Excerpt from my novella: A Friend of the Race

Johanna

            People ask me how my son, Ethan, developed such a fascination with black people from such an early age.

            It must have been Michael Jackson on the video. Not Thriller.  I wouldn’t have let him watch that as a child – the crotch pulling, the scenes in the graveyard.  No, it was a segment in a Chipmunks video, of all things, a compilation of rock ‘n roll takeoffs –real-life footage of stars like Elvis Presley and Elton John, mixed in with those high-pitched cartoon chipmunks. Someone gave it to Ethan for his third birthday.  I can still see him watching the video from his usual spot on the sofa in the den, barely batting an eyelid despite the catchy soundtrack.  But when Michael Jackson appeared, Ethan was on his feet the entire time, moving to the beat, trying his best to moonwalk in his socks on the hardwood floors.  Not in a playful way, either; it was all very serious.

            Sometime later, his father, Tad, unbeknownst to me — we were separated at that point —bought the Thriller video, with “Smooth Criminal” and “Billy Jean”.  I heard Ethan singing the lyrics, and saw him  attempting those crazy dance moves before I found out that he had been watching  the video over and over at Tad’s apartment. I asked Tad for the video, so that I could see it for myself, and what I saw disturbed me, never mind a five or six-year old.  Tad promised to put the video away, “until Ethan was older”, never admitting it might have been a bad choice.

            That must have been the start.  But I never could have imagined what would come of it: my seventeen-year-old son at the Roxbury police station over some kind of gangland drug business gone wrong.  To this day, I can’t explain why Ethan is the way he is, this strange, unwavering devotion to race. But looking back, I can see the passion was there from the start.

I’ve finally figured out the appeal to boys and young men of wearing their pants slung so low on their body that only a tight belt will keep them up.  It’s their secret desire to achieve clothing equality.  Women have been cross-dressing for over a century now, so long that we forget it used to be cross-dressing for women to wear pants.  Now women can wear whatever they want and no one cares.  Women have equal clothing rights.  But men?  They are still suffering under antiquated and sexist clothing rules that dictate they are not allowed to wear skirts or dresses.  On the surface, most men disdain women’s clothes.  But subconsciously?  They see that they are oppressed and they do the only thing they can:  they lower their belt to exactly the same spot where a woman’s mini-skirt would end.  Now they’re as restricted as women are!  No long strides for them, mincing steps only, and a constant readjustment to keep things just so.  So the next time you see a male with his pants slung perilously low, remember, he’s only doing it because secretly he wants to be in a miniskirt. 

At Rosie’s Place, the homeless women line up before four o’clock, when they will be admitted to the cafeteria, starting off with soup and sandwiches. The line this day is quiet, little talking, more older women than young, some with children, many women of color. Some are heavy-set in shapeless clothes, and make little eye contact. One woman is neatly dressed in a blouse and skirt, well-spoken in a soft voice. There’s a woman with a panel of gray dreadlocks down her back; she’s a smiley character. And another, the feisty Irish gal, who comes on initially both defensive and antagonistic, but she soon quiets down.  Many are regulars and know the routine.

 The line moves. Women with Spanish or Haitian creole accents point out which sandwich they would they like, turkey or baloney, brown bread or white, the chicken and rice soup with “little broth” or a lot. They depart with orange trays into the large, high-ceilinged dining room, shadowy on this rainy day. Tables sit three or four or five; extra chairs can be pulled over, or women may sit alone. The chairs have backs and the seats are cushioned. In one area is a small library of books, mostly for children with child-sized tables and chairs. Some women choose to sit there, too. At one table, three women hold hands, heads bent, praying intently.

 The room fills quickly, close to a hundred; some women return for more soup or half sandwich. Others make their way to the main, wide counter that separates kitchen and volunteers from the ladies.  On the counter is a big stainless steel bowl of apples, which go surprisingly quickly, deposited into pockets or bags – “for later”.  Those ready for coffee or tea can self-serve in ceramic mugs, but must request the sugar packets, regular or “pink sugar” — not so much for watching calories as keeping the worst of diabetes at bay. Some ask for tampons or sanitary pads, kept in a drawer. There are condoms, also, but this evening, no one is asking.  Almost all say thank you; no one lingers to chat.

