We Live Here

WE LIVE HERE

© 2017 The Felt. All rights revert to authors upon publication.

Editors: Maria G. Baker, Luke Degnan Typesetting & Cover Design: HR Hegnauer A journal of poetry and prose produced by Pratt Institute’s MFA in Writing, The Felt is interested in the creation and cultivation of emancipatory poetic spaces for felt sentiments that have been marginalized, displaced, or estranged from the dominant culture. Like the textile of its namesake, The Felt is an intricate entanglement unlimited in every direction. We strive to publish disobedient and daring work that invites departure, resistance, engagement, and the collaborative, tender-hearted making of new knowledge. in/extension: a new Pratt publication project in cooperation with The Felt • Means to create space for thinkers, feelers, writers beyond campus grounds • Means to intentionally include and ask to be included • Means to collaborate and intersect • Means to create a community book This book has been made possible with support from the Graduate Student Engagement Fund of Pratt Institute.

The Felt Pratt MFA in Writing Dekalb Hall 200 Willoughby Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11205 www.thefelt.org ISBN: 978-0-9975065-1-8

WE LIVE HERE in/extension

P r at t I n s t i t u t e

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This book has been made possible with support from the Graduate Student Engagement Fund of Pratt Institute.

in/extension Is a new Pratt publication project in cooperation with The Felt.

• M eans to create space for thinkers, feelers, writers beyond campus grounds • Means to intentionally include and ask to be included • Means to collaborate and intersect • Means to create a community book

in/extension 1: We live here How much of what was lingers below and beyond the present moment and its structures is no longer visible, but nonetheless continues to exist in the memories of many older denizens? What is it like to carry 30, 40, 60+ years of local living experience? To survive the good and bad times? To have an intensely personal attachment to street-corners, shops, and blocks, and to watch them dissolve and reassemble anew—over and over again?

This is a collection of notes, memories, stories, poems, and photographs meant to give readable texture to the experiences of some of the campus’ older neighbors. Developed through 10 months of group writing workshops, this book is a testament to the featured women’s past, presence and future, their lives in this neighborhood.

Like layers of paint visible on a demolished wall, the book aims to reveal the present moment beyond its latest gloss. i

A Note from the Myrtle Av e n u e B r o o k ly n P a r t n e r s h ip

The Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership received our official designation as an Age-Friendly Neighborhood in July 2015 from the New York City Council and with the help of the New York Academy of Medicine. This, after many surveys, focus groups, research and meetings the organization conducted with local seniors to lay the groundwork for its senior-friendly work.

In addition to addressing concerns by seniors around the need for streetscape improvements, local store discounts and specials, better local store design, and neighborhood safety, we are tasked with sharing opportunities with local seniors to hone or grow new skills as is also their strong expressed desire.

We could not be more overjoyed for this partnership between the seniors from our age-friendly program with Pratt Institute’s Graduate Writing Program.

Our great hope is to make Myrtle Avenue a welcoming, dynamic and interesting place to all, regardless of age. But we’re indeed a special place because of all, the young and old, who make Myrtle Avenue what it is.

Hopefully, our work will serve as a model for other business improvement districts looking to better engage their older adult

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neighbors. We have a responsibility to keep the needs of local seniors on our radar, in order to best serve the whole community.

Big congratulations to Maria Baker and our Senior Advisory Council members for this first wonderful book. —Jennifer Stokes Deputy Director, Partnerships & Programs Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership MARP LDC / Myrtle Ave Brooklyn BID

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Editor’s Note The Beginning of This Book

This book began with a yearlong collaboration between the Pratt Writing MFA and Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership/Agefriendly Myrtle Avenue. As part of the Writing MFA’s fieldwork component, I chose to work with this neighborhood organization focused on building community for and with senior citizens.

After speaking with Jennifer Stokes and Shaquana Boykin of Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership about how a writing person could best serve and complement their mission, we decided to offer a regular writing workshop. Overall about 20 seniors took advantage of the offering, but pretty soon a core-group of six women crystallized. Others would drop in occasionally, whenever their schedules and their bodies allowed for it, still others would join us for a season while other activities were on hiatus. The six women at the core of the workshop group committed to contributing their writing to We Live Here.

The Workshop

For one year we met twice a month on the Pratt Campus, in the library, to write together. The first time we met in June of 2016, the last time in May of 2017. We gathered around a

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large table (most often) in the Alumni Reading Room, opened our spiral notebooks and uncapped our pens. Usually we began with a prompt for a list. Then we moved on to prompts based on images, sounds, smells, objects, phrases or memories. We wrote on three different topics per session and between exercises we read to each other what we had put on our wide ruled pages. We listened to each other and reflected on what we heard, laughed and gasped at the similarities and the differences. We did not review the writing we produced in class to mold it into essays, easily digestible memoir, structured poetry or short stories. The shape of what we wrote kept the shape of our thoughts. What we wrote reflected the inner landscape of that moment for us and often surprised us by eliciting memories we might have thought too deeply buried, told us about our preoccupations, pointed out our communalities and our differences. Sometimes, when some of us felt like adding a bit more or refining a piece that began in the workshop, we did so by ourselves between meetings. But for the most part, what is collected in this book are excerpts of what happened the way it happened the day it happened.

Our Year Together

We’ve been with each other and our notebooks before and after the presidential election of 2016, throughout the construction of the pedestrian zone/strip on Myrtle Avenue (this one has

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outlasted our group) and through a very ill-tempered year, weather-wise. We’ve sat in air-conditioned and in heated rooms.

We’ve written in the basement and on the third floor of the Library, in the Alumni Reading Room and in the former Women Writers of Color Reading Room. Twice the elevator went out and made things difficult for those using canes and walkers. Once it took one of the women, with the help of very friendly library staff, 45 minutes to come down from the third floor. A few times we went to the diner and had lunch together. We talked about things we did not write about and laughed a lot. Sometimes at the diner I couldn’t help myself and said, ”I hope you will write about that.” The answer was often a polite smile. And sometimes, a couple of weeks later, the person did write about it. Other times, it was better left unwritten.

The six women represented in the book have been connected to the group for the duration of its existence. Continually— although not necessarily regularly. I see this book as a testament to a year in their lives, to the memories and routines that accompanied each one of them through the year. A portrait of self composed of small chapters on days of heat, rain, snow and cold. A portrait crossing into past and future while encompassing the present. When you see one of the women crossing through the Pratt Campus (as some of them do regularly), or waiting at a corner for a taxi or Access-A-Ride, this text might be the long heading and the long subtitle, this text might point you to all that’s not so easily visible.

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R o b e r t a , J o a n , Mi l d r e d , E l e a n o r , C a r r i e , a n d Pau l a J ay

During our first meeting, I remember asking “how long have you lived in this neighborhood?” And the answers ranged from “30 years” to “60 years” to “all my life.” (When you hold this book in your hand, the women who created its contents range in age from 70-90. Which means that “all my life” encompasses the accumulated wisdom of more than three generations.)

I had to confess that I am new here. Not new to the city, but new to this neighborhood, new to Pratt, new to their turf.

The only neighborhood I know here is the current one. I know Myrtle Avenue as a strip of coffee shops and boutique stores, thriving restaurants and markets, college buildings, fancy new rental houses, a pedestrian zone and Citibike docks. There is, consequently, much I don’t know. About the neighborhood’s history, about life as experienced by its inhabitants, and about America’s true limits and possibilities (beyond those apparent in its branding). So considering my relative lack of temporal and local knowledge, I am eager to turn the pages over to these longtime denizens of Clinton Hill. But before I do, I want to thank them for their engagement, their trust, their tenacity and their work and I want to add a short memory I have for each of the women, a salient detail that will always connect me to our year together.

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Roberta fought her aching body and Access-a-ride’s fragile reliability many times to make it to class, but arrived most Thursdays, then wrestled through a layer of self-doubt to arrive at clear, courageous and vivid memories and self-assessments.

She often sat next to me, right side, and I liked feeling her determination and focus close by. I liked the sound of her pen on the page. At our last group meeting Roberta gave me a card congratulating me on my graduation. With the card came a small key-chain bible. I treasure it.

Carrie came to every meeting, was often the first one to arrive, and regularly brought flyers and articles pertaining to neighborhood arts events, black history and, sometimes, personal events. I most of all remember two things: a photograph of her late husband as a dashing young man and an article on Kentucky moonshiners.

Carrie told me later that she came to my convocation ceremony at Emmanuel Baptist Church. I had no idea she was there, but I do know that while I was sitting in the pew at that ceremony, I looked at the pipe organ and imagined Carrie playing it because I knew she had.

Joan. I saw Joan crossing through Pratt’s Campus several times and in those moments I liked Pratt the most. To me, it will always be Joan who made the Campus feel part of a neighborhood (as opposed to an enclave). Joan crosses it not to marvel, not with a sense of awe or transgression, but because it is a shortcut to

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DeKalb! I came to know that Joan remembers and writes along sensorial impressions. Often, for Joan specifically, I thought of prompts based on sounds and images. When I suggested “the sound of ice in a glass” as a writing prompt, I did it because I hoped she would choose it, and I am glad she did.

Eleanor always brought a sense of cosmopolitan urgency to the group. Eleanor is a traveler. And even when she is not traveling there is a sense of being joyfully oriented toward the next destination. A moment I remember most vividly with Eleanor: During one of our last meetings she came late and distraught with loose paper. She thought she had lost her spiral notebook. She had a theory of how the notebook might have accidentally ended up in the trash. It was a good and devastating theory. She wrote it on her loose pages. We all arrived at believing the book was gone. A day later she left me a voice message letting me know, with the enthusiasm of a lottery-winner, that she had found the notebook. Unharmed!

