. Sometimes I helped chop the veggies for the crystal tray or ensure the Lipton Onion Soup Mix dip was just right. For very special occasions, and in the absence of my father’s palette, I got to be the taste tester for whatever the latest recipe was and ensured my mom it would dazzle our guests. Buffalo wings, shrimp cocktail, brie cheese dip or even savory Gumbo; the menu depended on the season and was as delectable as it looked on the table cloth.

Image result for 70s house parties

Meanwhile, dad ensured the polished, solid oak “bar” was stocked and that he’s ready to serve cocktails worthy of any downtown bar. He was in charge of welcoming each guest with hand shakes and hugs, compliments and insults (via the dozens), as he warmly greeted each guest.

As for me, time for my real job. I’d switch hats from sous chef to “DJ.” Stacks of my parents’ 78s and 45s and a solid wood turntable with built in speakers were my DJ booth. The Commodores, Earth, Wind & Fire, The Gap Band, Donna Summer, Kool & the Gang; I had them all. Earlier in the day, I had been tasked with pulling the best dance albums and mentally making a playlist to keep the adults groovin’. My measure of success was seeing how quickly a spontaneous soul train line would form and blow the roof off the room addition where the dance floor was located.

Occasionally, daddy would pull me away from my makeshift D.J. booth to dance in the middle of all the adults. I’d act embarrassed for a hot second, then show off my latest moves to shouts of, “Go ‘head, Carol.” I collected the high fives as I exited the stage as if they were trophies. Image result for disco dance floor


When it was time for a break, or the night was getting late, I could sense it and would shift the music to my secondary playlist and slow things down.

So many smiles and laughs, then and now. No troubles in that moment. Everyone gleefully enjoying the sights and sounds of an old fashioned house party. Everyone allowing music to be their muse, creating light hearts and a slate free of troubles, even if only for a few hours and well until the wee hours of the early morning. Image result for happy dancers cartoon

Prince to the Rescue

Prince to the Rescue
Image result for purple rain
Prince was my best friend. The most loyal and comforting kind for six years. I learned that Purple Rain in the form of vinyl could be as nourishing, refreshing and comforting as a best friend. Prince sat beside me as my own version of purple precipitation flowed as I was overtaken by a torrent of anger at parents who said all the wrong things or at the friend who put her mister before her sister.

He told me I was going to be a star and warned others that, “I was rich in personality,” and that I wouldn’t, “stop until I reach[ed] the top.”

Prince pledged his loyalty when it seemed the world had forgotten about me and that I had, “no need to worry/no need to cry,” because he’d always be there for me.

After knock down drag outs with my parents, he reminded me I might be like my father, “too bold” or like my mother, “too demanding,” and that the sound of families fighting was like the sound of doves crying. Prince helped me see that through it all, family, however imperfect, was meant to be as beautiful as a dove and that I played a part in any harmony that was to be.

Image result for purple rain

When I had energy coursing through me and was trapped in the confines of my room, Prince let me go crazy and play an air guitar duet along with him. He reminded me to live now before the grim reaper knocked on my door, even if only in the mirrored closet doors of my room.

When boy troubles hit hard, Prince was there to tell me it’s the beautiful ones that break your heart every time, no matter how pretty the picture you’ve painted in your mind. He reminded me, heartbreak will follow when you lose yourself in the person that beautiful one wants you to be if you aren’t true to yourself.

I’ve always longed to tell Prince he saved me from myself more times than I could count and that I appreciate that he’s been with me ever since. He was my confidant and partner in crime and will forever be a friend. Thank you, Prince. I wish everyone could have a muse such as you to hold their hand, lift them up when it’s time, and join them when it’s time to dance and fly. I will forever treasure my Purple Rain.
Image result for purple rain
Prince. Prince & The Revolution Music from Purple Rain. 1984. CD.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Common Core: The "Beast" within our Schools

It’s been said there’s a horrid creature lurking in today’s schools, coast to coast, Kinder through 12th grades. It is clawing at American children and the walls that confine classrooms. Teachers, administrators and school district officials, even many politicians are at risk. America is doomed to squander globally if this being is not put to rest.

This horrid beast is replacing worksheets, textbooks and scripted curriculum programs made not by teachers, but by for-profit publishers under the guise of being what’s best for kids. There has been a security breach and attack of the standardized tests we loved so much as children. You remember, the type of test where you only had to pick keywords out of paragraphs and bubble in the corresponding answer. The standardized test where you could even guess and still have a chance to have an agreeable score. War has been waged on silent classrooms where pin drops can be heard in the absence of the sole voice in the room, that of the teacher, that is. This goes against the adage our grandparents taught us, “children are to be seen and not heard.”

The creature that’s lurking near every classroom door is actually allowing kids to think for themselves. Kids don’t have thoughts, they should only believe what they are spoon fed and only speak in regurgitated nodes. This evil monster is asking them to explain their thinking...in MATH! Who thinks in math, let alone uses group discussion and written word to document the route they took to get an answer? Something has gone horribly wrong when kids are talking about science topics in LANGUAGE ARTS. The beast’s foul stench has made it all the way out to the PE fields where students have to teach one another and explain why one warm up or exercise routine might help a specific athlete over another established training regimen.

And the worst thing of all, this enemy has given teachers a little freedom to get rid of the list of things they are to teach in a school year and has allowed them to go more in depth on fewer topics rather than get to the last chapter in the dumbed down, dry textbooks we gave them.

This demonic creation is The Common Core (“Dun-dun-dunnn” sound effects play here).

