I grew up in a large southern family, the oldest of three children, and I've accepted that I'm a teacher, mentor, big brother, and father to many people. I know how to function alone, but sometimes left to my own schemes and thoughts, the world would be a different place.
Why plot world domination or wish for magical powers like Harry Potter or Dr. Bombay from Bewitched? With a wave of my hand and an incantation, I'd rid Africa of its ails, and bring back my dead relatives.
And then I think of what I'd do with magical powers when people piss me off. I've this fantasy role I want to write and perform on screen, the stage wouldn't contain my imagination. I'd play this diabolical character with a shaved head, long black fingernails, pirate's shirt, loose pants for my wand and gadgets, and an obligatory high-collared cape. This character is borne out of frustration and impatient times with people, if only temporary.
For as long as I can remember, I've been in a clan or group. In elementary and junior high, I was a member of the honor roll and performing arts clique. The honor students were given preferential treatment, and pity on other students who weren't as lucky. They were ostracized and cast aside. In some instances, the honor students had better clothes, homes, and parents than the others.
All honor students weren't performers, favoring books and studying over exhibitionism and competition. Some successfully navigated both worlds, while a few fell out of grace in one of the groups. An emerging comedienne's schoolwork began to suffer because she favored making us laugh rather than study.
My two cliques weren't impenetrable, but I know there was a feeling of exclusivity or snobbery within and without. I'm not passing judgment these many years later; just reflecting on where I started and where I want to go.
It was our natural abilities to excel, and we were grouped accordingly. Perhaps some of our parents didn't know what to make of our teachers gushing and fawning over us. There was pressure to always perform on the same scale academically, on stage, or in the glee club. I didn't know it back then, because it wasn't part of our vocabularies, but that was peer pressure.
We competed in the math club, for parts in the school play, for the spiritual or gospel solo, and for the teacher's attention. My kindergarten, second, and fourth grade teachers liked me. There was one teacher's pet in first grade, and I popped her on the knee that she'd hurt over the summer or weekend before. The timing is vague and unimportant in this retelling. I remember being paddled for my aggression.
Well, my mother didn't like my being spanked or paddled by anyone else, and made an appearance at school to inform said teacher of her boundaries. Perhaps that's why she didn't like me? It's funny now, but surely wasn't as I leaned forward to get paddled. I'm trying to remember if I hopped atop a desk.
* * *There's an interesting group dynamic oftentimes seen in the animal kingdom. All groups have an alpha male and female, and must appease the leader to enter the fold, or suffer the consequences. Humans are no different than animals in this regard.
It wasn't until junior high and later than I became an alpha male in the groups I belonged. I wasn't shy in elementary school, but did my best to stay under the radar because my aunt worked in the front office, and would report any infraction to my mother by day's end. Having my aunt at school was a double-edged sword. My mother informed all teachers to allow her to chastise me should I misbehave. I didn't necessarily flaunt this with my first and third grade teachers (my second grade teacher also taught us in the fourth). My fifth grade teacher couldn't stand me! She was very butch and so wanted to pick on me, but knew my aunt would be all over her. She'd punch the boys in either the upper arm or chest when they said or did something she didn't approve of.
Did I relish the fact that she couldn't touch me no matter what I might have done or said? Short answer: Yes!
She was too masculine to be a woman, with her curly chest and chin hair she proudly displayed. The women in my family weren't and aren't girly, but they look feminine. I've never been one to roll around in the dirt, and to her mind that wasn't normal for a boy. We'd return from recess and I'd be still clean. One day, I don't know what got into me, but I made a concerted to get dirty while playing kickball or dodgeball. She was so happy that I was dirty. She beamed like a proud mother. I was normal for a day, but wasn't looking forward to going home. My mother was famous for saying things like, "I send you to school looking decent and you come back looking like a hobo."
It's in groups that we discover who and what we are. Everyone has an integral role to the group's success or failure. Parents and teachers, knowingly and otherwise teach us to be a certain way before we form peer groups. Different personalities are nurtured or ignored according to the adult or peer in charge. I've always been a leader or co-leader in all my groups to date. I was recently profiled in the NY Times Style Section for forming and doing my best to maintain a group.
I have come full circle from the precocious tyke in elementary school who felt invincible because my aunt was in the front office. It takes courage and bravado to form a group, and I'm grateful to my mother and aunt who unknowingly taught me to take risks in life, and not be a weakened gazelle stalked by a predator, waiting to be eaten.
