We Were The Williams

We Were The Williamses, whatever that meant back then to neighbors in the immediate vicinity of Granny’s house, at our Southern Methodist church, and school personnel. We were one of the largest families in the neighborhood. Holidays and birthday parties required planning, mending fences, and swallowing pride. Gatherings were successful when no one stormed out, leaving a trail of hurt feelings and profanity punctuated by a slammed door. During mellow times, the adults gossiped about the exploits of other large families as if there were an official guidebook for families with twenty or more members. Various family members joked about writing a book to profit from our sordid affairs and history. I don’t think anyone would commit to writing a book. The damage would be irreversible and unforgivable. I respect the invisible familial boundaries in writing essays, fiction, or screenplays. The physical and emotional distance between New York and Houston allows me to sort through truth and innuendo.

My mother called to inform that my aunt had three weeks to five months to live. Her voice was unsteady, searching for words to express her uncertainty of death. She apologized for everything and anything that she said, did, or thought of me. She was unnerved watching her older sister deteriorate. She wanted no part of unresolved feelings and things left unsaid if she were in my aunt’s place. My aunt’s last few weeks alive were a family affair. Relatives held bedside vigils; my cousin flew in from the Iraq/Kuwait border to see her one last time.

Each time the phone rang, it echoed throughout my apartment. I didn’t want to answer the phone, not yet. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. We couldn’t deny that death was waiting to take my aunt with the guttural, naughty laugh, and brilliant white smile. On February 22, 4:30 p.m., my aunt died of cancer. My younger brother called to tell me – one more child for Granny to bury, one less relative to appear in pictures and help in the kitchen for Sunday dinners. I wasn’t able to see my aunt before her death, but experienced her final days through the eyes and ears of family. Near the end of her time on earth, deceased relatives came to escort her to the other side and she refused to go. “Don’t you see those people looking in the window at me? Don’t you hear that music?” I believe she saw her father, one of four siblings, or two nephews waiting outside.

I remember my Granny’s reaction to my other aunt’s death. It was the first time I saw her cry and knees buckle underneath, supported on either side by two relatives as they walked down the aisle in church. “A mother shouldn’t live to see her children die. A mother shouldn’t bury her child.” My grandmother is strength multiplied. My grandmother reminds me of the matriarch in One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. Some family members believe Granny will outlive us all as a testament to her will to survive despite everything that has happened in her eighty-seven years. Granny perseveres because she knows nothing else to do. There was a time I thought the family would continue to multiply, never die. I was probably ten years old, and enjoying the reputation of a large family. We were a formidable family. Our numbers inspired awe or envy. Elementary and junior high schoolteachers knew my grandmother by first name, and would visit prior to or soon after disciplining one of the grandchildren. Granny would nod in agreement while a teacher or principal recounted surprise of one of our having misbehaved or sassed.

At some point, we stop being a united family; many things said and done that caused a riff among the ranks. We lost the magic or illusions we once shared. Gone are the silly poses and smiling faces in pictures. We have become strangers over the years, notwithstanding my living on the East Coast, and one cousin in the Army stationed in Germany. I know how time and distance plays with my heart and mind on Sunday afternoons when I call Houston. It’s been six years since I visited and now I’m 31,000 feet, on Flight 111, en route to my aunt’s funeral. I’ll think twice before booking a 5:30 a.m. flight out of Newark. The airport buses don’t start until 6:00 a.m., and I arrived at Port Authority just before 3 a.m., when night creatures prowl, and do their best to beguile a naïve-looking lad. This flight almost didn’t happen. Ten minutes of fiddling with the NJ Transit ticket dispenser while drunkards and con artists hovered and helped from all angles, I contemplated returning home and sleeping. Times Square before sunrise isn’t a place I wanted to be, but I bought a non-refundable ticket, and my cousin is set to pick me up from the airport.

I was frazzled, sleepy, and just wanted the situation to go away. I thought of not seeing my grandmother again, if I opted to return to the upper Westside. I must have announced my predicament like one of those annoying neon signs in Times Square with my facial expressions, body language, and a snaggletooth conman that summoned honking and waving yellow cab drivers along Eighth Avenue. I couldn’t believe the quoted price of fifty-two dollars, plus tolls, fifty-eight, to travel to Newark-Liberty Airport. It felt like a nightmare or a bad musical theatre rehearsal. I had to make a decision. My head was spinning and I wished for silence and a warm bed to think. Life looks better after a catnap. I became a hot property. Several cabbies vied for my attention, some offering a deal within earshot of a nonchalant beat cop who reminded the Caribbean immigrant it was illegal to do so. I walked away as the cabbie handed the officer his identification and license.

