Civil rights leader Howard Thurman once said, “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”
Everyone I have encountered over my life has told me I was chosen for something great.
Growing up, I battled with what that “something” was. As a child, I spent most of my time organizing rallies in my community and regularly participating in a local radio show that focused on youth empowerment.
As my community involvement continued, I dedicated my life to serving others. In retrospect, what I actually was doing was running from a dark past I had never confronted. At an early age, an older cousin exposed me to sex. Not only did he allow me to watch him have sex with females, he also began forcing me to have sex with him. I was eager for his validation, and I consented. As this dark story unfolded before me, I started desiring him far more than I should.
This infatuation turned into immense hatred after one day he defamed me in the presence of some of my cousins and friends. I felt betrayed by the only male who had ever seemed to care for me. I grew up avoiding thinking about this situation because I had no one to turn to, no one to talk to. Community activism is what I turned to as a way to escape this horrible situation. I feared that if anyone had ever found out about what he did to me, they would never believe me. And to be honest, I did not want anything to happen to him.
My silence began to eat up my insides like flesh-eating bacteria. As I grew older, I had to finally deal with this horrible past.
By doing so, I found out what made me come alive. I found out that there are many other African American young men who have suffered from molestation. Many of them kept silent about it for the same reasons I did.
I came alive when I decided not to hide this story and to commit myself to helping others escape from the same or similar situations. For a long time, I feared talking about this, but by doing so, I have now mentored hundreds of young men making important decisions in their lives.
My question to you, “What will make you come alive?” If you have not answered that question yet, I challenge you to find out. I challenge you to be fearless and zealous.
By answering this question, you will one day help save someone’s life or make a change in the world.
Just as I have come alive, so can you.
— Joty T. Allison
Joty T. Allison, a senior sociology major at Morehouse College, is a motivational speaker and the author of the upcoming book, Strengthen My Sight: Escaping Your Own Prison.
Although 50-year-old psychotherapist Lydia Birnbaum’s romantic misadventures make her seem like a “chick” at times, she’s clearly no “chick” by genre standards. On the contrary, because of Lydia’s “advanced age,” Project Ex falls into a category of fiction called “matron literature.”
But wait, it gets worse.
Other common names for novels featuring female protagonists in their late 30s through 40s, 50s and beyond include “hen lit,” “granny lit” and — deep, cleansing breath — “hag lit.”
On the flipside of this labeling “system,” novels with male protagonists — of any age — have their own category. It’s called “fiction.”
I’ve attended a number of writers’ conferences and have discussed, brainstormed and continue to research how to navigate the rough waters of the publishing world. One thing I’ve learned is that figuring out which genre my novel fits into is very important indeed. I’ve also discovered that if I don’t define Project Ex by genre or sub-genre, there are plenty of people who will be more than happy to do it for me. And so, although there’s a part of me that wants to resist having it pigeonholed — or should I say, “hen-holed,” “granny-holed” or even “hag-holed” — into a genre whose very name sets my teeth on edge, it seems next to impossible to prevent that from happening.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Lydia Birnbaum would be horrified to hear herself described as a “hen,” let alone a “hag.” Having created her and understanding how vulnerable and sensitive she is, I feel an obligation to try and rescue her from being associated with the barnyard creature whose sad fate all too often is to end up on a dinner plate, not to mention the crone who tempted Sleeping Beauty with the luscious but deadly apple that put her to sleep for a hundred years.
Since this seems to be a dilemma that applies specifically to women’s fiction, isn’t it time for us to wake up, take charge and (if categorize we must), create new genres and sub-genres that more accurately and less pejoratively define us and our work?
— Helen Reese
Helen Reese recently published her debut novel, Project Ex. She’s also a contributor to Listen to Your Mother, a collection of essays released last spring that highlights motherhood’s joys and challenges. In addition to her day job as social worker, Helen has worked as a freelance writer and publicist.
Sundays are a time for reflection and giving thanks.
It’s also the day I tell myself I’m not going to be “That Mom” next week. Since that never seems to work out for me, here is a list of 13 things I did last week that prove I am “That Mom.”
What’s with 13 you ask? Well, it seems like everyone does a list using the number 10 (top 10). I also figured that 20 would make me seem like a real nut job, so I settled on my lucky number 13. So here it is in no particular order, the 13 things I did LAST WEEK that prove that I am “That Mom.”
1. Paid the kids delinquent lunch account online while sitting on the toilet at the gym.
2. LIED about why the kids’ drawings and work from school ended up in the garbage. “I’m not sure how those ended up in there. The babysitter must have done it.”