New York City attracts all types of dreamers and thrill seekers. I relocated many years ago in equal parts to flee from my family and carve a new life for myself. I never dreamed I’d be sitting in a urban healthcare community center waiting room for hours on end. I don’t remember spending time in doctor’s offices while growing up in Texas beyond annual physicals. I miss having a private doctor, but life as a freelancer comes with certain restrictions. I had medical coverage with most of my past fulltime jobs. I miss my private doctor who was a seven minute walk from my apartment. I miss his gentle nature and soothing voice. His specialty was cardiology, so I was usually the youngest patient in his waiting room. This used to comfort me because my maternal grandfather died of a heart attack. More than anything else, I miss having my appointment time honored. I recall once or twice having to wait five or ten minutes beyond my scheduled time because a previous patient’s appointment lasted longer than he expected. City and community hospitals require reading material or portable music players, but I’d caution against a personal music player because you might not hear your name being called by the overworked and/or irritable resident or doctor. I’d also suggest not going to the toilet for the same reason. The person swings the door open, yells your name, and if no response, feigns a look of concern and then disappears behind a locked door. It’s these types of urban health centers that might turn some people off doctors and medical care, opting for natural herbs and holistic care. I couldn’t fall asleep last night. I was in bed, but aware of everything in the room. I’m not afraid of needles, doctors, and absolutely not a hypochondriac. My last visit to this unnamed uptown community health facility wasn’t good. I had an abrupt Asian female doctor who I felt lost or never had the desire to serve and treat patients as individuals rather than statistics. No sooner had I arrived today that I was bombarded with outraged and belligerent patients screaming in the waiting room, demanding better service, attentiveness, and prescriptions. I was met with a cacophony of accents, dialects, and wailing babies competing for my attention. It’s now 9:55 a.m., my scheduled appointment was 8:45 a.m. I’ve just returned from a strange interview with a sluggish financial officer who asked my nationality, stared at me in disbelief, and then asked what state I was born. Do Texans look Texan? He looked at me as if he knew me, or perhaps he was trying to focus on something other than his computer monitor. I paid the twenty dollar fee after the determination that I was one of the working poor in New York City. I paid before seeing a doctor – maybe people have bolted without paying. Private care versus public care. 10:05 a.m. Returned from having my blood pressure and temperature checked and weighed. The medical assistant weighed me with my sneakers on. Sneakers or not, I know I’ve gained weight in the last year. My metabolism . . . I no longer can eat anything I want.
There were patients who were there as early as 7 a.m., long before I arrived at 8:40 a.m. who hadn’t seen a doctor by 10 a.m. God save us all. I don’t like how patients are herded like cattle in community clinics. After today’s physical, I will apply for Medicaid, insurance through FreelancersUnion.org and turn up the volume on my fulltime job search. I have to return to my previous private doctor or find a new one if he can longer accommodate me. Healthcare for the uninsured or minimally insured reeks in this city. I’m sure some of the people were insured. Why in the heck did they go to that place?There’s an obvious shortage of doctors working today. This is the condition many metropolitan centers share – the demand outweighs the supply. People accept this mistreatment as par for the course. When names are called, people spring to attention from a seeming stasis or slumber. Who wants to write letters to Congress for medical reform? I’ve only seen three men with stethoscopes calling for patients, and there are about forty people in various stages of reading, eating, and agitation. I’ll do everything in my power to make this my last visit here. Why schedule appointments if they’re not going to be honored?10:35 a.m. Still no doctor belching out my name, as he holds the door ajar with an extended foot. I’m hungry because I’ve not eaten since last night. I’m sleepy and on the brink of getting a refund and going home. I’ve gone to another nearby clinic, but the experience was slightly different. The waiting room was deserted which spooked me, and the admissions staff was more pleasant. The doctor I was assigned seemed unsure of himself and his diagnoses, which was why I didn’t return. I’ll now rule out this place for medical care. It perpetuates most ethnic urban healthcare stereotypes: rude, uncooperative, impatient staff who’d rather gossip among themselves than greet and assist patients. 11:45 a.m. I decided to get a refund and return home for a 1 p.m. meeting. After zigzagging between framed windows and uncooperative customer agents, I finally got the necessary signature, my cash, and headed downtown to the comfort of my apartment.
My mother told me that I almost died of Scarlet Fever when I was three years old. I don't often think of this, only when I sense something or someone in my apartment (see previous entries below).
It is believed that those of us who almost or actually die momentarily and return from the jaws of death, come back with something extra. It is believed that we are sensitive to spirits and the spiritual realm.
I remember as a child my younger brother pulling me into his nightmare to help him fight whoever or whatever pursued him. The next morning at breakfast, we didn't speak of this. We sat silently after locking eyes, confirming: Yes, you were there. My mother and youngest brother didn't witness this exchange.
I don't know if that was the beginning of my being sensitive. It's the first time I experienced something extraordinary.