Mildred came to her first workshop when we still met at the WWOC (Women Writers’ of Color Reading Room, founded

by Mahogany L. Browne). Mildred quizzed me about what the WWOC was and what it did and then asked if there was a way to donate one’s own archive of relevant literature to the WWOC, because eventually, i.e. posthumously, it would need a good home. Mildred’s directness and her sense of humor about

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mortality, aging, and possessions made it possible for all of us to confront difficult subjects with more courage.

Paula Jay. I have seen her flirt expertly with the kids working at Pratt Library and they, in turn, blush and smile and hold doors open for her and assist her travels through the building. I have seen her carry cups and a bottle of wine in her cart to share with her friends should an impromptu occasion arise. I have seen and heard Paula Jay play the Baby Grand Piano and sing. A glorious improvisation. And I will never forget it.

Thank you, Roberta, Carrie, Joan, Eleanor, Mildred, and Paula Jay. —Maria G. Baker, June 2017

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contents

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J oa n O ’ B rya n

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Dr. Eleanor Cyrus

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Mi l d r e d P a r k

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C a r r i e S t e wa rt

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Pau l a J ay M

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Roberta Mc B r i d e - R o bi n s o n

La Paloma I was raised in the downtown section of Brooklyn on Myrtle Avenue. The building number was 226. That building and all the other buildings are no longer there.The entire block of homes and stores is completely gone. The neighborhood is unrecognizable to everyone who used to live here.

Around the corner from my building, there used to be a famous Italian restaurant named La Paloma. This place was so special; it was only open on the weekends. You would know La Paloma was open because of the aromas that floated through the air during those days.

Because of La Paloma, the shiny black limousines that crowded the streets were numerous. My friends and I used to sneak around the cars to watch the ladies in their fancy clothes exit the limousines and enter the restaurant. Police stood around to protect the diners.

On Fridays, I was often called on by my teachers to go to La Paloma to pick up lunch for some of them. I was given a white envelope with money in it. I was to take it to the restaurant and hand it over in exchange for the teachers’ lunch.

I would enter the fancy restaurant give the envelope to one of the men in the black suits. And he would take me into the largest kitchen I had ever seen.

I stood in one spot off to the side and out of the workers’ way. All around me the men seemed to skate effortlessly back

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and forth fixing, chopping, and cooking. The aromas of strange looking foods would make your stomach growl in hunger, even if you didn’t know what foods exactly prompted these feelings.

When the luncheon I had come for was ready, I was given a large white shopping bag filled with foods, which I took back to the school for the teachers’ enjoyment. On my way back to school, I thought about cats following me. I feared that they would smell the food and try to get a piece of it. Traffic, too, made my trip scary. I had to cross Navy Street and then Myrtle Avenue with my big bag of delicacies and both of those were busy two-way streets. I was always worried that I’d send my teachers’ lunch flying trying to get out of the way of a speeding car. But, in the end, I always delivered the food safely, and I was very proud to have been trusted with the responsibility to carry money and food.

The Grand Menu As a young adult I learned how to cook. There was no one to teach me so I taught myself by tasting as I went along. I wanted the food to taste good, and I thought if I liked the dish, everyone else should also.

After I got married, I watched my mother-in-law closely. She baked breads and cakes and her experience came from working in a restaurant. By watching her, I learned how to bake cakes

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without a recipe. My children especially liked the warm pound cake served with cold milk.

And as my children and I grew older, I perfected cooking pies, especially sweet potato pie.

Every holiday the ritual became going to mom’s (my) house for dinner. The recipes stayed mainly the same throughout the years with slight changes to experiment for the 20 odd visitors.

First: turkey, ham, collard greens, rice and gravy, string beans, candied yams, baked macaroni, yellow turnips, mashed potato, salad, and cornbread stuffing, all cooked separately. I generally started cooking the week before the holiday, since I was also working outside the home during the years of the ritual cooking.

Each person could eat whatever they preferred.

Then followed the dessert course: Sweet potato pies, apple pies, blueberry, and sometimes coconut custard pies, chocolate pies, chocolate cake or coconut cake made with fresh coconuts, which my sons cracked and grated. Ice cream Jell-O with whipped cream and cider to drink.

As the years went by, the family grew to include my four children’s mates and my grandchildren. Friends knew that I cooked and they were always welcome too.

I purchased large bottles of Pepto-Bismol, Alka-Seltzer, and Phillips of Magnesium for the overeaters. And everyone took home care packages filled with leftovers.

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, Brooklyn

It is dark at four o’clock in the morning no matter the season.

I wake with a jolt at 4 AM, without being set off by the alarm clock. My body is conditioned. I go to sleep early, 9 PM or 9:30 PM. I do not wake up during the night as long as the room remains quiet, and I don’t take any bathroom breaks.

When I awake the ritual is the same each day, Monday through Friday. I go to the bathroom and the first thing I do is turn on the hot water tap in the shower. Living on the top floor of four levels, it takes the hot water some time to travel from the basement to my level. Otherwise it remains quiet in my apartment and I go about my routine preparing for the day.

When I look out the window the streets are empty except for an occasional car traveling with its bright lights, illuminating the streets. Soon the daylight begins showing a first glimmer in the East. The sun, very slowly, appears. It is a calming time, a peaceful time. A thoughtful time of what is to come.

By 6 AM my husband has finished his ritual and I have finished mine. We prepare to leave so that my husband can get to work before 8 AM. We talk very little and do not eat breakfast at home, but we get something to eat when we arrive at our respective jobs. We both work in Manhattan and travel from Brooklyn, where we live.

By the time we leave home it is full daylight and the streets are busy with motorists, people walking, and every living thing is moving with a purpose. As the day begins, I relish 4 AM. R o b e r t a Mc B r i d e - R o bi n s o n

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Restless There are certain memories that just won’t quit.

Scenarios that bug the brain. Again and again.

The brain will recall these incidents at the slightest provocation, especially when your body is asleep and the subconscious is free to let loose all things that you try not to think about while you’re awake…

H a l f C e n t u ry M o r n i n g When I was 49 years old I was afraid of turning 50.When I awoke on my 50th birthday, I did not open my eyes as I lay in bed. I mentally checked my body to see if I felt any different than I did when I had gone to sleep the night before. I moved my head, arms, legs, and when all seemed okay, I felt safe enough to get up.

A Secret Revealed During my teenage years I visited the Brooklyn Public Library on a regular basis—about every four to five weeks.

One on occasion I happened to see some tickets on the librarian’s counter. My curiosity got the better of me, so I read one ticket. It was for a free entry to the City Center of Manhattan

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to see an opera. Having been relegated to the movies, I was intrigued to see a live opera. I took a ticket and made plans to go.

On the scheduled day, I dressed up in my best dress and shoes, rode the train, and arrived at City Center for the matinee of Madame Butterfly. I was the only person of color that I could see.

Sitting in the orchestra, I kept my arms close to my side so as not to make anyone uncomfortable, including myself. No one spoke to me and I did not speak to anyone. Standing in line to gain entry was awkward, but sitting all alone was worse. But after a while I became engrossed in the songs, the bright lights, the costumes and the story. The libretto was helpful, since the songs were in Italian. I was mesmerized.

I decided to come back again. And again.

Eventually, I saw the operas Carmen and AIDA at City Center courtesy of free tickets via the Brooklyn Public Library. I also saw a Shakespearean play at the Central Park open-air theater with my Library free tickets. I found Shakespeare’s English language more difficult to follow. Plus I was freezing. The stage was separated from the audience by a small pond and when the sun went down so did the summer heat. But my experiences were unforgettable for a lone teenager of color.

I never discussed this with anyone, because I felt that whomever I told would view me as someone trying to be above everyone else.

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My Name My first name is Roberta. I am the oldest of my father’s children.

My siblings’ names all start with R; there is Robert, Rassie, Rene, Randy, and Ronald. Three mothers are involved, since my father married and divorced his first two wives. It is strange that all wives used “R” for their children’s names.

For some reason when I was very young I found it hard to pronounce my name. I was a shy child and often stayed in the background since I was intimidated by my mother.

I always thought my name was odd. As I grew older, I thought my name was not a common one, like Mary or Barbara. Those names I had heard before. But I had never heard of another Roberta.

I believed that my name belonged to another race. To me, Roberta sounded very much like a white person’s name.

And once, while I was employed, all staff was to attend a reception to honor good work. A program was printed, showing all persons who were being honored.At that time I was responsible for seven Income Support Centers that were being recognized, so my name was listed alongside each Center.The person responsible for planning the big reception to honor good work, making up and printing the programs did not like me and so she omitted the “a” from my name, which changed me to Robert. No one noticed the error. I was not invited to the ceremony, so I didn’t know about the mistake until after I saw the program.

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Moving Slow Slow like a n ill person walking snow falling snow melting grass growing sun rising leaves falling from a tree a caterpillar crawling fire dying out . . . thinking of slow-like things

Ab o u t a P a y p h o n e Many years ago as a child growing up in the downtown section of Brooklyn on Myrtle Avenue, I lived in a four-story walk up apartment building. Each family knew one another and they were all helpful and friendly.

Since I was always home alone when not in school (I had found a haven in the Brooklyn Public Library where I took out many books), I spent my time reading and helping the neighbors. On the third floor there was a middle-aged married couple named Mr. and Mrs. Geddes. They were quiet, hard-working, and mannerly.

They had no children. I learned that they came from the South, but I did not know from which state.

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Sometimes I’d go to the corner Green Grocery store for them to pick a few things. But more importantly, I would help Mrs. Geddes to place a telephone call.

In the corner combination store there was candy, ice cream and newspapers, and the telephone booth. No one had a home telephone during those days. Mrs. Geddes always asked my grandmother if I would help her and the answer would always be “yes.” Mrs. Geddes and I would go to the store together.

