Staying the Course

I just realized I have been coasting through life for the past six years. My husband died six years ago and I have been sleep-walking through my days, flying by the seat of my pants and not really connecting with anything that was previously a part of my former life, my life before death. Oh, don't get me wrong, I have handled the things I needed to handle but I have not been diligent or organized about life in general; I have been more reactive than proactive, accepting those things dished out to me rather than taking charge of my destiny (as much as such a thing is possible.)

I come to this revelation not by divine intervention (or perhaps it is by by divine intervention), but rather through another life style change. I moved in with my elderly aunt, the goal being to provide some security for her and an opportunity for me to save some money in these financially challenged times. I came to this place with no expectation for anything other than to live out these days pretty much the way I have for the last six years, wake up, go to work, return home, go to bed, wake up, etc., etc., etc. Yes, this is what I expected but instead, because of the move, I have taken on the responsibility of establishing a daily routine for my aunt which includes the oversight of her part-time caregiver. I rise early to catch two buses to work in the city and return late to walk right into the kitchen to prepare dinner for me, the left-overs from which become the next day meal for my aunt (so that she can eat by six o'clock). I am back to grocery shopping and cooking a full meal for Sunday on Saturday evenings, tasks I have not consistently done in a long while. I do not have the convenience of a dishwasher so I am now the every night dish washer. Last Friday I stacked stuff by the curb for bulk trash pick-up, stuff that should have been thrown away ages ago and on Saturday morning responded to the complaint of the rude man who felt compelled to ring the doorbell and advise me that I had put it all in the wrong spot (they took it anyway). I dealt with the gardner who has probably just been doing his thing with no supervision, asked him to remove the pile of dead leaves near the back fence, to cut down the tall grass on the side of the house and to trim back the bushes alongside the driveway. I am learning how to respond to my aunt in such a manner that does not cause her to obsess over and over about a missing item or the day of the week or some such thing that can quickly become a fixation. I silently observe her and speculate on my own future as I note the woman who is missing and the woman-child she has become. I think about the things I now do for her, physical things and practical things I could not do for my late mother because of distance, she in Texas, me in California. I am tired, but the weariness has rousted the lethargy that has been mine for six years, an ironic twist I must admit.

It is by God's grace that I come to this revelation and realization. I have been marking time, waiting for something to happen, something to change. It was not a conscious marking of time, just a slow erosion of purpose and determination. I have no doubt that there are unforseen challenges ahead. God is preparing me, now, for what is to come. God has wired me, indeed all of us baby boomers, for better things, greater things, in our latter years. We must not despise the challenge of the course. We must keep our eye on the prize and hold on.

Looking Back In Order to Move Forward!

“Daddy, what color does a person have to be to get a taste of colored water?

The head librarian of the library in which I work does not like this picture book, “A Taste of Colored Water” by Matt Faulkner. She does not like the book illustrations and she thinks that that last line of the book leaves the reader hanging, perhaps wanting more than this final word.

I say, “I guess you have to have been raised African American in the Jim Crow South to understand the impact of the word ‘colored.’”

“Oh, I get it, “ she responds, “but the book just doesn’t work for me.”

I do not bother to tell her, my Caucasian counterpart, that the line almost brought me to tears when I read it to the third grade class.

Synopsis of the book: Two Caucasian cousins in a small town hear from a classmate that there is a water bubbler (water fountain) in the city marked “Colored.” The cousins are fascinated by, and marvel at the idea of colored water and wonder how they can get to the city to drink from this mystical fountain. The irony of this story, aside from their desire to drink from the colored water fountain, is that the fountain is on the grounds of City Hall and the two children will have to walk between the words “Truth” and “Justice” that are carved into stone blocks to get to the fountain. Fate intervenes and the children do get to the city. They rush up to that marvelous water fountain, but there are other things happening that day, things that involve people waving placards and singing freedom songs and fire hoses and policemen attached to snarling police dogs. The water fountain is atop a hill and the girl cousin looks down and notices the interaction of the police and the protesters. Suddenly the water no longer holds her attention; she shouts, “Stop! Stop! – but [her] throat was so dry, and [she] started to feel dizzy, like a nest of hot bees was swarming in [her] head.” A policeman intervenes before the boy cousin can sip from the fountain, shouting, “Get away from there boy! That water ain’t for you. It’s for coloreds!”

I grew up colored in the Jim Crow south. I hated being colored. No, not colored as in I hated being Negro. I hated that word colored, the negative connotation and the way it rolled off the tongues of the majority culture in my small town. There was nothing marvelous or mystical about being colored in the south. The appellation separated you from the “real” people and singled you out as different. It devalued you and marked you as a non-entity in a society that took pride in individuality and non-conformity.

Never underestimate the power of a single word. Colored has the same effect on me today as it did all those years ago in my small north Texas town. It ranks alongside being asked by a sales clerk “May I help you girls? “ It rankles and it irritates and it shoves me back into a place that’s narrow and dark and bitter. "Colored," such an innocuous word, devoid of morality or moral, and yet it has the power to transport me back to a time when I felt the weight of the color of my skin each and every day.

Change has come to America, but it just takes one word to remind me that due diligence is in order if we are ever going to overcome the consequences of prejudice and racism and the power of one word.

“Daddy, what color does a person have to be to get a taste of colored water?”