 Aside from the two women who are in charge, there are about a dozen volunteers, a group from a church in Watertown, a couple of young people doing community service, and a white-haired lady, an old pro, who was a litigator for many years before she dropped out to do creative writing and help out at Rosie’s Place.  The volunteers, many first-timers, are eager to do their little jobs well and chat easily with each other. The coordinators are low-key, only once in a while making a specific request; otherwise the group is self-managed, rotating from spot to spot, task to task. Mostly women, there are a few guys who have taken on some of the grunt work, including a lively, gregarious fellow who has been relegated to dishwashing. On an earlier trip, he had been out front attempting to engage the homeless women in small talk, a little joking around, but it didn’t go over well, he says, and now he stays in the kitchen. Some of the volunteers are shy to go out among the tables, clearing away dirty dishes, asking if so and so is done, or still eating.  One friendly volunteer asks if someone will accompany her to the bathroom, which is outside the dining area in the more public part of the building which connects to the shelter. It is, after all, in the heart of the city.

 At six o’clock, dinner is served, literally - brought to the tables. Tonight it’s taco’s, a pain in the neck to assemble; they fall apart, lettuce is everywhere, the beans and rice are sticky. Still, no one complains, and a few are complimentary. After they’ve eaten, it’s time for coffee and desert, a brownie and cookie; the women linger a moment after pouring the milk and taking the sugar packets. One mentions that today she’s having a monthly sweet treat; otherwise, she has to stay away from the sugar. Of those who have finished, many stop by to say thank you. One woman says quietly, intently, “The best thing is that you are willing to do this.”

 After three hours on my feet, I’m tired and ready to leave Rosie’s Place. I have come because I was asked, and because I’m not afraid to. Sometimes it’s hard to get enough volunteers to come out from our church or other places, because of the uncertainly of what they might find, and because of the embarrassment that keeps those on one side of the counter from contact with those on the other side.  “Poverty,” I read somewhere, “is the new obscenity.”

 At night, I have a dream, a bad one, about that time in my life when I was in difficult circumstances, out on a limb, the safety net below dangerously frayed.  In the dream I am out of money, can’t find a job; I’m afraid and ashamed. It isn’t for nothing that the poor and the homeless keep appearing in my writing: characters from small town Maryland or the streets of NYC, even though I didn’t know then, or when I started writing, how long they would be with me.

Years ago, I used to say to the boys, “It’s my favorite time of day – pajama time!”  And of course, they thought it was corny and strange. Who wanted to go to bed? And what’s the big deal about pajamas?  As a new mother, I craved sleep, and couldn’t wait to kick off my shoes, unbutton the pants and unclip the bra. Ah, relaxation. There’s nothing like a comfortable robe and a worn pair of slippers.  I’m a girl who loves her sleep, even today. By which I mean, a well placed nap, and sleeping in until eight or nine. Of course, I adjusted to work schedules and then, baby schedules, but not easily or all that willingly. I had assumed aging would take care of things My mother’s side of the family are all early-risers, but I did not get that gene.  Each and every day, I groan when the alarm goes off at 6:00 or 6:30. Unlike many people, I’m not programmed to wake up at the same time every day. It’s a struggle, and most likely will remain so. Sigh, sigh, kvetch, kvetch…

So, it’s ironic that early morning has become my favorite time of day. Quite unexpectedly, and without any kind of plan.  After the boys are out of the house by 7:15, my husband, Donald, and I have about 30 to 45 minutes of time to sit, drink coffee, look at the paper, and talk.  It’s so nice, I can’t tell you. A brief honeymoon of not hurrying; all his attention to myself, without having to compete with every other demand on his time, and he has many, many, many. 

 Breakfast is out of the way. We “retire” to the living room, he on the recliner, I take the sofa. We peruse the paper a few minutes. Then we put down the papers and talk about the weather, the news, the kids, our families, and life.  We save up stories and news from the previous day, and throw out questions and problems to be worked over. My husband, the lawyer, comes from one of the “arguing cultures”, i.e., Mediterranean types, known for their opinions as well as their food. Me, the bland food, “don’t say anything; brood and keep it inside” people of the north. We’ve learned from each other, and Donald appreciates a good rebuttal; it makes him proud.