I would enter the tall dark brown telephone booth, sit in the little seat and partially close the door. The yellow light in the ceiling would go on and the little fan would begin its rotation to send a soft, cool breeze over the caller. Mrs. Geddes would give me a slip of paper with a telephone number written on it, and she would spread out all of the silver coins for me to start the call. I would drop the appropriate coins in the rounded holes, dial the number on the paper, and then wait for the operator to advise me of the correct amount of money to deposit. Then I would wait for the correct party to say “hello” and finally hand the receiver to Mrs. Geddes. Then we would switch places in the telephone booth.

Mrs. Geddes always thanked me. I was only about eight or nine years old at that time but felt really grown up.

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Wo r d s at H a n d Every day I find things to occupy my mind since I’ve retired. My usual two things are books and crossword puzzles. So I always have books, puzzle-books, or newspapers in my hands as well as several pens.

I find that the puzzles turn my mind to areas that are sometimes unfamiliar to me, so I always keep at hand a Webster, a Roget, and a Dell. These three keep me hopping from one to another to review my spelling (I always get confused with -ent and -ant endings).

No matter how hard I try, there are few puzzles that I complete. So, I always have a fiction book to relieve the stress of the crossword puzzle. I like murder mysteries and books about serial killers. I try to figure out the bad person. I never win.

How I came to be... . . . An Administrative Manager Level III with the City of New York Welfare Department: It began in 1964, when I was hired as a Civil Service Entry Level Grade II clerk. The lowest level they had then.

My four children were all in school, and I had asked my neighbor, who lived downstairs from me, to keep a watchful eye 14

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on my family until I came home from work. Separated from my husband, I had to manage on my own. I realize now that it was God who watched for me and my family.

At work, I rose step-by-step up the clerical line until I became an Office Manager and Administrative Manager Level I. It was later that I went to Brooklyn College on the weekends. I had passed an evaluative test at Brooklyn College to be accepted in a program labeled “Special Baccalaureate Program for Adults.” This program allowed students to earn up to 16 credits per class. I don’t remember exactly how many classes total I had taken at the end of my two year study, but this program made accumulating the 160 credits I needed to graduate easier. I graduated in 1987 and I returned to Brooklyn College for Graduate Studies in 1988.

I advanced to become a center director of a welfare office and rose to the title of Administrative Manager Level II. And finally, in 1992, I became an Administrative Manager Level III. My job title was Field Manager, which meant I spent all my work-time in the field visiting the Centers under my jurisdiction.

All during this period, from 1964 through 1998, when I retired, I also maintained my household, taught myself how to sew clothes, managed my children and, after my mother’s death in 1970, cared for my three brothers. And I tutored at the Brooklyn Library.

A lot was on my plate. Sometimes people are thrown into situations that are sink or swim. I never thought once about sinking. And as Administrative Manager Level III I managed it all.

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J oa n O ’ B rya n

M y Da d dy Wa s A G a n dy Da n c e r My daddy was a Gandy Dancer or at least that was what the article stated underneath the photograph, where he was pictured with his work crew in the monthly NYC transit newspaper. The article praised the men who were building the tracks on the elevated transit lines marveling at the light movement of their feet in order to avoid the electric shock of the third rail. The author described them as moving on their toes like ballet dancers.

I smiled when I read the caption remembering how my mother would take me with her on Fridays to meet my father on his lunch break. We would take the subway to the end of the line and walk up the stairway to the elevated platform. After arriving there, I would see my father drilling the steel bolts into the iron tracks.

Sometimes the steel dust would land on his face shimmering like sprinkles of silver sequence in the afternoon sun. I would delight in seeing these burly looking men in his crew who moved on their tiptoes as though they were dancing to the music of their own private symphony. If the train was coming into the station, they would abruptly stop to signal each other by stepping aside in unison as though they were waiting for their next dance.

At age four, I hated the elevated platform because I could look down and see the street level traffic from opposite sides of the train station. To arrest my fear of falling off the platform, I found my center of gravity by lying flat down on my back while waiting for my mother to collect my father’s paycheck.

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After she had completed her mission, my father would return to his dance floor; my mother would pick me up and haul me down the elevated stairway until we reached the safety of the subway tunnel.

Di s / H a r m o n i e s The list of sounds that I can hear every day depends on my ability to recognize and appreciate them. I can describe these daily sounds as either a harsh cacophony of environmental noise or a concert of neighborhood music that mixes the human voice with the songs of nature.

If I awake and my listening skills are being held hostage by past circumstances and images, then I can only hear disturbing echoes of noise. The wind howls, the rain crashes against the window, and the heat of the sun beats loudly down on a parched sidewalk. Rude drivers honk horns, the siren from the ambulance screeches, and a rowdy passerby yells obscenities to a driver who is angrily blasting rap music from his car radio because he can’t escape gridlock. On days when I only hear noise, I know that I am preoccupied with things I cannot change.

On the mornings when I am fully awake and focused in my present space, I can hear birds chirping while a light breeze rustles the leaves of their tree and the sun softly warms the budding sidewalk garden beneath them. I hear laughing voices speak from

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the solidarity of their relationships forged while drowning out the honking of motor vehicles. The school children run along the sidewalk playing a game of tag that neutralizes the blaring sirens of city ambulances. Usually, there is one off-key voice of a pedestrian who walks by wearing ear phones and singing in a crude, youthful fashion the poignant message of his favorite recording artist. On these blissful mornings I am in awe of the authenticity and majestic quality of rhythm integrated into my surrounding landscape.

T h e Fi r s t TV S e t I remember our first television set and the day it was delivered to our apartment. I was so excited I could barely wait for my father to attach the antenna and plug it in the wall. It was 1952 and I was five years old. Our television set was one of RCA’s black and white Victor Tube models in a polished brown wooden cabinet.

My father had the delivery men place the TV set in front of the living room couch. While he tinkered with the antenna, I ran down the stairs of our apartment building to tell my two best friends Brenda and Carol. Brenda’s parents bought their first TV six months ago and she would invite me down to their apartment on the second floor landing to watch our favorite after-school program which featured Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob Smith, and Clara Bell the clown. I was anxious to return her act of kindness.

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By the time I returned to my family’s apartment with Brenda, Carol, and Brenda’s brother Ronald, my own brother and sister were already sitting in front of the TV watching Looney Tunes Cartoons. We sat down on the floor in front of the TV and joined them laughing uncontrollably at the antics of Bugs Bunny, Tweety Bird, and Daffy Duck. When the cartoons ended, I stretched forward my arm to turn up the volume on the television set; without a moment of hesitation, my big brother reached across me to change the channel to the western cowboy show Happy Trails starring Roy Rogers. I looked over at my friends to see if they were disappointed. They didn’t seem to care about this change in programming since they were adjusting their position so they could have a better view of the set. I seemed to be the only one who was bothered because it was “Howdy Doody Time” and I wanted to see Buffalo Bob Smith and Clara Bell. As much as I wanted my family to own a television, I soon realized that being the youngest member of the family put me at a disadvantage when it came to choosing what we watch on our TV. Although I rarely was able to get my choice when it came to TV shows, it didn’t stop me from watching the shows the other family members chose. My mother liked the Soap Box Operas like Guiding Light or As the World Turns. My father liked quiz shows like What’s My Line, newscast programs and police drama like Dragnet. My brother liked every show with western cowboys and my sister loved cartoons. As a family, we all enjoyed watching our favorite hometown baseball team the Brooklyn Dodgers and The Ed Sullivan Show.

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Every Sunday night Ed Sullivan would host a variety show with the most stellar entertainment. My family would gather around the TV with our dessert of home-made pound cake and canned peaches or fruit cocktail. Watching The Ed Sullivan Show was ritual for most of the families in our apartment building, and if your TV was broken, you were invited to watch the show at your nextdoor neighbor’s apartment. Nobody in our building ever wanted to miss Ed Sullivan’s “really big show,” particularly, since he was the only show host on network television that continuously showcased Negro talent. We saw the established stars like Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, and Lena Horne; there were also newcomers like Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, and The Platters on his show.

In between these network shows, I watched the commercials and sang the lyrics from their jingles and slogans. At age five, I was fascinated by the people in the commercials. They were always neat, well groomed, and white. I would close my eyes and pretend that I was in the commercial eating my favorite Corn Flakes or Rice Krispies and telling other boys and girls that the cold cereals were yummy. Once, I asked my parents why the commercials did not have anyone who looked like me or my friends since we also used their products. Seemingly embarrassed by the question, my mother then stood up and headed towards the kitchen. My father answered saying, “they don’t hire Negroes.” I stopped singing with the commercials as I stared blankly at the television set and the images it projected into our home.

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Toasted Bread

The smell of toasted bread reminds me of being a sick child who was forced to eat burnt Bread The Bread was burned to take away the softness in its nature So, I could hear the agonizing crunch of its final remains being drowned by the Saliva in my mouth Biting down hard, I tore the slice of toast into bits of pieces and only permitted a few burned crumbs to fall from my lips!

While being sick, I learned an inherent lesson about changing the natural condition of Bread When I took out a slice from my toaster, it was hard, dry and brittle crumbling away with every bite.

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A n E m p t y Sp a c e I sit at the group table in a local Starbucks coffee shop, sipping on a hot cup of black coffee and feeling overwhelmed by the mindless chatter streaming in my head. When I look out the window, I can see the rain beating down upon the newly paved sidewalk but this graphic urban scene doesn’t capture my attention. I am absorbed with my own scattered thoughts.

Will this rain ever stop? The forecast didn’t call for rain. I have things to do, people to see and tasks that I have left undone.

I look away searching the room for someone else who shares my plight.

Most of the people around me appear to be preoccupied with their laptops or cell phones. Their eyes are glued upon their screens in a zombie-like trance. I glance across the room to the small cluster of café tables pushed against the wall where I spot a couple engaged in an emotionally charged conversation.

Tears are gathering in the corner of the woman’s eyes as she slowly bows her head. The man sitting across from her appears frustrated by her behavior. His lips are tightly pressed together while he clenches his fists on top of the table. When she shakes her head mouthing the word no, I watch as his shoulders slump under the weight of her decision. His body language brings to mind a soulful tune sung by Luther Ingram, “If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.” Witnessing this couple’s misery makes me feel like an intruder. Embarrassed by my own

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interest in their heartache, I forcibly remove my eyes from this scene.

I turn my attention to another table and notice a woman who is staring straight up at the ceiling while she cuddles her Starbucks coffee cup with both hands. I follow her fixed gaze, only to discover that she is stalking an empty space. Her mahogany etched face remains immobile refusing to blink her large glassy brown eyes. Her graying natural hair is clamped down with a barrette at the back of her head. I can’t help but wonder what has captured her thoughts. I ponder different scenarios that might imprison my thoughts, but then remind myself that I’m a witness not a judge.

I am sitting at a conference table with four other people. There are two females and two males who are addicted to their video screens for the rush of instantaneous feedback from social media or their search engines. I exhale slowly acknowledging that this internet tribe is self-engaged. My eyes drift back to the window and I breathe a long sigh of relief. It has finally stopped raining.

As I stand up to leave my table, a man with a disheveled appearance rushes through the glass door and goes over to the table to where the woman is staring into dead space. He taps her shoulder twice yelling, “Sally get up, we got to go.” I watch as her head slowly falls to the left shoulder pulling her body towards the tile floor. Her hands release the coffee cup spilling the contents across the table while her chair follows her body to the floor. The man is trembling as he kneels down and cradles her head in his arms. He begins to cry as he repeats her name, Sally, Sally, Sally . . .

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I hear myself yelling to the employee behind the counter, “call 911.” I rush over to offer my assistance and I hear another male voice chime in “don’t move her”; I look up to see the man from the entangled love affair. He comes over to take her pulse. One of the members of the internet tribe unplugs himself from his laptop and notices an ambulance parked across the street when he looks out the window. He bolts out the glass door leaving his video game unfinished. He returns with two EMT workers in tow. Immediately, they start trying to revive Sally. As I scan the room, I notice that the other three members of the internet club have detached themselves from their cellphones and laptops and are watching the EMT workers administer CPR. I overhear one of them saying, “let’s stay back here, she may be contagious.”

Within minutes, the threesome pack up their gear and quickly exit the premises. The female partner from the troubled love affair leans over Sally’s body and begins to cry. She whispers in her lover’s hear, “I can’t be found here.” He nods his head and she quietly leaves the coffee shop. l am left standing here with the male partner from the love affair, the young man who interrupted his video game and two Starbuck employees when two NYPD police officers walk in the door.

They police see that the EMT Workers are thoroughly engaged with resuscitating the woman lying on the floor. They walk over to a Starbuck employee and ask her if she knows what happened to the lady on the floor. “I think she fell,” says the employee. Another employee standing next to her quickly

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adds to her statement saying, “I think that man over there pushed her down.” The employee points to the man with the disheveled appearance who is now sitting on the floor hugging his knees and sobbing while calling the name Sally. I speak up. “He didn’t push her down; she toppled over when he tapped her on the shoulder.

I was sitting over there at that conference table and I saw what happened.” The male officer looks at the other people standing in the room for confirmation but nobody else has anything to say.

He turns back to me for my statement. I repeat that the woman fell to the floor.

At this point, the EMT workers remove their equipment from Sally’s body while shaking their heads. “She’s gone and there is nothing else we can do,” says one of the EMT employees.

The female police officer then inquires, “is there any evidence of physical abuse or bruises on her body?” “No,” says the EMT worker. “She appears to have been dead before her body hit the floor. She may have had a heart attack or stroke that killed her while she was sitting at the table. At this point, you will need to wait for the medical examiner to give you a full report on the cause of death.” The female officer then turns to where I am standing with the four people left in the coffee shop and says “do any of you know what the victim was doing before she landed on the floor?” I tell the officer that she, Sally, was staring at the ceiling. “What was she looking at?” asks the officer. “An empty space,” I answer. “How long did you observe the victim staring into empty space,” she inquires. “Prior to your arrival, Officer, I

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would say that I have been here about forty-five minutes and the woman was staring at that space until she fell from the chair.”

“Didn’t you find her behavior alarming?” the officer asks. “Not for this city,” I reply defensively. The female officer rolls her eyes in my direction.

One of the Starbucks employees tells the police that the victim is a regular customer who comes into the shop at least three times a week pulling a shopping cart filled with items of clothing. “She buys one cup of coffee and sits for hours.” “Does she live around here?” asks the male police officer. I am surprised when the man from the compromised love affair answers.

He tells the officer that he knows that Sally Brown lived on Washington Avenue for a number of years taking care of her invalid mother. When the mother died two years ago, she was unable to pay the increase on her monthly rent and the landlord had her evicted from the apartment. The last thing he heard was that she was living in a shelter.

Pointing at the man with the disheveled appearance, the officer inquires; “Does anyone know if this man is related to Sally Brown?” After a long silence, the young man from the video game states that he has seen the homeless man once before begging for quarters in front of the Walgreens Drugstore across the street from the coffee shop. The officer’s female partner sarcastically blurts out, “they’re homeless lovers, they probably met in the shelter.”

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The officer now turns to three of us who are not employees and tells us that we can leave coffee shop. I ask about the grieving homeless man in the corner who is still sitting on the floor rocking his knees and repeating the name Sally. “We can’t release him until we know his identity,” the officer answers.

Reluctantly, we leave and move to the sidewalk outside the shop. “It’s a shame she couldn’t find another apartment,” comments the man from the love affair. “How could she pay for an apartment without a job? Besides, who would hire a homeless, middle age black woman with no skills?” I reply.

The young man from the video game tries to contribute to the conversation by adding that Sally didn’t die alone. “At least she had a companion,” he states. “Sometimes that is not enough,” says the man from the love affair. “Enough?” asks the young man. “To fill an empty space,” I reply. The young man nods his head in acceptance and the three of us wait in silence for them to remove Sally’s body from the café. It seems we take comfort in this small gesture of respect for someone who had once been our neighbor.

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The Sound of Ice in a Glass The sound of ice cubes clinking inside a glass reminds me of summertime and sipping homemade Lemon-aid with a drop of vanilla from a mason jar. I imagine that I am sitting in a park on the wooden bench attached to a picnic table. I brace my back against the table as I lift the glass to my lips my head falls slightly forward so my mouth can embrace the rim on the jar. The ice cools my lips as the sweet, soothing, tangy, lemon-colored drink reaches my taste buds. I drink slowly savoring every sip. I finally place the glass back down on the checkered tablecloth after drinking half the contents of the jar.

The tree over the table dips its branches low providing abundant shade while the summer breeze stirs the leaves to gently caress the top of my head. I reach down and grab a handful of grass hoping to find a four-leaf clover. I let out a childish giggle as my fingers search through the grass in my hand. When I can’t find the clover, I empty the grass back onto the earth beneath my feet. I take off my shoes and stretch my arms towards the heavens and my feet towards the earth. As I close my eyes to enjoy this moment of contentment, I can hear my mother’s voice reciting the opening lines of her favorite morning hymn, “No Other Help.” I bow my head in reverence as I remember the words.

Father, I stretch my hands to Thee, No other help I know If Thou withdraw Thyself from me, Ah!Whither shall I go?

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The Goddess When I glance around the living room at some of the artifacts that I have collected over a period of years, I am flooded with barrage of past memories. Some of these souvenirs are testaments to past vacations while others are keepsakes from deceased relatives. Among my favorite relics of a past adventure is fourteen inch green stone statue of the Goddess Sekhmet. The statue can best be described as having the face and mane of a lion attached to a human body. She wears the sun disk over her head circled by a cobra. In the right hand, she fiercely clutches the long ears of an animal that is braced against her chest. On her left side, her hand holds a weapon. She is fearless of her prey and appears to be ready to slay the beast while exhibiting a serene smile on her face.

Initially, I was disappointed with the purchase of this statue after visiting her temple at the Karnak site in Egypt. I didn’t want a violent image of the Goddess that depicted her as a hunter; I wanted the statue where she holds the Ankh, an ancient Egyptian Cross that symbolizes Life. But the Hunter Goddess was the only statue of Sekhmet left in the shop and so, reluctantly, I bought it. Since that time, I have grown fond of the statue and I have learned to treasure it. What it means to me is that as long as I know I can slay the dragon I am free of the fear it generates within me. This then gives me the motivation to pursue my goals and choose my battles.

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Since 5000 B.C., Sekhmet has been revered as a powerful warrior, hunter, protector, and healer Goddess of ancient Egypt.

This fierce warrior Goddess was worshipped throughout the ancient world and was adopted by other cultures under different names. In Asia Minor, the Middle East and Greece, she was called Artemis; In Rome, she was called Diana.

My first encounter with the Goddess was, as mentioned, in 2002 at her Temple site in Egypt. I met up with her again 2015 in Ephesus, Turkey where she is known as the Goddess Artemis. According to scholars, her original temple site was built sometime in the 6th Century B.C. and was known as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Reportedly built

by Amazons, it was destroyed three times. The final blow was struck by the Christians who burned it down in 401 A.D. after embracing their new religion. As I walked among the ruins, I felt the weight of grief in releasing the past as one moves into an uncertain future.

I followed our guide along a stony path as he pointed out carvings of fish within a circle. These symbols were made by early Christians to communicate the location of their secret meeting places where they could avoid persecution. When I placed my finger down to trace the carving of the fish, it reminded me of a symbol for Pisces which is the last sign in the Zodiac Calendar where one fish swims in the past while the other one swims towards the future. I looked back over my left shoulder at the ruins of the Temple of a Huntress while I continued to follow along the path leading to the Great Fisherman.

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Dr. Eleanor Cyrus

When I think of Myrtle Av e n u e I t h i n k o f . . .

When I think of Myrtle Avenue, I think of the times when I used to party in this club on Myrtle and Prince Avenue. It was a very small club right across the street from Fort Greene Projects. The block, for as far as you could see, was very dark because of the Myrtle Avenue elevated (EL) train.

The club, I can’t remember the name, but when I visited on Saturday nights was full of talented people. The club had dim lights, just enough light to see who was coming and going.

The jukebox played all the latest records, and everyone sang along, as that appeared to be a requirement. Everyone knew the songs. There was one fellow that was there every time I visited.

He would sing all of Al Green’s songs. He sounded so much like him that the people would let him sing alone. It was such a treat.

The song that came on soon after appeared to be the signature song, “Ain’t too Proud to Beg” by The Temptations. Wow. When that song came on, the club exploded. Everyone at the club with their mates tried to express their love through this song, and with the spirit of alcohol it appeared everyone was of one accord. Love was in the air. “Spirit” was in the souls. The world was in a “good place” for everybody.

Saturday nights, by law, the clubs had to close at 3 AM, so the owner would just close the doors with all of us inside. No liquor was sold, but the music played on until the early morning. No one

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wanted to leave. It was so good. Myrtle Avenue was the place to be before the Myrtle Avenue EL train was taken down.

Now the EL is gone you can see all the way down the block.

The climate changed. New buildings are being built, rents are sky high, and mom and pop stores are all gone now. Myrtle Avenue is the new Manhattan.

The End. A new beginning on Myrtle Avenue.

T h e Day I Wa s C h a n g e d I remember the day I was baptized in the Jordan River in Israel.

This was my second time visiting Israel. The first time I visited, I was with 50 or more travel agents. We had a guided tour to take us all over the country. The purpose of this visit was to see everything and then sell it to our clients; it was educational, exciting, and wonderful.

The second time I visited Israel was years later, in 1997. My Church organized this trip. When we stepped off the plane (after a very long ride) the first sign we saw and clearly visible to all who deplaned. “Walk in the footsteps of Jesus.� Wow, what a wakeup call. We toured all areas so that we were able to follow the Bible by the things we had witnessed. We saw where Jesus grew up, where Jesus was crucified; we visited an area called the Beatitudes.

(Beatitudes are sermons from Jesus on the Mount), and where

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Jesus was baptized. We visited the Stations of the Cross. I could feel the presence of Jesus.

When it was time to be baptized in the Jordan River our Pastor baptized our entire large congregation that traveled with him. It was a beautiful ceremony. That day, that hour, that moment when I was submerged under water and came up out of the water . . .

I felt I became a new “ME.” I could see and understand better, and my faith was made stronger than ever before. A change came over me, I felt cleansed. I felt different. I am a different person now than I was before I was baptized. I pray with conviction, knowing that God hears my prayers. I believe “Ask and you shall be given, seek and you shall find, knock and the door will open.”

The End.

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T h e S t o r y o f m y Fi r s t N a m e I was born 79 years ago, the younger of two children. My parents were moviegoers. My sister’s name is Barbara. My father liked the movie star Barbara Stanwick. He thought she was the best.

Our family believed in middle names and Barbara’s middle name is Ann. She was named after the paternal and maternal grandmothers.

I forgot to mention, my mother hated her first and second name, which was Katie Bell. If anyone would call her by those two names together, she would give you a look that could kill. I believe she vowed not to name her children Southern names like Bell, Mae, Lucy, or Lula.

My sister was born December 16th. Her name was accepted without ridicule. Well now, here comes the second child (me).

A year and eight days later, December 24th. My mother was so angry. First for being in the hospital at Christmas and at that time a mother giving birth stayed in the hospital for a week or better. Second, I weighed five pounds and a few ounces. They considered me a preemie, so I had to stay in the hospital until I was six pounds. Third, my mother’s doctor assured her that she was having a boy. She was so elated (happy, happy, happy).

My name was going to be Anthony and maybe the middle name “Jesse,” my father’s first name.

Low and behold, this second child (me) was born on December th 24 , we stayed in hospital for one week at which point I reached

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six pounds. My mother’s doctor came to her bedside and told my mother how happy he was to deliver her second daughter. My mother told the doctor that he had made a mistake, because she had a boy. The doctor said “NO, Mrs. Reid, a healthy baby girl.”

My mother became angry and did not believe the doctor. It took her a while.

Well, then it came down to naming the “baby.” My father was in love with the actress/dancer Eleanor Parker and mother felt Queen Elizabeth’s name had a nice ring to it. So Eleanor Elizabeth was selected.

My mother came from a family of 12 children, seven girls and five boys. My mother’s sisters did not like my name Eleanor Elizabeth. When my mother’s sisters would inquire about “The Baby” my mother would tell them. They, my mother’ sisters, refused to call the baby by name. Over a period of time “The” was dropped and “Baby” remained.

To this day my sister will introduce me to her friends as “this is my sister, Baby.” Many of my cousins did not know my name, my real name. When I was about 18 years old one of my cousins asked me, “Baby what is your real name?” And I told them Eleanor Elizabeth.

When I got married years later, I gave birth to a boy child and to honor my mother named him “Anthony.”

The Beginning.

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Mi l d r e d P a r k

Things I did to get here this morning. August 2016.

As usual I don’t hop out of bed full of vim and vigor. It’s more like a slow dragging of reluctant body parts. I’m glad I made it through the night but why does morning come so much earlier now?

It’s up and into the kitchen to check the time to see if there’s space for another lie-down before starting the day. Now mind you, I’m retired and also off from my usual morning activities.

In July and August it’s my bowl of cereal and early morning TVweather.

Bathe, dress, try to do something with my hair. Get the book and bookmark I want to take to this first class. I’m excited about going to the Pratt Library; I’ve lived across the street for 40 years.

I’m an amateur librarian, a book lover, you name it. Folks call my apartment the museum.

It’s time to leave. It’s humid, but there’s only one block to the Hall Street entrance.

I take the elevator up to the third floor, but no one is there. I go back down to ask at the desk and find out that the group has been moved to the basement. Down on the elevator and now I’m here. Arrived.

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The Entire Map I have lived in Washington, DC, Evington, VA, Harlem and NYC, Wilmington, Delaware, Downtown Brooklyn, Houston Street Lower East side of Manhattan The Bronx New York Ave., Brooklyn St. Johns Pl., Park Slope Maple St., Crown Heights and Lafayette Ave., Clinton Hill in a farm house apartment buildings, brownstones, housing projects, hotels, rental houses, the YWCA and dorms.

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I’ve walked to and from these abodes in heels, penny loafers, sneakers, and sandals.

I’ve also danced in these places, if the music was right.

I moved to my current dwelling in October, 40 years ago.

I’m not planning any more moves.

During a blackout During the blackout over 40 years ago, I was living in Park Slope on St. John’s Place near 7th Avenue. The area I lived in was not blacked out. I was already home from work. A friend who lived in the Bronx couldn’t get home because the subways weren’t running, so she came over to spend the night.

I left her and the lights behind when I crossed Flatbush Embankment and walked over here, to Lafayette, to console a scared friend in 21 St. James Place. Now I think: Why didn’t she leave the dark and come over to my light? It would have been much more sensible. I had food and shelter. But she was frightened and, I guess, I wasn’t.

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40 years later I live in this neighborhood, and she is a therapist in Brooklyn Heights who walks all over the city while I lumber along with my cane, barely leaving the block. We’re still friends.

Archless Feet When I had to take the subway to Manhattan after my job relocated I switched from heels to flats for the commute and noticed some discomfort but it wasn’t my feet. It was my ankles.

Actually my archless feet were causing my ankles to turn in on themselves. It wasn’t until the visit to a podiatrist, who revealed I’ve never had arches but had flat feet, that he measured me for arch supports. He braced one ankle while I said to myself “what’s that supposed to do,” but shortly after I went back and asked him to brace the other one as well, until I got my supports, an ugly pair of orthopedic shoes.

After a few weeks’ adjustment I was able to walk without agony or pain pills daily. I gave my heels away and started wearing these granny shoes, lace-ups, instead. Now, if I can only take off a few more pounds, walking will be pleasurable again!

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On personal expertise I am an expert in procrastination, the art of putting things off until later. There are a few things I am quite skilled at, cooking, knitting, crochet and embroidery, model or dollhouse assembly, but when it comes to house work, tomorrow is my day of choice.

I like the idea of a well-kept home with a place for everything and everything in its place, but it’s just the idea I like, not the actual work it entails. It’s much easier to view beautiful homes in magazines or on the television screen.

It’s a good thing I am not allergic to dust, or I’d have to relocate.

I see it, the dust, but why disturb it? It’s just coming back later.

Mi s s B r y a n t Miss Bryant was my first grade teacher at PS 29 in Wilmington.

Since you had to be six years old to start school in January 1941, I started school in January 1941 instead of September 1940. I was a shy child, never having been away from the family. My dad would look in at me through the glass window in the door. Thanks to Miss Bryant I adjusted.

On the cold morning of February 27th my mother was giving birth to my sister Doris. I was in bed with the measles. I asked that my bed be moved near the window’s single pane, which was leaking cold air. My measles became pneumonia and I went to

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the hospital. It was winter when I went into the hospital and spring when I returned home. My baby sister was already a few months old.

I wasn’t able to return to school until September, but Miss Bryant came to our home weekly and brought my schoolwork so I was able to keep up with my classes and did not have to repeat the semester. Her self-sacrifice was typical of the kind of teachers I had back then. They were single women, whose classrooms where were they helped our parents to raise us.

Hand-Out On my way to the writers group I was looking down at the sidewalk when I saw, what appeared to be a folded one dollar bill.

No one who might have dropped it was around. I picked it up and put it in my coat pocket. I will probably leave it there and if someone asks me for a hand-out, I’ll pass it on.

On phones My disenchantment with cell phones, texting, Twitter has to do with being at someone’s literal beck and call. I grew up without telephones and when we finally got one it was a three-party line.

Using the telephone was for serious occasions, not casual chatting.

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If I had a cell phone, it would be for 911 or other emergencies.

Not for texting while crossing the street or riding the bus and missing ones stop.

I know I should have a cell, since none of my family lives in NY, but as of now I still have only the land phone at home. I do have caller ID that appears on my TV screen. I usually let the machine answer it unless it’s someone I really need to talk to.

I’ll get a cellphone. Someday soon maybe.

Or not.

I have a dead one on my dining table.

Photograph of Myself A few years ago a friend sent me an old photograph of myself, which now floats around between my dining table and the table I spend lots of time at embroidering. I am usually the photographer in the family, preferring to be behind the camera instead of in front of it. And on a recent cruise I avoided most attempts to be photographed by the staff of the ship. I don’t like remembering how I let myself go to seed…

However, this 50-year-old picture of a slim, stylish young woman is one I can be proud of. The date is imprinted on the back: 1964. I’m wearing a black dress, which was my color of choice back then. I’m trim, smiling, probably getting ready to go out for an evening of dancing. Dancing was one of the reasons

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I stayed in shape then. I loved Latin dance, Cha-Cha, especially.

An old photo can remind you of people, places; it can begin a chain of memory. This picture was taken as I was standing in the living room of my then Park Slope apartment in a brownstone on St. John’s Place. The owners were like family to me. My mother, when she visited, would chat on the stairs between landings with them. I learned to make gumbo from Mrs. Robinson, who was from Louisiana.

I think about enlarging and framing this photograph.

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Afterthought to Photograph of Myself I have a steady diet of happiness now that I didn’t have then.

How it is Every day I check my plants in the kitchen window, email, weather, temperature, humidity (what to wear), political news, currently the presidential election, and Olympic results.

• • • I don’t like to spend money on things for the apartment, which is why my furniture is almost as old as I am.

• • • Standing on these ancient legs of mine is trying, so shopping has lost its pleasure. Since I prefer fresh to canned, I do grocery shop every week, but that’s the extent of my shopping.

• • • I prefer _______ (fill in anything) to shopping.

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• • • I gave away all my heels. If your face is all screwed up cause your feet hurt, then you’re not pretty anyway.

• • • My hands can really ache when I first wake up, they reproach me for how busy I keep them all day shopping, doing embroidery, knitting or holding a cane.

• • • My first memory of handholding: I am grasping my father’s thumb with my whole hand.

• • • Please explain to me why men are ashamed to cry.

• • • Adults didn’t tell children why they did things in the olden days.

• • •

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Being my parents’ oldest child has allowed me to watch my siblings, their children and grandchildren grow up. I am the aunt of 100 nieces and nephews in three generations.

Legs and Heart I notice when my legs get reluctant to carry me, my spirit forces them on. I got no other means of transport, so these old legs will have to keep on moving like Old Man River. Those two rainy days we just passed through may be part of the problem. The first one I stayed out of the rain, but yesterday I was out in it. The saying is: the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. In my case: The flesh is tired but, like Pearl Bailey’s song, the heart keeps on pumping. When I am in bed sometimes I can almost hear it, the heart, just like a metronome a musician uses to keep time. Until you run out of time.

R a d i o Dayc a r e It was an early evening in December 1941. We lived on Orange Street in Wilmington, a block away from the Dupont Hotel. We sat across the room facing the radio (like we later gathered in front of a tiny screen television). We kids listened to The Lone Ranger before we went to bed at seven o’clock. Kids couldn’t stay

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up late in our house. Suddenly The Lone Ranger was interrupted by the voice of the announcer. He was introducing the President Franklin D Roosevelt. The message: The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Now, I was seven years old and I didn’t know anything about Japan or the Japanese. I had no idea where or what Pearl Harbor was. All I knew was we couldn’t hear what had happened to the Lone Ranger and Tonto and we would have to go to bed without finding out!

Little did I know the import of the news about Pearl Harbor.

World War II was going on in Europe. Pearl Harbor was our naval base in the Hawaiian area and many planes and sailors were there and now had been destroyed. The US immediately went to war with Japan, Germany, and Italy. And in Delaware factories that were building planes and making ammunition appeared.

Because men went to fight the war, women were employed in these factories. Their children now needed daycare, so a nursery was started. Our mom got a job there along with many other women, and we kids got a home away from home. My brothers were three and two then and my sister was still a baby. We’d all go to work with mom. Three of them in the large perambulator, she and I pushing it. While I went to school she worked in the infant and toddler division, consequently getting paid while raising her children along with others.

I am imagining I’m going to Google and see if Saint Michaels daycare is still open.

(Note: I did Google it and it still exists.)

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Notes on Bread I no longer own a toaster.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been treated to the smell of toasted bread in my own home but it used to be a daily event.

I prefer any type of bread (whole wheat, rice, sourdough, pumpernickel) to plain white, which I consider bland and tasteless unless toasted.

Toasting can give even the least flavored bread some hope.

The smell of fresh-baked bread takes me back to Virginia where we baked bread for every meal.

R e a d i n g a n d Ac t i n g When I was in high school the librarian let me be her assistant.

I loved the Dewey Decimal System of book classification (long since forgotten) and helped students check out books from the archives. The public library was my escape hatch from home.

Knowing my love for the library, my parents would punish me by tearing up my library card. Though $0.10 would get me a new

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one. So the punishment didn’t last. As an adult college student, I planned to become a research librarian but then dropped out.

My apartment resembles a library, and I have to restrain myself from keeping any more books, my weakness. Books ignite my imagination completely.

This love combined with my dressmaking skills, you might come to a party at my house, where I’d be turned into some fantastic harem girl, or whatever exotic thing I could think of. Of course that was before I became old, but I can still remember a Halloween when put on lavender facial make-up, a white streak in my hair, and did not allow myself to speak. I sat opposite one of my best friends for hours. He didn’t recognize me. What great fun pretending to be someone else, completely.

A thought about my cane Maybe I could ride on my cane instead of just leaning on it?

I should try it.

Get ting Caught Many years ago I went to a fashion design school in Manhattan.

I was alone in New York just graduated from high school, no family, no friends, limited social skills. The students were

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interesting, from all over the world, multiethnic, you name it.

Short African-American me became friends with a tall German girl. I can’t say what the attraction was, but we spent our lunch hour together strolling on Broadway. The school was on Sixth Avenue and 44th St. in the theater district of Manhattan. We laughed together a lot.

She also told me that at home her Roman Catholic family hid in the attic like Anne Frank, until they escaped Nazi Germany and fled to the US. One afternoon we cut school to attend a new 3D movie that was advertised. We noticed a photographer taking pictures. As we experienced cyclones and roller coasters, we leaned to the front of our seats, screaming, it was so realistic.

Imagine our surprise when we went to school on Monday and everyone knew where we had been playing hooky. Our picture had ended up in the Sunday New York Times Magazine section. We were famous. Nice girls are only photographed at birth, marriage, and death. We were famous as in infamous.

The picture of us playing hooky from school is also a reminder that the only time I played hooky, I got caught.

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A Crush I Remember When I was ten years old one of my city cousins had a friend who was four years older than me. I would see this cousin in the summer when visiting the city of Louisville, Kentucky where she was one of eight children. As an only child I was fascinated by this larger extended family of cousins. This “cute neighbor� always seemed to visit my cousins when I was there.

He, turns out, he had a crush on me but had to wait for me to grow up. After returning from the US Navy in World War II, our mutual crushes got together. Much later we became Mr. and Mrs. 60 years ago.

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P l a c e s I H a v e Li v e d I have lived in the middle of Kentucky, the Bluegrass state, in which I was born: Williamsburg, Whitley County.

As a teenager I lived in Lincoln Ridge, Shelby County, KY where I went to high school.

For my college years I lived in Frankfort, Franklin County.

From there I went to Ann Arbor, Michigan where I spent four summers on the U of Michigan campus.

Then off to Grambling, Louisiana where I lived for three years on the crowded compound of what is now Grambling University.

My marriage took place and I relocated to Brooklyn, Kings County, New York!

Body My body is not what it used to be! The aches and pains let me know I cannot walk as fast as I did this time last year.

I must get the proper rest/sleep or else my brain will remind me that I stayed up late.

No matter what, the wake up time is the same.

To get a good night sleep one has to get to bed at a decent hour. No more late news, Jimmy Kimmel, or Nightline.

My body lets me know that lifting heavy objects is now a nono. Memories of things that I have lifted in days gone by have to remain memories only.

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As with my parents and grandparents, my body now lets me know when rain is to be expected.

With old age being what it is, I have learned to be grateful for each passing day and to accept whatever lessons I’m learning.

R a d i o Ni g h t When I was too young to realize my family was the only colored family in town with a radio, Joe Louis was boxing. My grandfathers, uncles, and stepfather always had company join them to listen to the big fights.

I’ll always remember the fight celebration when Joe won the World Heavyweight Championship. That night, the male friends had brought their families to listen to the boxing match. The ladies all brought food, snacks, drinks, and desserts. Our East Mill Street address had suddenly turned into the place to be and when Joe Louis knocked out the contender, the whole street went wild. The radio had been moved from the living room to the sidewalk and the volume turned to full blast.

They all stayed to celebrate into the wee small hours of the morning. Children had fallen asleep in all different places in the house. The street was full of excitement over the victory of the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis!

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E v e ry Day S o u n d s Every morning I wake to the sound of the clock radio, which I have set to play inspirational music. This is a good way of getting me prepared for leaving the comfortable spot and starting the day. For over 50 years I have listened to WFME/family radio and at 7 AM the late Dr. Bob Cook says “Good morning radio friends.

How in the world are you?”