I later developed the bad habit of reading while walking. There were a few instances of my looking over and up, only to find a front bumper within inches of my knee. Was that further proof of power or gifts I brought back from the other side? Did I repeatedly cheat death or at least serious injuries on the streets of Houston and New York?
I often times know who's calling before I answer the phone. No, I don't have a cell phone or home phone with caller-ID. I pick up vibrations, see faces, en route to the phone.
When I concentrate, I can anticipate, as if there's a dictaphone in my head, what someone is saying. I don't do this often because I don't want to people uneasy around me.
Sometimes I'm able to see into a person's home while speaking on the phone or Internet. I freaked someone out years ago when I described the type and color of pants, the chair, and the lighting in the room. Here, too, I receive vibrations and/or images.
I was able to see into Wolfsong's house in Texas while we chatted online. I saw a bulky wooden table with a slippery surface that a creature would slip and slide across. The table was handmade and shipped overseas by her father. The creature was her cat. I saw plush, thick curtains in this same room. I saw a computer stand or console. I saw her curly locks. I've never physically seen Wolfsong, but I've felt her presence spiritually. She picked and sent me a clear crystal with male energy, wrapped in tissue paper, snug in a little wooden box. I keep the box opened, crystal exposed in my home office. I carry the crystal from time to time in my pants pocket on days when I'm feeling low and at odds with myself. Wolfsong's told me she's seen things through my crystal. She's warned me of things and people here in New York.
I can be skeptical, but there are things that have happened in my life and apartment that I can't explain. I've felt the presence of evil in my bedroom, as it tried to sit on the edge of my bed. I raised my upper body and commanded, "You better get on up outta here!"
I need to decide what I believe and don't, but in the interim, I've a ghost to get rid of.
My mother woke me eighteen minutes earlier than my birth time this morning to sing Happy Birthday as she drove to work in Houston.
I don't feel older today. Should I? My granny's eighty-two this year. She has a few ailments here and there, but usually in good spirits.
After Mother's phone call, I slept until a good friend prepared breakfast for me before heading out to brave the temperature that was anything but spring today and this evening.
It was a laidback day of walking, talking, and wondering why we've yet to secure an agent and publish book while sneering at various jackets and thumbing through the first few pages. We were not impressed. We were pea green with envy. If they could get a book published and on display, what's stopping us?
I bought No Longer At Ease by Chinua Achebe from Barnes & Noble.
Yesterday's entry wasn't too far off the mark. After what felt like a panic (anxiety) attack, I dressed and headed out with my granny cart to shop for food and party favors.
Prior to leaving the apartment it felt as if something or someone was blocking my exit. I've disclosed to a few people that I had (have) a ghost in my apartment. I sensed that he died in this apartment and hasn't resolved to walk into the light. He's not malevolent, just lonely and stubborn. I sensed that the African American male died in his fifties of a heart attack.
This may sound very infomercial or psychic friends network, but I tested my theory with two people. The first was a healer here in New York who does Automatic Writing wherein she connects on a higher plane while a client asks questions. She sits at her laptop and transcibes answers to a client's questions. One of my questions or cloudy areas was the feeling that I didn't reside here alone (not counting the cats and tropical fish). Flash forward: The force, spirit, confirmed through this mystic that there was a presence in my apartment and that I would have to overcome my fear and reticence if I ever wanted to rid my apartment of him. I have a printout of our session for the naysayers out there.
The second person to confirm and actually help on a spiritual level was a shapeshifter from Texas, Wolfsong. She's a mixture of Native American, Chinese, and Hawaiin. She's able to travel through the eyes of animals to distant places. While we were chatting on an instant messenger, she traveled to the apartment to out-ghost the ghost. I know it to be true because it was one of the few occasions my oldest cat ran from the kitchen to my home office at the opposite end of the apartment. She'd seen something and fled to me. Wolfsong had entered the apartment and described what she saw as she looked around.
Please, no one call a therapist or medical doctor. I've still my wits about me. I've not gone off the deep end. She's told me things that only I or my family could have known. There were no slight-of-hand parlor or carnival tricks. She told me of health concerns back then that were true. She told me about a protection mask that prevented her from seeing things here in my home office. I was drawn to this mask years ago while on vacation in the Dominican Republic, along with a sarong. Or perhaps the mask called out to me?
Back to yesterday. I couldn't move from my seat to begin cleaning, rearranging furniture, and stuffing items into bags and under the bed, out of the way of guests. A wave of emotion swept over me. I just knew there'd be hell to pay if I forged ahead with the small dinner party. I've overcome the desire for large scale parties in my budget-sized apartment.
I prayed. I had to fight whatever it was that was ailing me and/or my apartment. I looked at my candles with blessing oil from a local botanica purchased a week before. I inhaled and smelled the lingering sage incense bought days before from yet another botanica in Spanish Harlem. I would wage war against this pesky presence and have a dinner party despite his contrary intentions.