3. While shopping at Target, Hanna and I acted like Cooper didn’t belong to us. At one point during his wild behavior, I told him quite loudly, “I can’t wait to take you back to your mom and dad’s house.”
4. Skipped entire paragraphs in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban thinking they wouldn’t notice. Let’s be honest. How many of you skip entire pages at bedtime because you are just so dang tired?
5. Getting dressed at the gym, I realized I packed Hanna’s underwear instead of my own. Not such a great feeling when you also have jeans packed for the day. To wear or not to wear?
6. Forgot to fill out picture forms on picture day. Went to the kids’ school that morning to get extras and when I got the stink eye that is only reserved for “That Mom,” I told the parent volunteer that the kids never brought them home.
7. Ate all the frosting around the outside of a cake and told the kids it fell on the floor and rubbed off.
8. Blamed Cooper for my body’s hideous release of gas that resulted from too much Safeway China Express. Desperate times = desperate measures. We were in a small waiting room.
9. Recycled the same lunch three days in a row and swore to Hanna that the sandwich was freshly made.
10. While searching on top of my dresser for their socks, BOTH kids found their baby teeth that the tooth fairy must have forgotten to take with her. In a desperate attempt to avoid a major traumatic event, I said that the teeth belonged to our dead cat and that I just couldn’t get rid of them.
11. Decided to try the old wives’ tale that says rubbing copious amounts of Preparation H on your stomach will get rid of stretch marks from childbirth. Seemed like a good idea until Hanna decided to read the label and asked, “Mom, what does it mean when they say relieves the pain and itching from bowel movements?”
12. Getting out of the shower, Cooper said, “Mom, look at these things I can spin. I’m going to call them the spinners” (testicles). I proceeded to tell him, “If you continue to spin them, they will be gone when you wake up.”
13. Despite all of my mishaps and not-so-great behavior, my kids still love me. I’m one lucky mom!
So there you have it — my list of 13. Looks like I better reconsider putting in for the “Mother of the Year” award.
— Sara Lindberg
Sara Lindberg is a full-time school counselor with two kids, ages 5 and 7. Her background includes a B.S. in exercise science and a M.Ed. in counseling. She has never considered herself a writer, just a woman with a lot of random thoughts in her head and access to a computer.
I grew up on an Aroostook County, Maine, potato farm where the spud was revered.
It represented nutritional calories on the table, money in the bank and the ability to buy my own school clothes after serving my annual sentence of forced child labor.
I’ve been upset about the WIC program’s sole exclusion of the white potato from fresh vegetable options, and am very proud of Susan Collins’ effort to gain its rightful place in the WIC grocery cart.
While I am excited about this breakthrough, I have some unresolved resentment about the maligning of the white potato. And I have a proposal that will exact some revenge for all the years of unfairness.
Let’s nominate some other vegetables to take their turn as forbidden WIC vegetables.
• Sweet potato — this haughty relative of the white potato has claimed superiority due to its orange color and lower carb content, parading its beta-carotine like a coat of arms. Behind closed doors, however, it has been making X-rated vegi-tales with jet-puffed porn star — the marshmallow.
• Broccoli — Nutrients are drowning in a molten sea of Velveeta.
• Green beans — “French’s green been casserole” has been impersonating a healthy side dish for decades. While we are at it, let’s ask Susan to sponsor a bill to make this recipe illegal.
• Onions — Let’s crack down on home onion ring labs where beer-battered ecstasy is being cooked up and served to carb-craving junkies.
• Tomatoes — You start out with recreational salsa on the weekend, and before you know it, these lycopene-laden beefsteaks are plastered on pasta and pizza every day of the week.
• Carrots — Known to be glazed, candied and incorporated into cakes.
• Celery — Pretending to be high fiber and lo-cal, these hypocrites embed themselves in platters of hot wings with blue cheese dressing.
• Spinach — One word: Salmonella.
• Eggplant — Don’t be fooled by this glossy purple perennial. I did a little research and was appalled to learn that they are a relative of tobacco, and their bitter-tasting seeds contain nicotinic alkaloids. Are we willing to have our most vulnerable become hooked on this addictive nightshade?
• Cucumbers — How many summer picnics have you attended where this innocent vegetable has been corrupted by carbs in a macaroni salad?
• Beets — You can try to dignify this vegetable with Ivy League status, but this is one case where Harvard is just another word for fructose.
I think you get the idea. Every vegetable has its own dirty little secret if you dig deep enough. Let’s celebrate the digging of pure white potatoes, and hope that our homegrown tubers fully recover from this nightmare of discrimination.
— Molly Stevens
Molly Stevens arrived late to the writing desk, but is forever grateful her second act took this direction instead of adult tricycle racing or hoarding cats. She blogs at www.shallowreflections.com, where she skims over important topics, like her love affair with white potatoes and why she saves user manuals.
In my whole world right now, nothing brings me more joy than my grandkids. I’ve become one of those grandparents who turns into a five-year-old when they are around.
They bring the simple, childlike view of life front and center. I think I might need to start a college course to teach this. Forget trigonometry, chemistry and political science. This is much more important in the scheme of a rich life. I’m not saying, ”Don’t go to medical school and become a brain surgeon.” I just want young people to learn early what a rich life might look like. It’s not always about money.
I didn’t pay a therapist $200 an hour to pry open my mind to this realization. My husband and I took our granddaughters to an ice cream store and spent $9 dollars on ice cream. Yes, $9 dollars! Two pumpkin pie ice cream cups with pie crust, complete with whipped cream and two vanilla cones dipped in multi-colored sprinkles were our delight of the day.
We sat on the porch of Sunny Skies Ice Cream store in rocking chairs watching the world go by. The ice dripped and sprinkles fell onto laps, but no one moved to clean up the little messes. This was a “who cares about a little mess day?” The youngest wore her sunglasses upside down and smiled at everyone. The local sheriff arrived with his family and put his sunglasses on to match hers. We’d gone back to the past and now lived in Mayberry. I really like the past.
We sat for about 15 minutes, rocking gently in our chairs. “We should do this more,” my husband said. I agreed, “We can make this a tradition every time we visit.” The girls continued to lick their sprinkles off their melting cones, oblivious to the fast-paced crazy world out there.
“No, I mean at home, too,” he grinned. I rocked a little slower and thought, “This is one of those small moments that makes a sweet memory. I’m going to keep this one close.”
Pass the sprinkles, please.
— Anne Bardsley
Anne Bardsley lives in St Petersburg, Fla., with her “wrinkle maker” of a husband and two spoiled cockatoos. She’s still recovering from raising five children. She is so happy she didn’t strangle them as teenagers as they’ve given her beautiful grandchildren. She is the author of How I Earned My Wrinkles: Musings on Marriage, Motherhood and Menopause. She blogs at Anne Bardsley: Perfectly Imperfect.
Recently I was lucky enough to spend a weekend viewing the beautiful waterfalls in the State Park at Watkins Glen, New York.
Being certified seniors, Mr. Darcy and I got up very early and compounded the stereotype by attempting to take full advantage of the free breakfast at the motel. Since we found it was not available till 8 a.m., we were stranded and hungry in our dinky room watching a fuzzy television airing a show entitled “Good Morning in America, Today” or some such. The scrawl below the talking heads announced the wonderful news that an actor had “found his Zen in rehab.”
Naturally I wondered if the actor, John Stamos, had somehow misplaced his Zen but then thought maybe he had a religious conversion in rehab following his DWI in California. I have never seen his TV shows, but I understand he is especially beloved by a generation of women who grew up watching his character “Uncle Jesse.” I have nothing against the man; he seems a pleasant enough celebrity and relatively scandal-free until recently. I further understand that he has little or no control over what TV producers run in promotional teases.
Still, I hoped he might have something interesting to say about Zen Buddhism. Sadly and horribly and weirdly, his interview progressed to the point whereupon he and the host, Matt Lauer, started slapping each other in some sort of acting exercise and it all became unwatchable until it was thankfully time to eat the free breakfast. But it, nonetheless, reminded me of the first time I took an interest in Buddhism.
In high school I took a class in comparative religion taught by a man who also coached the football team. Not that these activities should, in any way, be mutually exclusive but Coach did say upon the introduction of each new religion, “Hey, I can’t help it if these people believe this stuff.”
Despite the questionable abilities of Coach, I did learn a little about the Buddhism originally from Nepal and its Chinese/Taoist influenced offshoot known as Zen Buddhism. The elimination of desire (the root of suffering) is achieved by following the “Eightfold Path,” which instructs one in right views, intentions, speech, actions, livelihood, effort, mindfulness and concentration and leads one to right knowledge and liberation from the cycles of birth/death/re-birth.
Buddhism’s core principle is that you achieve Nirvana by ridding yourself of the suffering that is brought on by desire. Believing this added a new and not-fun layer of angst to my fading Catholicism by making me feel even worse about wanting anything, even if it was to be relieved of crushing migraines. (These headaches brought much betrayal. When St. Therese de Liseaux had excruciating pain, she at least had holy visions and I got nothing, which led to my feeling guilty about being bitter.) Still, the elimination of desire and a path of non-materialism remained a guiding force in my life and now makes me wonder why the term “Zen” has come to mean SELL anything you want.