Dr. Cook passed away several years ago, but his tapes are as clear as ever and well into the thousands. He always has a great message based on scripture, which gets me off to a good start.

In spring and summer there is the welcome sound of birds in the trees. Almost reminds me of my other-than-city streets as they’re flying from one tree or shrub to the other.

Then comes the sound of schoolchildren on their way to Benjamin Banneker High School. They are very well behaved: not noisy just happy sounds of glad-to-see-each-other while eating from foil-wrapped breakfast on the run.

Within the next half hour the traffic starts—cars, trucks, bikes, motorcycles, and school buses. Horns start honking so it is as if no one woke up before this time. Now is the hour of 8 AM and all of Clinton Avenue is hearing these morning sounds.

Last of all I didn’t mention the sounds from neighbors’ chickens. Yep. There are chickens on Clinton and Vanderbilt Avenue. Just in case someone hasn’t heard all the other sounds I

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mentioned, there are hens cackling and a rooster crowing in the background of all these other sounds.

Birth House I was born 1928 in the home of my grandparents at 439 East Mill Street, Kentucky next to the Cumberland River, which runs right at the back of the property. In this small town, ours is the last black-owned property that has been passed to the fourth generation. It has been my hope to keep it in the family but my son is growing tired of what he calls “babysitting” it.

We tried having college students for tenants. My son said they put him in the role of their fathers. That didn’t work.

A disabled senior and his caregiver were there for a while.

They were offered cheaper city-sponsored housing. Now we’re paying taxes and insurance on an empty house.

My daughter thinks we should try to get it landmarked. A long time ago she heard me talk about it, and I had no idea it had stuck in her mind. My son and my daughter were both so impressed by the tour of the Mohammed Ali House and the Whitney Young, Jr. Home that they see this as a possibility.

The Historical and Genealogical Society and the library have very little information on Black History. My children see the house as a possible center for the preservation of history, which may have been overlooked and or lost. Most of the descendants

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of Free Persons of Color are listed as Mulatto and therefore could not own property. Our house was purchased by my grandparents seven years before the Great Depression and we hope to keep it in the family!

The landmark request is in but we are still waiting to hear.

Ap r i l 2 0 , W o r r i e s My first grandson who’s living in Sydney Australia is on my mind today. He loves working/living there and has adjusted very well.

When I heard Australia mentioned on the subject of missiles testing Indian Ocean and President Trump in the same paragraph, my concern grew. What if? Don’t linger on it.

Another thing on my mind today is my son who broadcasts on the community-based station in Knox, Tennessee. He plays music for five hours and comments on current events. Since he’s living alone and is on the state line dividing Kentucky and Tennessee, I do think about him driving 75 miles each way, alone. He speaks a lot!

Ru m b l e S e at My aunt Carrie had just bought a new V8 Ford, which had a “rumble seat.” She was not married and was making history as a

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young, working woman who had bought a “brand-new car.”

She and uncle Willie were dating and would often take me along for a ride. Mother was not fond of this whole idea, since Carrie let uncle Willie drive sometimes and he drove very fast.

The new car smelled so good!

One day I got the idea that if I climbed into the rumble seat and closed it, they wouldn’t know where to find me. I wasn’t looking to go for a ride—just playing to see if I could hide in the rumble seat. Well, when mother came home from work and no one knew where I was, there was great alarm in the family household.

The car pulled out of the driveway and off they went to look for me. No one had seen me or knew of my whereabouts.

After what seemed like hours, but it was really only several minutes, I finally made enough noise, banging, for them to hear me. Everyone was so relieved that no harm had come to me there was no punishment. They all just laughed it off and promised to always check the rumble seat. Happy ending!

From that day on, they always checked to see exactly where the little girl is when she’s playing alone with dolls and toys, coming along for rides, or using the swing in the side yard.

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M y F r i e n d M at t i e M a e C u n n i n g h a m S u m m e rv i l l e I met Mattie when we were in the 10th grade. We were both from small, segregated towns in Kentucky. My hometown school stopped at the eighth grade for black children, but Mattie’s hometown of Lawrenceburg provided two years of high school for children of color.

After that we were sent to a state-supported boarding school.

Mattie and I were roommates in high school, college, and graduate school. We were graduates in 1946. We both had to write our own speeches and both got many compliments. In college we chose different majors. She was an English and speech major and I chose business and music. We were in the same sorority but not at the same time. After graduating I was working, and during her initiation she had to write so many letters to me, her big sister . . . and that took its toll on me. We had been equals for such a long time, and now she had to address me as “Most Worthy Superior.”

Then we both attended graduate school on the huge campus of U of Michigan. Neither one of us had had ever been that far away from home. She enjoyed summer school for four years. Our friends and associates were mostly foreign students.

We were in each other’s weddings. Summerville’s 1955; Stewart’s in 1956.

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In 2009 Mattie celebrated her 80th birthday. Her husband asked me to come to Orlando, FL for the celebration, which I did. That was great fun.

A few years after her 80th birthday, Mattie joined the ancestors. I miss my best friend.

Ap r i l R a i n When it rains I think of how many plans have to be changed.

Weather does not permit going out without a raincoat umbrella and perhaps even waterproof footwear. Today the prediction indicated flooding. For those persons who had planned to hang laundry outside, missing that entailed an alternative to bringing that sweet smell of sun-dried laundry into the house.

When it rains in April I think of the rhyme “April showers bring May flowers.� However, this April 2017 the May flowers have already bloomed. The last two months have had plants and people confused. Warm one day, cold the next. Rain one day, then snow.

When it rains I just feel like crawling back into bed and taking an extra nap or two. I like to listen to the raindrops hit the skylights and the roof. The trees seem to welcome the spring rain and many are now breaking into flowers, which gives us the assurance that maybe spring has really come this time.

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A Group of Friends Dorothy, Mattie, Jaquetta, and I were friends in college. A few years ago, we decided to meet in Detroit for Thanksgiving. Some of us had not seen each other since we were in college in the 1950s and now we were in our 70s. Dot came from Florida, Mattie lived in another city in Michigan, and I flew from here.

When asked how we would recognize each other after over 50 years, the descriptions were very interesting. Dorothy had told her children who were meeting me at the airport, “Look for a short woman who may be mistaken for a little old Jewish lady” (don’t know how she came up with that).

When our car drove up to the hotel where we were staying, out walked Mrs. Dorothy Cole in stonewashed jeans and denim jacket, looking like a teenager.

Mattie, who had been my high school and college buddy, was dressed like the middle-aged school marm, which she had been for over 40 years.

None of us knew of each other’s health status.This was a grand reunion of four elderly women who had a great time.

We did not know Jaquetta was terminally ill and this meeting was one of her wishes.

Six months later she was gone.

We choose to remember her as she was on that Thanksgiving and Thanks-sharing day.

Now I alone survive this group of Golden Girls.

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Going Out When leaving the house I always seem to forget something I should have remembered! It’s very important that I have the photo ID, which may have been left in a bag or packet the last time I was out.

Then there is the cellphone to locate: it is upstairs on the nightstand? Downstairs beside the rocking chair? Or in the kitchen where I had taken a call until preparing dinner? After locating these items, comes the search for the keys, then I have to remember to double lock the second door, remember to take the shopping list, remember to leave the answering machine on in case anyone calls, remember to check that the back door is locked, and don’t forget the reduced fare MetroCard.

One has to start the day ahead of schedule to be able to remember all that.

Boxed Lunch During the time of segregation, when passengers on the train were not admitted to the dining car, we took our food and ate it in the coach where we rode. The car was always right next to the engine where the smell of smoke was always present. Our box lunch usually consisted of fried chicken, rolls, a piece of cake and a piece of fresh fruit.

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The first time I ate in the dining car was after the Louisville and Nashville Railroad was forced to open to People of Color.

I was so proud of my children who attracted much attention as they handled the utensils and glasses so well.

Usually, we were standing out as the “tokens” heading south.

Even in the 50s there were still people who would not go to the dining car. There were several who still brought their lunch while traveling. As I took my children to visit their grandparents every summer, they were always happy to share their dining car and sleeping car experience with the younger generation. It was their grandparents, my parents, who also finally had a chance to experience traveling from KY to NY Pullman Class and eating in the dining car.

H a bi t t o Q u i t I have a habit of letting dishes pile up until I get enough to make up a “load” in the dishwasher. This may be a carryover of a public service message not to run the appliance unless you have a load.

Well, I’d like to be able to see the sink empty and all the dishes out of sight.

I have a magnet marked clean/dirty, so it would be a simple matter to put clean dishes away and “store” dirty dishes in the dishwasher until the time for washing came. But . . .

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I was inspired by my daughter on Thanksgiving Day. She loaded the dishwasher several times right up to pots and pans, then sprayed the steel sink and wiped it dry. Watching her, I had a flashback of her grandmother, my mother, who would keep dishes in the sink even if they were rinsed and waiting to go into the dishwasher.

M y F r i e n d M a ry R e e d I met Mary in March, 1958. My son was born in May, 1958.

From that initial getting acquainted we became friends for life.

Everyone used to think we were related. Mary never had children of her own and said she learned a lot from our being together.

From baby-carriage-days through college she, her husband and her nephew Gary Anthony Downs (who she and her husband adopted) were like family. She and her husband were godparents to my fourth child.

We were always together for holidays. The Reeds enjoyed coming to the Stewarts’ home for holiday celebrations. I am the only one left to reflect on these good times of the past. The six Stewarts and three Reeds made one big happy group.

Mary became a member at the church where I belong. She said she had not planned to be there “every time the door opens” as she said I was. As fate would have it, she ended up being far more active than I was.

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Aunt Mini and Uncle Philip, as they were known, were friends for over half a century.

The long ride from Brooklyn to Calverton National Cemetery gave me plenty of time to look back on this long friendship.

M y Li f e i n M u s ic Ours was a musical family. I started lessons from a woman named Edna Foley. I was allowed to leave school an hour early to have time to walk to Mrs. Foley’s house. She would be seated in a high, comfortable chair filled with pillows. As I played the lessons she had assigned, she would keep time with the stick, which she called a “pointer.”

As I progressed through the many Willis Music Books, I had to also pass through a hymnbook. Mrs. Foley kept a box of stars, which she would place on each piece that I played to her satisfaction.

When I was an elementary school student the teacher always had me playing for various occasions. She played, but preferred not to and had me accompany groups, solos etc. At my graduation she hated to see me go, as she had to go back to playing which she did not like to do. In high school I was always playing for occasions. The music teacher was one of my favorite teachers.

Among the honors I received that graduation was the Tella Marie Cole Music Award.

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In college I played the bell lyre in the marching band and also piano and a Hammond organ.

So over 60 years later, Emmanuel Baptist Church included me in the honor program at the end of Black History month. I played the pipe organ while they showed a video of my early years.

I am very humbled by this recognition.

On Strength When I was much younger I used to hear mother say, “I sure hope when I get old I won’t be like Mamma.” After living to be 96 years of age, she ended up being just like her mother.

When I was 48, one of my children died at the age of 16. In addition to advice from my mother that I had to stay strong for my other three children, I remembered that grandmother had buried three of eight. Her advice and words of wisdom kept me through that period. From 1976 to 1983 I kept to all the things both of these strong women had taught me. But in 1983 I had to lose the second of my four children. Mother who had now become just like her mother in many ways helped to keep me together for the rest of her days. Now that my daughter is “in charge” I can see so much of this intergenerational strong woman in her. I hear her say some of the same things that came down through the four generations before her.

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Photographs My grandmother had a picture of her children, which is now in my possession.

She had left instructions, because she had to go to work. The photographer came to the house. Of eight children, four boys and four girls, only the four girls are in this picture. The oldest is holding the youngest on her lap the two others are standing on each side of her.

The brothers were hiding until this photo session ended.

Date of photograph: 1910 I have plans to make a collage of my great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, me, and my daughter. Five generations of women: 1853, 1881, 1906, 1928, 1961

DNA A few weeks ago I met Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. at the Brooklyn Historical Society.

I had followed his genealogy presentations, which I have enjoyed and from which I’ve learned a great deal. I wrote a letter to the Harvard Professor concerning doing genealogical lookups for ordinary, everyday people like me and the person who was with me, Mildred Park. Obviously, the world is not made up of

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black and white people. This fact has become more and more noticeable lately. For instance, my family was listed as Mulatto and/or Free Persons of Color. Somewhere after that fourth generation records are missing, were destroyed and/or several other excuses, reasons etc.

Professor Gates said, “Don’t give up on me. Soon there will be genealogy lottery and people like you and me will be featured to find our true beginnings.”

America has had a mulatto president for two terms. It’s time that we Come Out, be recognized and know who we really are. Does the term “Mulatto” keep us from our tracing DNA, our Native American culture and whatever else we may have in our mix?

Pool Party In 1997 I told my daughter that since I had never had a swimming pool, I’d like to have a pool party at her home. The answer was, “sure why not?”

I bought conservative trunks for my husband but he did not wear them. Since he wouldn’t go in, none of the old men went in either. Turns out it was about eight old women in swim suits (no bikinis!). We had such a good time. Some swam, some floated, some sat on the side and just put their feet in.

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However, there was one lady who we named “Esther Williams.”

This one stole the show. While we were on the “kiddie pool side,” this one was in the deep end, swimming and floating on her back.

Since these were my church friends, they ranged in age from my daughter’s age to 90.

We all brought pictures of ourselves in bathing suits when we were young. Some told stories of the suits they were wearing in the pictures. One had bought hers at Lord and Taylor. She, by the way, just recently celebrated her 103rd birthday.

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Pau l a J ay M

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Me Aries – 1st sign Me – Paula – Paulette – Pauline The Queen – The Matriarch The Head of Family The Nurturer The Supporter The Motivator “By any means necessary” The Christian. I try to follow the teachings of My Lord and Savior JESUS CHRIST But I know that I (like most) have fallen short of The Glory of God. “All we like sheep have gone Astray but the Glory of God is Jesus Christ.”

“Do unto others as you would Have others do unto you.”

I am (too) generous to a Fault.

I have been Told sometimes That my generosity Is a weakness That others might

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Take advantage Or demand privileges But: “Do unto others as you would Have others do unto you.”

Numerologies I On July 31, 2016, my Daddy would have been 96 years old.

He was a tall, beautiful Black Man, near 6’2” (Mother was only 5’2”).

He loved my mother to death. He was always teasing her, trying to steal a kiss from her, hugging her in front of us—their 4 war babies.

Then we all had to marvel at his joy when our baby brother Jonathan was born 11 years and a day after our baby sister. June 17, 1964 and June 16, 1953. That means we moved into a larger apartment in the housing projects in September of 1952. I always thought it was 1953, because that’s when Leslie was born. But it was 1952.

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Alpha He walks around saying “I am an alpha male. I am an alpha male.”

I say, “What is this? Alpha male? What is an alpha male?” I look it up. I look up the definition. Alpha male. I read it . . . and: That’s me. That’s me. I am the alpha. Alpha female.

Numerologies II I just met this woman. She’s 69, born in 1947 (June 25), like me.

She has three sons 47, 40, 29 who are with her right now.

Son 47 is married, the others not.

Son 40 is not married.

Son 29 is not married.

My older son is going to be 47. He’s married with 3 children.

My second son is 42. He’s married too.

My 2 daughters, age 38 and 33, are not married.Yet.

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T o day ’ s I n v e n t o ry o f S e l f Today I’m pretty normal. My mood is stabilized. I took my meds.

All of them, except for the Lasix which is for the water buildup in my legs. I took my meds for bipolar manic depression. I think I reached the correct level. These psychotropic meds control the brain chemicals. Sometimes, when I am clinically depressed, I feel like I just want to die. The pain is so fierce.

That’s why people kill themselves or want to be euthanized.

Maybe they were just sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Maybe the job requirements were too overwhelming. Maybe other people expected too much of them and they just couldn’t disappoint them. Maybe the pain of not being there for their loved ones was more than they could bear. Maybe someone hurt their feelings and they couldn’t figure out why, after all they did for them. Maybe the kids didn’t love them like they loved their kids. Maybe they were heartbroken. Maybe their spouse got on their nerves. And the 70” TV was too loud . . .

Maybe the spouse, too, was sick and tired of being sick and tired and had to hurt you back to feel better about himself.

Maybe you had far too many moods, had far too many friends and acquaintances and were always throwing parties.

Maybe you were a shopaholic and you didn’t want to be cured.

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D a d d y ’ s Gi r l A Daddy’s girl is a female that can get Daddy to do whatever she wants him to do, can manipulate, can cry, can get him to buy whatever she wants him to buy.

She can touch Daddy’s arm ever so gently, tenderly, and she can look wistfully into Daddy’s big brown eyes and tell him how much she loves him.

Because it is true.

I was a Daddy’s girl all my life. The prettiest, the smartest, and the kindest.

In my Daddy’s eyes.

My Name My name is Paula Jay McCalla and I am brilliant. And it hurts so much, because “it’s not easy being green.” Kermit the Frog was so sad when he sang that melodious dirge. As if he were about to give up, but kept on going. I have to laugh to keep from crying. When I was a little girl my nickname was CRYBABY.

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Early November, 2016 One thing I look forward to today Is sharing love hope peace and joy The message is—It’s time for a

WOMAN IN THE WHITE HOUSE WOMEN IT’S OUR TIME NOW MEN GET WITH PROGRAM.

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S low, To o S low When are we gonna have some justice?

When are we gonna have some peace?

You tell me, go slow. Go slow.

But that’s just the trouble—too slow. (Nina Simone) they took our land killed my people raped our women tried to erase our culture took my language erased me, my people destroyed me, my people killed my brothers, my mother and our oneness, too disrespected our burial grounds trampled our desires, our hopes our selves; our love, our peace dashed our sense of worth You tell me, go slow. Go Slow.

But that’s just the trouble—too slow When are we gonna have some justice?

When are we gonna have some peace?

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Childhood Chores • Wash the dishes • S et the table • Wash the pots • Cook the food • Sprinkle and iron the clothes • Watch your baby sister and your little brother. They are just like dolls.

• Phone your grandmother and your godmother • Follow

the sunshine • Vacuum the carpet in the living room • Clean

up the stove at times • Make

your bed • If you make your bed, you lie in it

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Ac k n o w l e d g m e n t s

Pratt MFA in Writing, Christian Hawkey, Andrea Bott, Todd Shalom, Anna Moschovakis, E. Tracy Grinnell, Stephon Lawrence, Phoebe Glick, Pratt Library, Pratt Institute, Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership (especially Jennifer Stokes and Shaquana Boykin), also Amir Parsa, GSEF, and Luke Degnan.

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cover art Front cover art (top left to bottom right): 1. Photo courtesy The Felt, Pratt MFA in Writing 2. Michael Tapp, Snow in Bushwick Brooklyn 3. Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership, Interior Empty 4. Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership, El Platform at Vanderbilt 5. Dirk Be D, Myrtle Avenue 6. Photo courtesy The Felt, Pratt MFA in Writing 7. Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership, Mrytle Elevated Train Map 8. Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership, Corner of Clinton and Myrtle from the El 9. Photo courtesy The Felt, Pratt MFA in Writing 10. Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership, El Platform at Vanderbuilt Back cover art (top to bottom): 1. Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership, Clinton Hill side of Myrtle South Side, 1953 2. Photo courtesy The Felt, Pratt MFA in Writing 3. Michael Tapp, M Train Elevated Construction above Myrtle Avenue

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