Walking out the door, I breathed deeply. First major hurdle overome. Stopped off at discount store and bought a white and purple candle, no blessing oil. I made my way downtown to grocery store one, back up to wine store, on to grocery stores two and three.
Over my proposed budget, I returned home with granny cart filled to the top, store bought birthday cake (sounds of my mother shrieking in my head), and set up transforming the apartment into a party atmosphere.
Second flash forward: Jorge arrived to help clean and calm my nerves. Once the apartment was in good physical shape, showers out of the way, we set about dicing, chopping, and cooking. At 8 p.m., not one platter or dish was set. I reasoned that people refuse to show up at the scheduled time because they don't want to look desperate or pathetic. No one was here at 8:15, 8:30, 8:45 p.m., but I continued to chop, dice, stir. Jorge did his best to distract me. His plan was that we'd eat the food, watch a movie, and then go walking if no one materialized by 10 p.m.
Pause. Benedetta arrived at 9 p.m., and Jorge shot me a look: see, now, relax. You are loved. A half-hour later Luisa from my fiction critique group arrived, followed by Tanyika.
I bought and prepared too much food in that southern cook by sight, smell, taste, and you know folks will eventually eat.
I am grateful for the guests who showed up: Benedetta, Tanyika, Hadiza, Luisa, Jorge, and Tyrone. It was in fact a small dinner party. We talked about religion/ceremony, movies, overcoming fears, and whether there was actually a female Pope.
Last night's gathering will go down as a success. I harbor no ill-will nor will publicly ridicule those who RSVP'd and called with last minute lame excuses, nor those who didn't have the courtesy (decency) to call. Life's too short to hold grudes. I consider myself fair. I'll invite everyone to my next Sunday Gospel Brunch in a month. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
Anyone want a slice of birthday cake and ice cream? We were engrossed in conversation, food, hot spiced apple cider, and African rum, that I forgot about bringing out the cake and ice cream. I'll take the cake to my GED class this coming Tuesday as a reward for those who took last week's cumulative exam.
P.S. I joked with Benedetta and Jorge about my doing the same thing to those who didn't show up to the dinner party as Melissa Sue Anderson did in Happy Birthday To Me.
I'm sitting here with a shopping list in hand, on the way to various grocery, retail, and specialty shops. There's always anxiety when hosting a social gathering, doubly so when it's your own birthday party.
Second-doubts try to creep into the brain. Will everyone who RSVP'd actually show up? Will those who didn't RSVP show up unannounced?
I've had sucessful birthday parties in the past, but with each passing year, the preparation can wear on the nerves. I used to celebrate with other Pisceans here on the East Coast, but that tradition disintegrated after a few years. One person relocated to Oregon, another moved to Florida to start a sandwich shop, another one was just too fabulous and preoccupied to slum uptown, away from his other fabulous downtown types. The most disappointing were two female singer/songwriters who I thought we'd always be together, eventually rising to some semblance of artistic and cultural note.
I think of Bryce, a former Army brat, who warned me not to get too attached or caught up on friends and friendships. People come and go all the time in life. Share and enjoy the moments at hand.
I am grateful for another year alive! I am grateful that my Granny Gums celebrated her 82nd birthday on February 7th!
At last count, I'm expecting fifteen, perhaps sixteen guests tonight. Friendships and acquiantances can be strange. I don't want anyone to feel obligated to come tonight. (The official birthday is March 20th, not the 18th).
I had originally thought to hop on a commuter train or Greyhound bus this weekend. Disappear to parts unknown with my laptop to work on my next short story that's due midnight next Thursday.
I didn't celebrate last year. I didn't want to go through what I'm feeling right now: anxiety. I was told I was stupid by a new friend for not celebrating my birthday. This same friend hates to celebrate his birthday, and would prefer it go unnoticed.
My mother sent me old Polaroids and dated pictures of my first, second, third, and fourth birthday parties in Houston. Back then, I didn't have the adult pressures of planning and executing a birthday party. The pictures show a smiling toddler in the arms of my mother and other relatives. There wasn't a shortage of guests in my family - we easily numbered twenty or twenty-five back then, plus all the neighborhood kids.
I'd take my mother's expertly decorated homemade birthday cake and planning right now. I'd rather someone else be in charge (and ultimately responsible for the success) of the birthday shindig tonight.
I'm hoping for the best.
If the party is a bust, I will hop on that aforementioned train or bus, head to a small town, try my hand as a fry cook for a weekend in a truckstop or diner where the waitresses call everyone sugah or hon, while looking disinterested as the pen scrawls across the order pad.