I opted for a cabbie who approached, not that he had sympathetic eyes or offered a discount, but because I was within sight of the Uptown C train. Would my family understand that my finances are tight, and that sixty dollars for a cab ride was outrageous? Would my family be upset, my mother embarrassed because February 28^th is her birthday, and the day of my aunt’s burial? God smiled on me in the back seat of the cab. The previous fare lost ten dollars in the groove of the seat. Fifty dollars is still outrageous compared to the twenty-dollar roundtrip bus fare.

Looking out the window from seat 27A, my mind alternates between memories, anxieties, and expectations once I’m on solid ground. A lot has changed in six years: births, separations, divorces, and two cousins’ release from jail. Perhaps the great-grandchildren will restore the family to its previous place so that we’ll once again be The Williamses.

Supermarkets Don't Exist In My Neighborhood

I’m tired of waiting in a queue before I make it to the checkout line in my neighborhood grocery store on the Upper Westside. I don’t like being held hostage in the bread and chips aisle by Caribbean nannies with uncontrollable toddlers in strollers, impromptu college reunions wedged between the cheese and imported crackers island, or spaced out tourists whose backpacks threaten to topple boxes of pasta.

I’m tired of feeling like I’m on an obstacle course, or in a maze when food shopping. The giant rats scurrying around the nearby cathedral or in either of the two parks have more room to roam. Why should I have less courtesy when spending my money? I shouldn’t, yet cramped spaces among the working class in Manhattan are a foregone conclusion. When I lived in West New York, New Jersey, on the other side of the Hudson, A & P was the nearest grocery store. The store wasn’t huge by southern standards, yet there was elbowroom in the aisles. No such comfort in Manhattan grocery stores in my immediate neighborhood.

My predicament could be remedied by shopping elsewhere, but distance is a factor. Manhattan prides itself on convenience. I remember riding past a large Pathmark in Spanish Harlem, but shopping there would be inconvenient. I would have to take a gypsy cab home with groceries in the trunk or take my Granny cart (the same type of cart many other New Yorkers use to transport laundry and groceries) and wheel my bags cross-town and home. Have these local store owners heard of bulk? And forget regular sales items. There are three grocery stores and one bodega within walking distance of my apartment. I’m in the habit of playing musical stores to reduce costs and find sales items on weekends. Again, the feeling of being on an obstacle course comes to mind. Round and round the stores I go, making mental notes of which has Tropicana orange juice, Barilla pasta, or the lowest price on peeled baby carrots, before I actually buy anything is exhausting. It really chaps me when I walk into one of other two stores and realize I could have saved four to six dollars – that’s a roundtrip on the inflated subway.

I miss those super-sized Texas grocery stores with pert ladies handing out food samples, a courtesy booth to buy postage stamps, pay the utilities, and a buy a money order. One of my favorite supermarkets in Houston was Fiesta, where the selection included moderate priced clothes, household furniture, and tropical fish and supplies. I miss the full sized grocery carts where babies would sit comfortable, legs dangling, away from traffic. The grocery carts here look like toys, and those handheld baskets are full with six or seven items, which tend to collide with other shoppers struggling to balance their load.

There’s a different feeling rolling a cart out to a parked car, opening the trunk or back seat and loading up neatly packed bags. There’s a different feeling buying in bulk outside a wholesaler. Shopping in some Manhattan grocery stores can be a contact sport, not unlike NFL football. Shopping for those of us without a nanny or maid requires a budget. I’m sure that portion of the population doesn’t gasp at prices, think about how much they really want a particular item, return it to the shelf or refrigerated compartment, and walk around to see if anything else catches their eye – before making their way back to the item in question.

What makes a market super? Is it the cleanliness of the store? Two of the three stores I shop have foul odors every now and then coming from where they prepare their meats. It’s enough to consider vegetarianism. Does a varied selection increase its value and standing in a neighborhood? Reasonable prices get my vote every time. Being mindful that I’m not in Texas or Kansas for that matter, the managers here aren’t ones to roll up their sleeves and pitch in. Rush hour shopping in any of these stores isn’t for the impatient and weak of heart. The managers like to point and delegate, rather than bagging groceries or mopping up a spill in the dairy section. I like that New York is a cultural melting pot, but I want friendly English-speaking cashiers.

Instead, I’m bombarded with several languages among the cashiers speaking through me while scanning my items. Some of these same women never remember those produce codes and have to ask a manager in accented English while I wear my patient and understanding smile. I miss grocery stores where cashiers wear smocks with nametags and personally greet me. Is that too much to ask?

I expect higher prices at a convenience store or bodega, not at stores that are supposed to be conventional. I’ll do without exclusive and imported items, if I can save money on the four basic food groups. I don’t need hand-rolled blue or green organic corn chips to dip salsa at the few parties I host at my apartment.

Gone are the days when I stood in an aisle of countless of boxes of cereal and breakfast bars. I’m neither confounded nor impressed by the selection at the neighborhood stores. