Prime Time Writers: Spring 2006 by NY Writers Coalition

PRIME TIME WRITERS

Prime Time Writers Selections from the Prime Time Writers Group at Emmanuel Baptist Church Spring 2006

Copyright ÂŠ 2006 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor: Andrew Cotto Layout: Andrew Cotto and Deborah Clearman Prime Time Writers contains writing by the members of a creative writing workshop for participants in the Prime Time Ministry conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at the Emmanuel Baptist Church at 279 Lafayette Avenue, Brooklyn. NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

Prime Time Ministry of Emmanuel Baptist Church is an intentional ministry designed by, with, and for older adults 50 and over in our church and community. It seeks to promote and enhance the well being of all its members in areas affecting their physical, socioeconomic and spiritual needs. Meeting monthly, Prime Time commits itself to serving God by developing initiatives and programs which foster spiritual growth, positive intergenerational relations, biblically based financial planning, life cycle health and supportive services, Christian recreational/social interactions, and continued educational opportunities. Emmanuel Baptist Church 279 Lafayette Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11238

CONTENTS OUR CLASS Jean Hill…………………………………………11 WHAT A MAN, WHAT A MAN—WHAT A MIGHTY GOOD MAN Rose Jones-Wilson……………………………...12 NEW ORLEANS MEMORY Mildred Park…………………...15 IF HE COULD SEE ME NOW Ruby Ellerbe Scott…………...16 AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMAN Sarah Thomas…………...17 THE COLD Alexandra McDaniel……………………………..18 REVIVAL Sheryl Eason……………………………………….20 THE “F” WORD Alice Hyman………………………………..21 RAIN Peggy Horton…………………………………………...23 I AM FROM Mavis Brown…………………………………....24 AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMAN Shirley N. Bland………...27 AN EXPERIENCE THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET Jean Nelson…………………………………………………….28 ONE THAT GOT AWAY Jacqueline Murray………………...30 SPACE Hyacinth M. Graham………………………………….31 A MIGHTY GOOD MAN Catherine M. Copney……………..32 I WISH Ruth G. Smith………………………………………...35 URBAN MORNINGS Cassandra Gonsalves………………….37 AUGUST Andrew Cotto……………………………………….40

AN EVENT THAT I SHALL NEVER FORGET Doris De Young……………………………………………….42 A NEW ORLEANS MEMORY Andrew Cotto……………....44 IF HE OR SHE COULD SEE ME NOW Sheryl Eason………46 MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. Alice Hyman………………..48 AUGUST Jean Nelson………………………………………...50 GENTRIFICATION Jacqueline Murray……………………...52 AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMEN Catherine Copney……….55 SISTERHOOD Sarah Thomas………………………………...56 KATRINA Hyacinth M. Graham……………………………..59 I WISH...Mavis Brown………………………………………..60 ROSA PARKS Mildred Park………………………………….61 ISSUES OF SELF Ruby Ellerbe Scott………………………..63 COACHING GEMS Cassandra Gonsalves…………………...65 A MOTHER’S DAY I SHALL ALWAYS REMEMBER Rose Jones-Wilson…………………………………………….66 LEARNING Ruth G. Smith…………………………………...68 CELEBRITY Jean Hill………………………………………..70 SISTERHOOD Alexandra McDaniel………………………….71 THE REVIVAL Peggy Horton………………………………...72 RAIN Shirley N. Bland………………………………………...74

INTRODUCTION Welcome to Prime Time! I hope you’re ready for us, or, at least, ready for our writing. The following is the first collection of essays produced by the weekly writing group of Prime Timers at Emmanuel Baptist Church, from nowhere else but Brooklyn, New York. After my training with the New York Writer’s Coalition there was an opening to work with older adults at a church I recognized immediately as the spectacular structure crowning a corner in my neighborhood of Clinton Hill. I had originally thought to work with teens, not seniors, but the church was too close, the group too interesting, the experience too potentially rewarding for me to pass. I addressed the Prime Time group on a Saturday morning in June, and shortly after we had a writing group, eighteen women strong of eighteen strong women - and me. After a year together I can honestly say I love these ladies. If Emmanuel were a Mormon Church I’d marry them all; but since polygamy isn’t permitted by the Baptists (nor by my wife, for that matter), I prefer to think of them as the eighteen older sisters I always wanted, while I’m the pale little brother they never saw coming. We meet on Thursday mornings. After a half hour of hootenanny (and cake, and tea, and sometimes fullblown breakfast or lunch) we write, for real. I bring the topics and together we take off in different directions - only landing to share where we’ve been.

Reverend Rose – my co-captain and our spiritual leader – calls what we have a “healing ministry,” and when we read our stories out loud the healing comes in heavy doses: hooting & hollering, laughter and tears, Mmm-Hmmm, and Amen! Tell it Sister (as I like to say). Mostly we listen. We listen to each other share our views and stories, reveling in the individual aspects of each voice, along with the communal; reveling in the moments we are together - moments we call Prime Time. Also, it’s said that every picture tells a story, but as writers we tell our own stories (thank you), so we decided to add photographs from various stages of our lives just to show how pretty we are. If you want to know our stories, you have to read the book. Finally, we would like to thank the NY Writers Coalition, Raina Wallens for data entry, and specifically Deborah Clearman for all of her help (and patience) with compilation and design of the book while also serving as an artistic and editorial advisor. We would also like to thank the Executive Director, Aaron Zimmerman - without whose commitment and vision the voices on these pages might not have been heard. Andrew Cotto Workshop Leader June 2006

OUR CLASS Jean Hill The best experience of my life is joining this class. In Prime Time Rev. Rose told us there was going to be a writing class. I signed up immediately. I’ve always wanted to learn how to write. I’m not much of a speaker. Putting my thoughts on paper has made me feel more comfortable with myself. The first class we had I met Andrew Cotto and the other members. I knew this was where I belong. The class we have, regardless of how you feel, you can’t miss it. After class I go to the Kennedy Center; I’m always late. Everybody asks where I’ve been. I tell them I’m in a creative writing class. In our class we have such wonderful writers. I have learned to express myself so much more. I have to give credit to each one of our members, especially our leader. He has made me feel so relaxed. The moment I walk into our class I see smiling faces. This gives me such an up lift.

WHAT A MAN, WHAT A MAN – WHAT A MIGHTY GOOD MAN Rose Jones-Wilson There has never been a better man than my Daddy Fred! Actually, Daddy Fred was my stepfather, and I did not call him Daddy for many years. My own father, Cleveland, died when I was two, and my sister not quite four, leaving Mama widowed with us during the last years of the Depression at the age of twenty two. Mama remarried the next year. She had two children by her second husband. I thought my stepfather must certainly love his natural children more than me because they were his own. All I cared about at the time was that my father had died and left me, and I was hurt. Wanting a father of my own, I began calling my mother’s brother “Daddy Cye.” This “Daddy Cye” business went on for several years, until the day he stopped protecting me from Mama for misbehaving. After she whipped me with her cherry-tree switch, “Daddy Cye” went back to being “Uncle Cye” again. And my step-father started to become my Daddy. Growing up, I often thought of Daddy Fred as a comic strip character, like Dagwood Bumstead from Blondie, who could be funny without necessarily trying. Whenever Daddy took on a project it always seemed to end in some sort of disaster. Once when Mama and I were going shopping in nearby Richmond, Daddy said before we left, “I think I’ll burn some trash on the yard while you’re gone.” Mama begged, “Please don’t do that Fred! The wind is rather 12

high and the fire might get away.” This is when Daddy came back with his regular quip whenever Mama warned him so. “Bea,” he said, “I know what I’m doing.” Later in the day, when Mama and I stepped off the bus from Richmond, the whole straw field of our neighbor was on fire! Since there was no fire department in our little town, men were in a line passing water buckets from one to another to try and put it out. Others were digging ditches to keep the fire from jumping. “Oh, Fred,” my mother uttered. Thankfully the fire was contained, and it was past harvest time so the field was left waiting for next year’s planting. Talking to Mama afterwards, one neighbor pleaded, “My Lamb, Birt – please don’t 13

leave Fred home alone, take him with you!” Looking back now I laugh at these things. But what I remember most is what a good father Daddy Fred was, and how he took care of all his children. When Mama died he said to me, “I don’t suppose you’ll be coming home to visit like you used to.” I said, “Why do you say that Daddy? I love you.” When he told me then - how long he had waited to hear those words - I realized how especially kind he had been by tolerating all my “Daddy Drama” without mumbling a word. So that’s why I say, “What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man was my Daddy Fred.”

NEW ORLEANS MEMORY Mildred Park When I think of New Orleans, which I have never visited, I think of Creole people, Cajun food, jazz music, Zydeco, Louis Armstrong, swamps, houses with wrought iron balconies, Mardi Gras. The food mainly Cajun like gumbo, jambalaya, shrimp etouffe, andouille sausage, and poâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;boy sandwiches is a spicy mixture that makes my nose tingle at the thought. The climate: hot, humid, very different from my Yankee preference for dry cool places. Swamps with alligators, poisonous snakes, live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Mangroves with their roots sunk in water. Hot sauce, hot jazz, hot days and nights, voodoo rites, Catholic rituals all a gumbo-like mix in my mind. Louis Armstrong trumpet followed by Wynton Marsalis, Aaron Neville and his brothers. The people all a mixture of France, Africa, Native American living near but not always easily mixing. This is also a port city with boats and ships of all kinds from small shrimp boats to Mississippi River paddle wheelers carrying casinos now along with their usual cargo. Hurricane Katrina has placed New Orleans in the forefront of the news, and so we see the flooded streets and its evacuee citizens as never before. A tourist city where tourists canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t visit anytime soon. But it will probably come back. They survived plagues.

IF HE COULD SEE ME NOW by Ruby Ellerbe Scott Skinny black girl, knotty curls Salty and nasty with anger that whirls Tongue like lightening, words that stung He was no exception, sweet songs I never sung The seasons of anger were motivated by many Ridicule and slight filled my horn of plenty Left alone in my misery, no one to share shame Feeling like his conquest as he played the love game But the years have been good and God has been better Many years ago, I wrote the Dear John letter He’s had a bird’s eye view of the things God can do He’s seen the children’s success, and my rise too If he could see me now I can imagine his thoughts He’s missing heaven on earth but it’s not our fault He’d probably be sad and even long for inclusion He’d know to advance would be an undesirable intrusion The look in his eyes, the smile would be sad As he dwelled on his role as a dead-beat dad

AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMAN Sarah Thomas An African-American woman has been, and still is, a difficult and confusing person to be. She is sometimes praised as being a strong, queenly, nurturing matriarch who cares for her own; others, too. She is wise, patient, and comforting. She can cook up a mouth-watering meal that symbolizes her love, even itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only salt pork and biscuits. She works at keeping her family together, meaning she sacrifices her own dreams, wishes, and needs for others. Then there is the other representation of an African American woman. She is easily seduced, and often an unwed mother. She is unattractive: kinky hair, thick lips, protruding backside. She talks too loud, dresses too gaudy, and is lacking in social graces. She is here to be used and abused by husband, boyfriend, or employer. She is sensual and therefore she is sexy, and wants sex. If she is seen as beautiful or attractive itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s because of her light-colored skin, straight hair, and Caucasian features. For a woman of African descent America is not an easy place to be.

THE COLD Alexandra McDaniel Brrrrrrrrr. The cold. It’s sometimes good to be cold, yeah right when……..the summertime when the humidity is high and you’re sweating. The sweat just pours off your face the cold is good. On the other hand the cold is bad. The cold you feel when you just wake up in the morning with no heat. During the wintertime and your house has no heat and your family is freezing because the landlord is not dealing with his responsibility of heating his house for his tenants. Your nine month old baby has a runny nose and the rest of your family is coughing. Good news, it is now possible to have heat directly in your apartment or house due to the city will supply heat at the expense of the landlord. Cold weather is so cold that it feels like the air is biting you. When you talk smoke comes out of your mouth. Feet, wow it is so cold that you can hardly walk; I should have put on two more pairs of socks and my heavier boots. At least I have gloves in my pocket, well put them on…….Oh no, I lost one of my gloves and my coat has a hole in the pockets. The Cold------.

REVIVAL Sheryl Eason We’ve just completed our three-day Fall Revival. Our guest preacher, who pastors a church in Richmond, Virginia, was awesome. He was a down-to -earth, witty, humorous, realistic, people-person theologian. He broke the verses from the scriptures into tiny, bite-size pieces. Yes, he was animated. Yes, he was hip. Yes, he was able to apply his message to our everyday lives. But on the day after the revival, what now? What do I do now, now that the choir is not singing and the musicians are not playing? What now? Revival, what a word! Is the revival still taking place? I certainly hope so! As I listened to, and observed, those three revival services, I kept thinking about how I was going to respond to the messages, because just as I stated: what now, now that the music has stopped? Well, I am so happy that we have such an awesome God on our side. A smile and twinge occur when I think of all the beauty this life offers us. The adage, “there’s a lot to do and no time to do it in” is so true! Revival! I pray that I have been revived to the extent that one day soon a non-believer will see my light shining and be drawn to it. Revival! I pray that my thirst becomes contagious, that someone will want to take a sip: ah, Revival!

THE “F” WORD Alice Hyman The “F” word a.k.a. Fall – my favorite season of all seasons. I could be self-centered and egotistical about one of the reasons – like my birth date falling (there’s that “F” again) in September, but I won’t. The spring usually connotes new beginnings – yada, yada, yada – but for me it’s the Fall, which is the beginning of a world of vibrant colors, cooler weather and unbridled joy: holidays and a new year on the horizon. 21

The autumn leaves – I know the tune, but for me it’s truly the amazing color palette: vibrant reds, gold’s, oranges, various shades of brown and some leftover summer greens. Quite a display of God’s handiwork. Halloween – black (a favorite color), but that pumpkin orange invigorates my soul! Veteran’s Day – red, white and blue. I am not a flag-wearing/waving patriot, but do love those reds and blues. Thanksgiving – lots of browns, love those; especially the baked golden brown of some unfortunate turkey. The various yellows of corn, corn bread, turnips – oh, I could go on forever with the luscious colors in this category that bring a smile to my face and make my stomach growl. Ahhh, Christmas—the birth of our little Lord Jesus, celebrated as we swaddle His memory in red, green, gold, silver, purple…Sounds of glad tidings, giving and receiving some favorite things wrapped in foil that shimmers, finding our footing in some fluffy white snow. Forever grateful to our Lord and joyful for all that He has fashioned for us. The Fall leads us into magnificence! The end of this favorite, fanciful, fruitful “F” word of mine brings on the beginning of a new year colored by hope, fanciful wishes, improvement, fulfillment and thanks for a continued and full life for family and friends.

RAIN Peggy Horton Rain, it somehow has the ability to put me in a certain mood. As a child, rain was a signal that you were not going outside to play. As a young girl, I had thoughts about getting my hair messed up, and it always seemed to rain right after you had the “hot comb to it.” Heaven forbid, you let the rain touch that new hair, but even the extra moisture in the air was enough to make it kinky. Now when it rains I read a book, look at TV, eat all the comfort foods in the house! I lie on the couch, listening to the wind blow and the sound of the falling rain. Yes, we need God’s rain for things to grow. Everything seems clean and new after a heavy rain, and I am always aware, during the storm, that I am safe and dry inside my home.

I AM FROM… Mavis Brown I am from a small village nestled between the Wareicka Hills and the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, West Indies. I grew up with two younger brothers, six hens, two roosters, and several goats. People lived in harmony and were aware of each other’s needs. Because of the deep religious teachings and the belief that all men are our brother’s keeper, people gave support to each other. One cannot miss the friendly, cheerful way people lent helping hands to each other or shared the bounty of their gardens, as though they were all one big, extended family. We acknowledged each other with a smile or greeting. We left our doors unlocked and the door of the church stayed open. If we did lock them, we usually placed the key under the doormat where the neighbors could find them. Those were some of the charms of August Town. The older men would gather near the corner stores to learn the news of the day, and the young men would lend a hand to the women with their loads. Adults looked after the children whether they were theirs or not. I used to resent the persistent meddling ways of some of my adult neighbors, but I secretly appreciated and recognized the concern as an indication that I was loved and protected. We were poorer than church mice, but as a child I did not know it at the time. We had a lot of fruit to eat because there were so many mango, guinep, and sweetsop trees around. I think they grew wild because I was never told not to climb the trees and pick the fruits.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;First come first take.â&#x20AC;? When we had the opportunity to eat meat and poultry, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d usually have a feast. Papa rarely killed a goat just for the family. When he did kill one, he did so in order to sell the meat to acquire money to purchase clothing and household things. Besides being a farmer Papa was a weaver, he made beautiful wicker baskets and furniture. Mama was a haggler. She would take her basket filled with produce and ride the bus to the marketplace, sell what she had, then purchase whatever she could afford, and then resell them. We always waited at the gate for her homecoming. She never failed to bring home some goodies, such as coconut drops or tamarind balls, for us the children.

AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMAN Shirley N. Bland A nice topic, I am one of those AfricanAmerican women. My name is Shirley N. Bland, a senior citizen now. Would you like to know my age? Smile. An African-American woman is a person with many children, hard working for her children: cooking, cleaning, washing, braiding hair for the girls, cutting hair for the boys, making sure each one gets their baths before bed. Up early the next morning for school, breakfast—maybe, depends. Forgot about the homework, each one helps the other ones. Many times the African-American woman is too tired to think, and homework she doesn’t understand most of the time. Her homework for her children is very important, must be clean, smart, intelligent, manners at all times. To respect people and themselves. Oh don’t leave the daddy out, if he is not away, he would want the same for his children as the African-American woman. My God Is! African-American women are very smart, pretty, busy as a bee, charming, outgoing, a very nice mother, sister, aunt, wife, friend, church-goer, provider, and a good cook—many skills—a very lovely person: That’s why I am an African-American woman. Thank you very much! She can sing, sew, you name it, African-American women can do it!

AN EXPERIENCE THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET Jean Nelson Rosa Parks passed away the other day, and I can truly say she was a hero. She was very brave, refusing to give up her bus seat to a white passenger. This courageous act could have caused her, and her family, to lose their lives. I know where she was coming from because I was born in the south. West Virginia was not considered the deep south, however there was racial discrimination and segregation. Everyone is entitled to have freedom and dignity, and when you keep a people oppressed they will rise up and rebel. When I was a child we had to sit in the back of the bus. We could not sit and eat at the Five and Dime counter. We had to sit in the balcony of the only theatre in our town. Duke Ellington, the black band leader, came to play our little theatre. My mother took me and my two sisters to the show, and you know we were sitting in the balcony. The theatre filled up because Duke was very famous, and the usher came up to the balcony and told the colored people that they had to give their seats to the white people. Some got up and sat on the steps. My mother was a religious woman who prayed all the time. She was also soft-spoken, but she said, “I’m going to the manager’s office,” and we went with her. She told the manager what happened in a very firm, calm, and intelligent way. Then she said, “If you don’t take care of this situation, I will have this theatre closed down!” The manager did not get upset, and told my mother he would take care of the situation. God must 28

have spoken to his heart, because after we went back into the theatre the house lights came on, and the manager announced from the stage that the balcony was for colored people only. My mother was very courageous for speaking out in that day and time. Her name was not Rosa, but Mabel, and she was the Rosa Parks of our town.

ONE THAT GOT AWAY Jacqueline Murray Where is he? Where did he go? That chubbycheeked little boy with the infectious laugh, that walked up to strangers on the subway and asked their names. The little munchkin who hid in appliance boxes, and tied towels around his neck while pretending to be Superman. Where did he go? Where is that little one who followed me from room to room, stumbling in my high-heeled shoes; the one that I dragged from one museum to another, who sat through endless children’s theatre productions, and whom I sang to sleep at night? I think he got away. I looked up one day and he was six feet tall and lanky, hair sprouting from his chin. I think he joined a teenaged cult and ran off to some hip -hop-de-bop-land where baggy pants and sneakers are the uniform of the day. This new dude tells me, “Grandma, you’re too overprotective. You worry too much.” Oh, my little man: where did he go? I hope he comes back soon.

SPACE Hyacinth M. Graham Space is important to me Especially space that allows me to be Space that is colorful and warm Space that protects me from harm Space that can be shared Space that is sacred and revered Space that echoes a song Space that make me feel I belong Where would we be without space? To feel, to think, to create All of us need our own space Space is a place to be

A MIGHTY GOOD MAN Catherine M. Copney I first met this man in 1952. Tall, handsome, dressed to kill, a voice like no one else and a line for all the ladies. I was at a Gospel concert at Washington Temple in Brooklyn, New York. What’s he staring at me for? Well, he won’t dangle me from his string. Every time I went to a Gospel program he was there and I always caught him staring at me. Finally, a mutual friend introduced us and I fell under his spell. I was not going to dangle on his string, so I cut the cord and wrapped it around me. I discovered he was single and had been singing Gospel for twenty-five years. Well, I could change the single part and since I can’t sing I will just enjoy his voice. One year later, with a diamond ring, a marriage license and a promise to always be true, we started down the wedded bliss lane. After five children and going up and down a rocky road, we survived fifty years of marriage. Not an Angel, not a Bad Man, but a “Good Man!” His favorite song was “Jesus Gave Me Water.” Now he is with Jesus drinking water from the fountain of living water. Bro. Brown—A Good Man!

I WISH Ruth G. Smith Wishes are small prayers that we make for our Loved ones, and a wish is a desire to do something to help others. As for myselfâ&#x20AC;Ś I wish that I was a more spontaneous person. I wish that I could wipe away the tears from our childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes. I wish that I could right the wrongs that they have suffered. I wish, I wish, I wish. It could take me a hundred years to tell you all of my wishes or prayers, or things I wish to do. If I could go back to my childhood years and relive how I felt when spring began, I would express my feelings through this springtime poem I was asked to write in school. Spring, Spring oh what joy it brings. When in the stillness of the eve the jolly robins sing. They sang so sweet and softly, I could not choose but think of once when I was younger I would laugh and sing with them. I would sit down by the brook side and wish with all my might that my true love was here with me to share the joy of spring. I wish, I wish. 35

URBAN MORNINGS Cassandra Gonsalves It can be a sunny or cloudy morning, yet itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s an urban morning. This is the time when a city awakes out of a needed sleep. Members of the community start moving into sectors of survival. This is our urban morning. Schools open, trains roar, buses stop and go, everybody is going somewhere, out there, into their own personal universe. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to encounter the cultural diversity that awaits them on another urban morning. My urban morning consists of opening my eyes to see the trees swaying in a breeze or seductive wind. It seems as if they are greeting me, awakening me, letting me know I have arrived in my urban morning.

AUGUST Andrew Cotto Lost in the flood of New Orleans was the news about August Wilson. One of America’s greatest playwrights was terminally ill; it was reported in the vague pages of the newspapers that he only had a few months to live. To me, there is knee-deep irony in the fact that the loss of a national, yet essentially AfricanAmerican voice is being drowned out by the loss of a national, yet essentially African-American city. Surely Mr. Wilson’s muse would have been summoned to sing (or wail) over the events that unfolded throughout the gulf; matters of race and class and power, their ambiguities and certainties struggling to stay afloat amongst the deluge of public uproar. Surely Mr. Wilson would have been inspired by this tragedy to offer his perspective with a play regarding this uniquely African-American experience in the first decade of the 21st century. I, for one, am saddened that the Katrinaexperience for African-American’s – and all Americans - will not be considered and reflected upon with the depth and sincerity of an August Wilson play. I so genuinely would like to see this play written and performed I can even imagine its name: “Ma Rainey’s Soggy Black Bottom.”

AN EVENT THAT I SHALL NEVER FORGET Doris DeYoung I remember, and how could I forget, the transit strike of 1960. My two sons, age ten and eight years old, had an accident on one bicycle while coming home from school on an evening of the strike. They would normally have been home by the time I returned from work. When I approached the house no lights were on in the hall. As I entered the house it was dark and very quiet. I felt alarmed, and wondered why the boys were not home. After some time the door bell rang. When I opened the door my neighbor was holding the totaled bicycle in his hand – he said the police had instructed him to bring it to the house where the boys lived. “Where are my children?” I screamed out. He told me they had been taken to the hospital. “Which hospital?” He did not know. I trembled with fear, thinking the worst, but hoping not. After twenty minutes the phone rang. It was a nurse from Long Island College Hospital. She told me my sons had an accident, and were now in the emergency room. I was out of my mind, thinking the worst. I begged the nurse to let me speak to my sons. Then I insisted, and she granted my wish. My fears subsided when I talked to Guy and Jeoffrey. They were alive, thank God. I told them to tell the doctor where they hurt, and that Daddy and Mother would be down to the hospital right away. Arriving at the hospital, we were united with our sons. They had only minor cuts and bruises and 42

could go home with us that evening. My biggest fear was that I was going to lose my two children in one evening. I shall never forget the events that evening of the transit strike of 1960, and how it took me to the brink of the ultimate tragedy.

A NEW ORLEANS MEMORY Andrew Cotto Ten years ago I traveled with my fiancé from New York to New Orleans for the Jazz and Heritage Festival. Pam and I met up with my parents and, over dinner at Commander’s Palace, discussed our wedding plans – everything was in place, except the song for our first dance (coming from a family of musicians, “Can You Feel The Love Tonight” was not going to fly). At 44

some point that evening, amongst many cocktails and courses, it was decided our mission for the weekend would be to find the perfect song for our wedding day. The next morning we arrived at the fairgrounds committed to searching for our song. We quickly lost my percussionist father to the jazz tent, where he stationed himself in an aisle seat and tapped out time on his knee-caps. My mother – Sicilian by descent and disposition – is stubborn in her love for salami, so we left her at a Muffulata stand, wondering if we’d ever see her again. Pam and I carried on alone, tent-hopping from Gospel to Zydeco, Cajun to Country – dancing all the while, but never to precisely the right song. We replenished ourselves often, washing down platters of crawfish and oysters with cold Dixie beer. With the afternoon sun fading we danced into the jazz tent - my salami-stoned mother in tow - filled by the magnificence of New Orleans and all that it offered – except for our song. I sat next to my father as a vocalist joined a quartet led by the youngest Marsalis, Jason, on drums. When the band broke into the next number my father began his hand-tapping routine then did a rim-shot off my knee cap just before the vocalist began her first verse: “I can only give you love that lasts forever, and a promise to be near each time you call… And the only heart I’ll own, is yours and yours alone, That’s All, That’s All…” Pam and I danced at our wedding to “That’s All,” our hearts and thoughts still somewhat in New Orleans, as they are now, ten years later. 45

IF HE OR SHE COULD SEE ME NOW Sheryl Eason If he or she could see me now, they would see a woman who is finally at peace with herself, no longer thinking she’s ugly. They would see a woman who is no longer self-conscious about her gray hair—in fact, it’s gray and locked! They would see a woman who no longer has an inferiority complex—when I look in the mirror I can say, “not bad.” They would notice that I now speak my mind; tactfully, but I will say what’s on my mind. They would see a woman who no longer has to have a man in her life to be complete—don’t need it, not looking for it. They would see my maternal side if they observed me with my children of course, but also with my grandchildren. There’s nothing like being a grandmother! They would see that I wear contact lenses—no more eyeglasses on my face all the time. They would see a woman who is proud to be mature (…looking at age sixty next year, wow!). They would see a woman who has survived a breast cancer diagnosis, a woman who elected to have a mastectomy to save her life. They would see a woman who is not defined by her body parts, or the lack thereof. Most importantly, if he or she could see me now as one of God’s disciples, they would have to respect where I’m at spiritually. I like who God has enabled me to become. If you don’t believe me, come to church and observe me ushering; standing in the middle of the aisle, not self-conscious, not feeling inferior, but totally fixed on God. What an awesome place to be. Oh, if he or she could see me now! 46

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. Alice Hyman A man for all seasons, who accomplished and did so much for so many. Yet, I sit in this class instructed to write about Dr. King and my mind is totally blocked. The heating system sounding very much like a ticking clock is a reminder that I only have twenty minutes to complete this piece – well now it’s probably fifteen minutes. I am stuck, lacking my usual swift-pen -to-paper style. Is it because it has all been said about Dr. King – what else is there? No, that’s not quite it. The greats, even the evil well-known are always written about and discussed. Am I too anxious to take a bite out of my buttered bagel and a sip of my daily caffeine fix sitting on the table next to my notebook? Not. Maybe it’s just too emotional a topic for me. I don’t know, perhaps this is so. He’s been gone so many years, but the impact of the untimely demise of this minister, world statesman and ambassador of peace still makes me fill up with sadness. I have decided I will write about what I imagine to be Martin Luther King, Jr’s. after life. Joyous, joyous, joyous to be in the presence of Our Lord and all the heavenly saints and angels with wings shimmering like aurora borealis! Martin having a chat with Jesus – How glorious is this place! My Lord, thank You for receiving and welcoming me. Yet, I am disturbed my Lord. I left behind my sweet children, beautiful wife, a host of family, friends, admirers, all of human kind – and I was hoping the world would be kinder, gentler and holier. I 48

am disturbed, my Lord, that your world â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the bright warm sun, the spectacular blue skies, the once bountiful green seas and your children are dimming, graying and disappearing. I who saw the mountain top, and forgive me Lord for my arrogance, I who made the supreme sacrifice, am disturbed by the turmoil in which my brothers and sisters are entrenched â&#x20AC;&#x201C; disrespecting, hating, disregarding each other. Sweet Jesus! Folk doing wrong to those less fortunate and different - evoking your name in the same breath. I am in such a blissful state and I am so grateful, yet I feel pain. I am with You and yet peace eludes me. Lord, I know You are all powerful! I wish to rest in peace, as promised! I wish a rest undisturbed so, my God, I beg You in all your glory to allow human kind to embrace your word in love and peace, and make the dream come trueâ&#x20AC;Ś

AUGUST Jean Nelson Oh, the lazy days of summer. What shall I do today? I could go out for a walk â&#x20AC;&#x201C; no, too hot. Or I could get on my exercise bike, but, you know, I looked in the mirror the other day and I thought I looked pretty good. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need that. Hey, I forgot I have matinee tickets to see a Broadway show! But I 50

have a problem because I wanted to see an episode of General Hospital that I missed. You know General Hospital is really hot these days, especially those stormy love scenes. Well, I’ll have to see it later on Soapnet. So, off I went with two friends to see Drumstruck, a musical out of Africa that is an explosion of joy. This is a very unique show because of audience participation, and when you come into the theatre there is a two-foot drum on every seat. The experience of drumming and singing along gives you the feeling of being in an African village. Now, you know what they say about all of us having rhythm? Wrong. I don’t have an ounce of rhythm, and I don’t know what happened. I think when rhythm was being passed out I must have been hiding in the kitchen. Now check this out: when I started to bang on that drum I was in perfect rhythm with everyone else! What happened? I must have been caught up in the moment. Now I can’t get Drumstruck out of my head! I can still hear the drumming. Now you know I don’t have a drum at home, but sometimes when I get caught up in the moment, in the Drumstruck rhythm, I start banging on the dining room table…slowly at first, then a little faster, then faster and faster, louder and louder and louder! Oh my Goodness! What am I doing? The neighbors must think I have just lost it!

GENTRIFICATION Jacqueline Murray I have lived in this Brooklyn neighborhood for over thirty years. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve enjoyed its beauty and its history. My daughter and grandson have played in its parks, roamed its streets, marveled at its little mansions, majestic churches and quiet tree lined venues. Now it seems overnight the sounds of hammers, the sight of bulldozers and scaffolds have invaded our quiet space. New faces of every race and hue are appearing. Old factories are being converted to condominiums; high-rise apartments are replacing empty lots and community gardens. Little restaurants and bistros are taking over our sidewalks. Big shots with big money are replacing downtown Brooklyn with little regard for long-time homeowners and small businesses. The rents in some of these apartments are rivaling those of uptown Manhattan. I deeply resent this invasion, and I fear for the future of the poor and the elderly. I fear that some money grabber will take over our spaces, apartments, and to render us homeless. This is a constant fear of mine.

AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMEN Catherine Copney There are so many great African-American women all throughout history it’s hard to pinpoint just one as the greatest. However, in our time, I’ve selected Oprah Winfrey. Why Oprah? Because she has done so much for people regardless of race, creed or color. When Oprah heard of the plight of the people in Africa, she gathered her Angel Troop and traveled there. She visited 16 villages providing necessities to every child. When Hurricane Katrina washed away sections of New Orleans, Oprah was right there lending care and a helping hand. Oprah walked among the people and didn’t turn her nose up at the stench. The police tried to stop her from going in the stadium where so many people were crowded, but Oprah said, “I am a strong Black Woman, and I demand to go inside!” She had to be strong because I probably would have passed out. Oprah also donated millions to help the Katrina victims. There are so many great women who gave their time and cared enough to even risk their own lives to help others. It so happens that Oprah is financially able to do all the things she does for people and does it with an unselfish heart. I am sure Oprah will go down in history with all the great women before her time. Thank you Oprah for being in my lifetime.

SISTERHOOD Sarah Thomas Among black women we are not sisters, but “sistahs.” I don’t know if there is any significant reason for the spelling or pronunciation, with the emphasis being on “tah,” but I will call this piece “Sistahood” anyway. Sistahood is supposed to bring out the best in each sistah. We are united in purpose, in thought, in action. Sistahood means I can rely only on my sistah to keep my secrets, share my dreams and listen to me babble on and on when she would rather be looking at Oprah. She will be there when the bottom of my world falls out, to comfort and encourage. She will never say “I told you so.” She is someone you can trust with your life, your money, and even your man when you’re not around. Sistahood is the coming together of women who enjoy each other’s company, conversation, and lifestyle. Women who encourage each other, teach each other, and, when needed, give unasked for advice—all in the name of love. The fellowship of sistahood is God given; it is not easy to find. The fellowship takes time to develop and most of the time we are too impatient to wait for the process. Once the sistahood is formed, though, it is a joyful relationship we share with each other.

KATRINA Hyacinth M. Graham A gust of wind A drop of rain Combine to make a hurricane Katrina, Katrina Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s legitimate child Of rage Rumbles, roars, swirls, and soars Leaving a wasteland in its wake With cries and screams Leaving bulging eyes And bloated bodies Staring out of a fetid Stagnant stream A floating Holocaust Repeating the middle passage Katreeenaaaaaaaa Maaaaafaaaaaaaa...

I WISHâ&#x20AC;Ś Mavis Brown Wishes are sometimes characterized as dreams and some may call them prayers. I find that there are similarities especially in the area where one can do something to make them come true. Dreams do come true and prayers are sometimes answered. I have several wishes some of them will never materialize no matter how hard I dream. I often wish I was invisible. The world would be my playground. I would learn the secrets held between individuals, between governing bodies of cities and nations. I could manipulate the state of the world affairs by exposing the surreptitious plans of those who wished to do evil deeds to others. I might have been able to avoid the war in Iraq. I wonder, would I be lonely if others could not see me? Will there be other invisible beings as my-

ROSA PARKS Mildred Park Symbol of the Civil Rights movement of the 1960â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, Mrs. Rosa Parks was a quiet lady seamstress working in a department store in Montgomery, Alabama, when an incident changed her and Americaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lives. She had worked as a volunteer for the N.A.A.C.P. for years, had registered to vote, difficult though it was for a Black person in the South. It was no accident that caused the spotlight of history to shine upon her. Years before the same bus driver who told her to move to the back of the bus had done the same thing to her. She vowed not to ride on a bus driven by him but weariness and fate caused them to meet again. This time when told to give up her seat to a white person, she refusedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;an unheard of thing to do in the Jim Crow South. Her refusal was quiet but firm, she was arrested, fined fourteen dollars, but this time her defiance found company. Rev. Martin L. King Jr. led a drive of the Black citizens of Montgomery to no longer ride in the back of buses. For the better part of a year they walked, rode in car pools or whatever way they could to travel to their destinations. Neither heat, cold, rain or snow, taunts of angry whites deterred them, and at the end the example set by Rosa Parks ended discrimination on buses in Montgomery. She died last week and was honored by lying in the Capitol rotunda, the first woman so honored, whether white or black.

ISSUES OF SELF Ruby Ellerbe Scott Self esteem, self confidence, as a matter of fact all of the self words were just that, words, to me until the sixties or early seventies. Of course by this time I was a responsible young country girl making myself known in the unfamiliar land of the Big Apple. In a conflicting world where my undiscovered self issues were the first and last line of defense. Although my sense of self, and as I call them my “self issues,” had not become a part of my everyday thoughts or a part of how I would describe myself, they were there and strongly implanted. Somewhat like the roots of a strong tree or the foundation of a building, holding everything together, but not visible. That was the way of the south and southern upbringing. Living was more important than labels. We were taught and given all the necessary skills to weather the storms of life and very little time was spent on identifying the when, what, how and why. By the way, our education was hands on and daily. My mom never sat me down and talked about pride in the work place; however, I was told everyday as I did my assigned chores, “If you can’t do it right then don’t do it at all.” And I knew better than to even think of the latter. I never had the privilege of attending a workshop on dressing-to-impress, but I can hear my mom’s voice as she sternly spoke the words through my childhood, “Who do you think you are? Straighten up your clothes, you represent this family.” Honesty was not a part of a character education class because my dad never let us forget, “Your word is 63

your bond and a man is to be judged by his word.” My teachers in school didn’t teach Academic Success 101 but they never , and I mean never, accepted anything less than my best. Teachers checked my ears for wax along with my homework. As my parents supported my teachers, my teachers supported my parents. It’s evident now that getting myself together was not only a desire but a mandate. With family, neighbors, teachers—an entire community—watching and guiding you on a daily basis, skills were implanted into the mind like a mad scientist in a sci-fi movie. Like it or not, this was your lot. At the time I didn’t really care for the idea and tried a little rebel action, which didn’t work, but from the seventies until today I say Hallelujah, thank you Jesus for the good old days. I have all of my self issues in places, I love me more than anybody in the world, I have been honored many times for dedication to my work, I am a viable part of my family and the community that I live in, I am recognized as a leader of people, and finally I am a five foot four, proud, black woman that feels six feet tall.

COACHING GEMS Cassandra Gonsalves Looking at the NBA All-Star Game I see a lot of precious gems, floating up and down the court. I’ve coached some gems. OK! They may not be on an allstar team, but they were my gems. Shine gems, shine: Block that shot; Stay in the zone; Hey, what, where, and how are you doing that xxxx stuff! It’s amazing coaching gems - you always remember the ones that shined the brightest. Until, one day, you hear tragedy has struck a gem. You feel sad – real sad – knowing that one gem is not shining anymore. Then you think about all the wonderful things he did on the court, and smile as you look up into the sky. There goes a shooting star - must be one of my gems. 65

A MOTHER’S DAY I SHALL ALWAYS REMEMBER Rose Jones-Wilson It was Mother’s Day, 1992. My husband, daughter and I had come home from attending Church Service at Emmanuel Baptist. I kept straight upstairs to relax in the bedroom while they stopped in the kitchen to put the final touches on the special dinner they were preparing for me. “Good,” I thought, “I’m going to enjoy this.” Yet, there was a nagging feeling in my mind that all was not well. I sat down, closed my eyes, and immediately focused on what was wrong: This was the first time in the forty years I had lived in New York that I was not going to hear my mother’s voice on Mother’s Day. The feeling was overwhelming! I dropped to my knees and began to pray. “Lord, if only I could hear my mother’s voice. Why, Lord, would you allow this to happen to my mother? She is such a good person. Why would you take her memory away? Why would you stricken her with Alzheimer’s to the point she has regressed to the state of infancy?” After I had finished praying, I got up off my knees and called the nursing home in Virginia where Mama was a resident. I reached the floor nurse for her area and shared my feelings with her; she was very sympathetic. Knowing my father would be visiting the nursing home at this time, I asked the nurse if she would call Daddy to the phone, and to have him bring Mama along. When Daddy took the phone, I asked him to put Mama on. Daddy said, “You know your mother cannot speak, and she does not know how to hold a 66

phone.” “Then you hold it to her ear,” I said. “I will do the speaking.” When Daddy did what I asked, and I sensed that Mama was listening, I said, over and over to her, “I love you, Mama. It’s Mother’s Day. I love you.” I am not sure what I expected when I got up off my knees praying to God, or what I expected when I called the nursing home, but I did not expect what happened next: My mother spoke back to me. Her voice was as clear as crystal; healthy, steady, and filled with such emotions! “You don’t have to tell me you love me,” she said. “I knowwwww you love me!” She even chuckled! My mother died on December 16 of that year without ever speaking again. But I could cope because it was well with my soul. God had allowed me to hear her voice once more as I had requested. God had allowed me to see His Sovereignty; that he can do anything He wants. My faith was restored!

LEARNING Ruth G. Smith It was a bright sunny September morning in Summerville, South Carolina, a small town that was given the name Flower Town in the Pines because of its tall pine trees, azaleas, and japonica shrubbery bushes. In the spring time tourists would come from many states to tour the tree lined streets with its tall pines surrounded by the red, pink, yellow and white shrubbery bushes in full bloom. This is where I grew up. It is now September 1941, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so excited and anxious. You see, I got up early this bright sunny morning rearing to go. This was to be a very special day for me. Even though I have a twin brother named James, I did not think of this day being special to him. I had made it my very own day. I dreamt of this day for three years. At the age of three, I wanted to learn to read story books for myself. You guessed it, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my first day of school. Being able to read for myself, I would not have to wait for my sisters to finish their homework to read to me. Remembering how excited and anxious I was looking forward to my first day of school, I tried to instill that same feeling into my children: the love and excitement of learning. As I grew older I continued to love school. I remember special projects to make learning new words easy. I loved when we had the spelling bees. We would get to choose who we wanted on our team. Half of the class would line up on one side of the class and half on the other side. The team that had the most 68

standing at the end of the spelling list was the winner. In my freshman year I was class president. In the home economics class I made clothing that was entered into the state fair in Columbia, South Carolina and won the Blue Ribbon. I became a cheerleader and majorette. School was such a joy I could not wait to get to class to let the teacher hear what I had learned while I was studying my homework. Another joyous time was when it was time for the May Day Festival. This was when we would wrap the Maypole. We would have a big parade through the city with all the floats, the band, cheerleaders and ballplayers. I kept my grades up so that I would be able to participate in all the activities and not be a spectator. To this day, I am still excited about learning.

CELEBRITY Jean Hill My mother told me the celebrity that I know was in the original Porgy & Bess. As a matter of fact, I have known her for sixty years. When I was five, she taught me tap at Ella Gordon Dance Studio. After the studio closed, this teacher opened on 125th Street. I was one of her original students. Years later she moved to the Theresa Towers on Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard. She is still there. There is one person in my life that I consider a celebrity. She’s a marvelous, distinguished black woman who has a dance studio in Harlem. Her name is Ruth Williams, at the age of eighty-nine she can still dance. I call her a celebrity for what she did for us. We as children were taught discipline, self-esteem, and how to enjoy life. We all did not become dancers; however, Ms. Williams can be proud – she has doctors, lawyers, teachers, entertainers, and plain folk like me who came through her studio. My brother also attended. He still dances, and teaches Swing and Latin. I received an award from our alumni show at Aaron Davis Hall for three generations: myself, three daughters and a grandchild. My second daughter taught dance for seventeen years. One of the centers that I attend went to visit the Historical Society. Ms. Williams’ picture was hanging there. I felt so proud to know her. When I saw her I told her, “If I look like you at eighty-nine, I will strut like a peacock!” She looked at me and smiled. She is my inspiration.

SISTERHOOD Alexandra McDaniel Yes, yes, yes sisterhood! I love that word because to me it collectively describes all females. It doesn’t matter your age, your size, the color of your hair, the color of your skin, rich, poor, or whatever. As long as you are female…sisterhood. I learned a long time ago what I just described above. As sisters we have the same values, at least the important things in our lives are: relationships, expressing our feelings, supporting one another, our families - and for me this family relationship consists of my spiritual, as well as my biological family. That is why I joined the Women Ministry… Being together in ideas, loving our similarities and whatever differences. Sharing thoughts, crying together when your hear something another woman talks about that you can relate to or had experienced. I remember crying with other women when one woman talked about something that hurt. Although I never experienced it I cried just on how she presented the issue and the hurt she felt. Other women got up just to hug her and joined in the cry. In sisterhood we do have many of the same issues. Our feelings are very important to us. Can’t you hear us cry? Thank you Lord, You do hear us cry. Thank you sisters, thank you. The word sisterhood itself describes us, sisters with a hood; think of a hood as a support system, something that covers and protects us: God.

THE REVIVAL Peggy Horton Most times I look forward to the revival at church. I view it as a time to be recharged, stirred up, moved or affected on a deeper level in my spiritual life. Sometimes I am moved to stand up and sway, clap my hands to the sweet sounding music of the band and choir. Other times I am suddenly moved to tears. Taking notes is important to me. I don’t want to forget what the preacher just said - the phrase that seems significant, meaningful. Usually, I can only write a few small, incomplete sentences or one or two scriptures because I want to get my “praise on.” I want to feel the Spirit! Sometimes I am touched by something the pastor is saying and suddenly I think of a past deed, usually bad. The thoughts may sound or appear trivial to someone else, but I feel remorseful about it. I say a quick prayer, “Dear Heavenly Father, please forgive me my sins. Please open my heart to your healing grace. Thank you for all my blessings.” I can feel the energy, the sense of expectation that the congregation seems to have. I feel we all need and want many of the same things. We want to connect to God’s spirit in us, around us, and with the people in the church. He is speaking to me, He is speaking to you: He is speaking to all of us. I hear familiar words, scriptures from the Bible, but their meaning is marked more clearly to me. They seem more powerful, and somehow there is so 72

much more to reflect on, to pray about. I wonder if it’s having a dramatic preacher “doing his thing,” that seems to makes me more receptive to the Word. Sadness and worries overcome me. Doubts and fears come to the surface. Questions, questions I ask myself: Can I change? Can I put into action the things in my life I need to be a better person? I pray for guidance from the Lord! I give thanks to God! I pray for God to strengthen my resolve to be what he would have me be.

RAIN Shirley N. Bland Today is October 13, I have many things to do today, mostly my day will be in the rain. Don’t mind the rain. To rain, it’s for a purpose. Plus it’s God’s rain, so let it rain. Sorry to say one of my friends—Mrs. Margaret Oliver—is being buried in the rain. Today the rain will take away the tracks of her life. Let it rain, let it rain on me, too. Thank God for the lovely rain. We need the rain. Rain, rain, rain. It’s O.K. with me! I won’t complain, I won’t complain.

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