We’ve otherwise done a bad job of “couple time” in our relationship, despite the warnings/ encouragements of our mothers. There’s so little free time outside of work. For one, sports. This year, the Bantam team schedule (my son played, my husband coached) was pretty much every Friday night and Saturday night Sept. through April. In essence, our “date” was him on the bench, me in the bleachers, with a hundred other players and parents – we were together, no?  In addition, like so many friends, our vacations and outings have been almost exclusively family events, i.e., with kids. Not sure how that evolved.

 Now, 7:15 until about 8:00 am is our time: in our pajamas with our coffee cups. So lovely when the sun streams in; so cozy when it’s cold and raw outside.  In essence, it’s a business meeting, a “briefing” if you will, on our individual and family activities: money, dates, projects, action lists. In another way, we are for the moment, the joint rulers of our little kingdom, both governing our subjects and serving our constituents; deciding on moral and fiscal policies – the rules of the house.  In the end, it’s all about communication. Or more so, making time to communicate. At 7:30 on a weekday morning, you may find us debating politics or deciding dinner, communicating loud and clear.

At this time of year, I come down with a mildly aggravating disorder that I have come to call Big Family Syndrome, i.e., too many people in the family.  My family of origin has become somewhat of a dinosaur in the 21st century: I am one of six children, born to parents of eleven children each, with 70 first cousins between the two sides. In other words, a lot. I thought I was marrying into a smaller, more compact, modern family: my husband is one of three siblings, one of seven cousins.  Yet, now I realize, I was deceived. Because in his family, they count second cousins and third cousins, many of whom live close by and keep in touch.  Truly, an extended family. Like our family, a clan, if you will.

 In June, it is particularly bad. No less than seven immediate family birthdays: Jim, Maura, Tom, Dan, Jen, Donald, Dick. Then, there are weddings, wedding anniversaries, high school and college graduations, Father’s Day, and the funerals of older relatives, which can and do happen all around the year.  With Aunties and Uncles in their 80’s and 90’s, there’s potential for deaths quite often, sometimes in clusters. On the other hand, in the last month, we’ve celebrated three 80th birthdays and a 60th wedding anniversary, so many of them are still hanging in there.

 As a child, I wasn’t aware of BFS in the same way. In my immediate world, big families were the norm. Likewise, my husband’s family was fairly insular, not only socializing together, but doing business and going to church together.  Of course, in school, I realized there was something a little different, but I thought it was kind of neat and special.  In fact I wrote an essay called “Rich in Family”, about some of the benefits of being part of a large family: sharing; strong sense of identity; learning patience and tolerance; always someone around to do something with; not being lonely; and not being too self-focused. In a large family, you’re never the center of the universe; and your problems have to wait in line with everyone else’s.

 It wasn’t until I became an adult, I realized how unusual and consuming it can be to be part of a large family, especially as the older generation ages.  Wow, there are a lot of things that can go wrong and ways that people need support: pulmonary embolism, prostrate cancer; rheumatoid arthritis; lung tumors, macular degeneration. Never mind the hip and knee replacements. Oh, boy!  So much to look forward to: we’re all linked genetically. We haven’t had so many weddings lately, or baptisms, but that, too, comes in waves. At a certain point, it becomes a logistical challenge – how to accommodate so many.  At our wedding, aunties and uncles were invited; but we couldn’t accommodate all cousins and spouses; sadly, they didn’t make the list.

 What I’m seeing now is that 1. the world is not set up for big families, and it’s harder to do and to appreciate, in terms of money, education, travel, etc. and 2. my world is smaller and fuller than I thought it would be. I can’t seem to plan “girls night out” or a weekend in NYC or hundreds of those little trips and activities that come with this time of life. My novel progresses so slowly, partly because I’m researching colleges for my son and Veterans benefits for my uncle and a foam mattress for my mother-in-law, etc. etc.  Finally, I find myself one of those people no longer so open to new friendships and relationships – my plate is FULL.  In the end, BFS is for real, as the times change and it’s become important to be lean, mean and mobile. But the passing of the large family is, in my mind, bittersweet, a loss to the world of human experience.