For years I have seen ads for things such as “Zen cut jeans” and “Zen salads.” Jimmy Choo is advertising “Champagne Suede ‘Zen’ cut booties,” which look like toeless boots with stiletto heels. Incidentally, since the evolutionary purpose of feet is to enable us to walk upright, this seems to be a “step” in the wrong direction.
There is a “Zen Salon and Spa” in Mission, Texas, that is offering a “Zen conditioning treatment.” I did not quite have the nerve to call them up and ask about the depth of their commitment to Buddhism.
Donna Karan has an entire line of products to buy called “Urban Zen.” The ultimate irony is that Zen Buddhism espouses non-materialism and yet has become a marketing device.
Another item I found online was a “Zen Cut-out Collar Necklace.” It is out of stock. That an object is advertised online and doesn’t really exist, at least for purchasing, is well, kinda Zen!
The fact that Zen rarely discusses sin, offers no punishment other than that of reincarnation, does not consider itself to be a religion despite having nuns and priests and gladly accepts Christians, Jews and atheists alike into its welcoming fold may have caused it to mean just about anything. The incomprehensible nature (to most Westerners) of Zen lends itself to many interpretations.
That is a sorry excuse for using a philosophy to sell things. Please consider the following: “Jewish flavored ice-cream,” “Existentialist-cut lawn furniture” or “Mango-Methodist salad dressing.” Is it just that “Zen” is a cool word and fun to say? Just as “fascism” has come to mean any ideology or political system that you don’t like, “Zen” has come to mean something that represents clean lines, (like Calvin Klein!), is a little upscale and urban but also down to earth and simple, something that requires deep concentration but also empties the mind. OK, I give up. It means everything and nothing.
If you really want to contemplate all this, go back to the very beginning. Yes, the beginning of this blog. Go to Watkins Glen, sit on a rock by one of the 19 lovely waterfalls and just listen.
All the best to Mr. Stamos, who remains entirely innocent of promoting “Zen.”
— Ann Rita Darcy
Ann Rita Darcy is a nurse and grandmother who lives on Long Island.
Show me a bag anyone is bringing to the beach and I’ll tell you how old they are. It’s like looking at a bell curve of your life: the bag starts small, becomes larger until it’s bursting, then slowly tapers off.
Like your life.
During the teenage years I carried a very small beach bag. All I needed was a bikini, baby oil, a chair and Cousin Brucie on the radio. My Italian mother supplied lunch for the entire beach whether she knew you or not. Back then I wasn’t worrying about what I looked like from the side or behind. I sat upright in my chair because I could. Because when I looked down I wasn’t wondering, “how the heck did that happen?”
The dating years come; the bag gets larger. You are still in a bikini and haven’t yet had children, who destroy your life,
…I mean your body.
The chair remains upright.
My mother still supplied the lunch but only if she liked my boyfriend. No lunch delivered, I knew he was history. When I brought my future husband around, she delivered breakfast and lunch to the beach and my dad carried down gin and tonics.
…Subtle like a sledgehammer, my parents.
During the years I was raising children, getting to the beach required a large bag busting with shovels, pails, sunglasses, flip-flops, trucks, diapers, sun screen, hats and diapers along with strollers, small tents, umbrellas and chairs. Attempting to cross Ocean Avenue to the beach with two kids in tow required an act of God. By the time I had survived the crossing, unpacked, the cramp in my bicep finally subsiding, it never failed that one of my kids needed to go back to the house to use the bathroom. The bikini has been traded in for a mu-mu. And that chair? My sister, eight years my junior with a tight stomach and no kids yet now sits in it…upright.
Currently my bag is considerably smaller, my life quite different. This was apparent when I spent a few days with a girlfriend at the beach. She used to remind me to bring my ingredients for margaritas; now it’s my heart meds, gluten-free wraps, probiotics and vitamins. I used to remind her to bring sauvignon blanc, now it’s microwaveable quinoa, green tea pills and bee pollen for our metabolism. We lined everything up on the bar and took a picture of our “stash” to send to friends remembering how we used to send pictures of cosmopolitans. The sun is no longer our friend, so our hats are large enough to carry a small child.
I’ve ditched the mu-mu and am back in a 2-piece but that chair needs to be at a very specific back-angle so that it appears I have a flat stomach. One notch up in the wrong direction and it’s all over.