I’m declaring here and now that war is being waged against our children and with things like student choice and voice occurring in our classrooms, we will not have children suited for employment in our factory economy. We will not have workers who sit quietly, do what they’re told without asking questions or innovating better ways of doing things. We’ve used our 19th century model for, well centuries, and it’s why America ranks 14th among developed countries. (Pearson, 2015) Wait, what? 14th. You mean the United States throws more money at education and gives more standardized testing than many and is still only 14th? (A.P., 2013)

So perhaps those who’ve been asking questions about the why things no longer work in terms of the world we’re living in are on to something. Could it be true that those who sit still and do what they’re told, both students are teachers, fair far poorer than those who live in a classroom where creativity is allowed and encouraged. Do teachers really know what’s best for kids with all their training and experiences with real students?

The true purpose and methodology behind Common Core, not the hyped media version, has classrooms where students are forced to delve more deeply, think more thoroughly and work collaboratively to ask and answer questions while solving problems. Sounds a bit more like what it takes to be CEO and Head Engineer.

Activities like giving students the actual Magna Carta and having them work together to make sense of it is better than simply telling them what it is and what it means. Will activities like this take longer? Yes. Are they “hard?” Of Course. Can all students be successful with these types of activities with the proper amount of scaffolding? You bet. Common Core should be like an apprenticeship where students learn by doing and showing, rather than sitting and getting.

Many of us were raised to believe the misconception that things we were tortured with like weekly spelling tests and timed arithmetic were the most effective way to teach and learn, when in fact, all this did was pump our brains with disconnected facts that we simply mind-dumped on Fridays after the test. How many people still profess to be poor spellers and count on their fingers? Without a connection to tangible learning, this type of “learning” is a waste of time.   Why not let the spelling inquiry and a variety of word choice come from the need to properly present a researched topic or solve an equation quickly to complete a blueprint? Couldn’t history be learned through re-enactments after reading historical fiction? Research to verify and produce independent work would garner longer lasting knowledge than filling in a bubble on an end of unit test. Why not present real world problems and help students work in groups to solve pieces of the problem, then present findings to one another to form a comprehensive plan...kind of sounds like the way companies come up with solutions. Could students research topics of interest and host an educational fair to enlighten their peers and parents rather than a canned research report for solely their teacher’s eyes? Doesn’t that sound “authentic?” Motivating? Inspirational even?

The beast that is Common Core is more, as the kids would say, “Beastmode!” Properly used, they represent a shift in thinking, doing, creating, that in a properly trained teacher’s hands, is a large missing piece of the success pie we want our kids, and ultimately our society, to have. It is not “the” answer, but on the way to a solution that will slay the real educational beast that is over policing, over testing, over administrating and will put power back in the hands of the learners. Teaching kids how to think, not what to think is at the core of Common Core. It’s education in “beastmode,” not a beast.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Being Forty-Four

One kid drinks daily coffee
And the other is growing a “goatee.”
What in God’s name does that say about me?

Am I old enough to be the mom of these two,
Passing wisdom and sometimes judgement
Just to name a few?

Both looking down at me, now I’m the small one.
Am I ready to have such an amazing daughter
And and almost grown up son?

Forty-four isn’t that old,
It’s double digits,
It’s eleven.
Still playing,
Knowingly paying for shenanigans
And other transgressions.

But sorry, Go back
No way. Not me.
Never do I want to return to, say, 23.

Back then I had my way all planned out
Didn’t know much of what life was really about.
Didn’t know I’d make it through
Grief,
Anxiety,
Depression,
And pain.
Through moves,  
Being broke,
That feeling of being stuck out in the rain.

But, Im still here at forty-four.
Brighter, better than before.
With age comes crown-wearing wisdom
And a regal beauty no one can ignore.
Or at forty four, we’ll quickly tell you
To get the hell out the door.

So coffee and goatee,
My babies you will always be.
Be proud you have a momma
That knows she’s enough.
And to her, there’s more than what you see.
Being forty-four is alright with me.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Through a Child's Eyes

“You’re black and ugly, like your skirt.” This matter-of-fact statement from a stringy haired girl, 6 inches taller than me, a little Queen Witch, was dropped, like an mic or an F-Bomb, at my size 3 feet. I looked from her cold eyes, down to my black and white houndstooth, wrap-around ice skating skirt, that up until that moment, I thought I was rocking, and looked back up to see her skating off to rejoin her audience.

I was 8.

After recovering from stunned disbelief and my 3rd grade logic trying to figure out what I’d done to have such mean girl antics tossed my way, I slowly moved to skate an easy recovery lap and attempt another Bunny Hop for my upcoming evaluation. I couldn’t shake the sense of feeling “less-than” that had come over me. And further, what would I tell my parents who’d grown up during full scale race wars in the South. Would they ever let their little, suburban, brown girl skate at UTC any more?

I decided then and there not to utter a peep. Ice skating was more important than mean girls, even when my heart was in my throat each time I lapped the ice and got near her.

I decided then and there to hold my head up and do my thing, even if I had to do it alone or with people who thought I was black and ugly.

I decided I was strong and brave and a fighter. I also decided to know where exits are and that ice skates and a lot of other things, could make a nice weapon if need be.

I learned that being smart wasn’t just a matter of test scores, but knowing how to thrive and survive even when that meant hitting the ignore button and carrying on was the best option.

I wonder about that not so little stringy haired girl and wonder just how ugly she’s continued to be. But I know, this brown girl would skate laps around her now, I know just what to say and am spreading more love than she can hate. If she could only see me now.