Now about that bag… Sometimes I forget the bag. Sometimes I forget the book. Sometimes I have the book but forget the glasses to read the book. I wish my kids were around so I could send them back to get whatever it is that I’ve left behind. It would make me feel like I had gotten my money’s worth for giving birth to them.
And when I finally make it to the beach, unpack, grab my hat, unfold the chair, put up the umbrella, get out the book, apply sunscreen, what’s the first thing I do?
I face the beautiful ocean.
Grab that small bag.
Turn around and head back for the bathroom.
— Tracy Buckner
Tracy Buckner contributes periodically to the Observer Tribune Newspaper of Chester, N.J., and blogs for the New Jersey Hills Newspaper, serving Madison, Chatham and Chester, N.J. She enjoys writing about the slow decline and vows to go down kicking and screaming. You can see read other pieces and sign up to follow her on her blog.
As the very model of the modern mixed-up man, I have long been baffled by one of the great mysteries of domestic life: If a dishwasher washes dishes, why do you have to wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher?
That is the question I have been asking my wife, Sue, for the past 37 years.
Her thoroughly convincing answer: “Because.”
It does no good to point out that in television commercials for dishwashers, or even for dishwashing detergent, dishes that are encrusted with food chunks the consistency of concrete always come out shiny and spotless.
That wasn’t the case in our house recently. In a spiteful act that would never be shown on TV, the dishwasher conked out. So I had to wash the dishes by hand.
Sometimes Sue washed them and I dried. Or I left them in the dish drainer to dry, which prompted Sue to ask, “Why aren’t you drying the dishes?”
My thoroughly unconvincing answer: “Because.”
One thing was clear (and it wasn’t the wine glass I streaked with a damp dish towel): You don’t appreciate something until you don’t have it anymore.
That’s the way Sue and I felt about the dishwasher, which had served us well for about a dozen years before dying of what I can only assume was food poisoning.
This forced us to wash dishes the old-fashioned way. When doing so, you have to place a basin in the kitchen sink and fill it with water hot enough to scald the hide off a crocodile. First, however, you should squirt in a stream of dishwashing liquid, which will make enough bubbles to obscure the utensils and cause you to slice your thumb on a steak knife.
To prevent me from bleeding to death, which would have stained the counters, Sue bought — and forgive me for being too technical here — a dishwashing thingie. It has a long handle with a screw top on one end, so you can put in detergent, and a brush on the other, so you can scrub the dishes.
That way you don’t have to fill a basin. Instead, you can let the water run for such a long time that it would overflow Lake Superior, which isn’t a good place to wash dishes anyway.
But you have to get them clean because you need something to eat on. After a while, however, taking nourishment intravenously seems like an appealing alternative.
The situation, like the water, reached a boiling point. This happened after dinner one night when I seriously considered killing one of the actors in a dishwasher commercial and going to prison so I wouldn’t have to wash the dishes anymore. But then, I figured, I’d be assigned kitchen duty for the rest of my life.
Before I could say to Sue, “We really ought to buy a new dishwasher,” Sue said to me, “We really ought to buy a new dishwasher.”
So she went to an appliance store and bought one. But when it was delivered, it didn’t fit because the measurements were wrong. (The dishwasher’s, not Sue’s.)
Back to the store went Sue. And back to our house went another dishwasher.
The delivery guys, Tom and Anthony, sympathized with our plight.
“You don’t want to be without a dishwasher for too long,” Tom said.
“It’s bad when you have to wash the dishes yourself,” Anthony chimed in.
After much measuring, and maneuvering, and manpower, Tom and Anthony got the dishwasher to fit.
Then came the moment of truth: “I’m going to give it a test run,” Tom said.
Sue and I held our breath, collectively thinking, “Please, God, make it work. And don’t flood the kitchen.”
Tom pressed some buttons.
“It’s so quiet,” Sue noted.
“Unlike me,” I added.
The dishwasher ran, and the water drained, and, lo, there was no flood in the kitchen.
That evening, with spotless wine glasses, Sue and I toasted our new dishwasher.
“I’ll load it,” I said after dinner.
“Thanks,” Sue said. “And don’t forget to wash the dishes before you put them in.”
— Jerry Zezima
Jerry Zezima, who served on the faculty at the 2010 EBWW, writes a humor column for the Stamford Advocate that is nationally syndicated through the McClatchy-Tribune News Service and regularly appears in the Huffington Post. He’s written two books, Leave it to Boomer and The Empty Nest Chronicles. He has won six humor-writing awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and was named EBWW’s Humor Writer of the Month twice. He is currently president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.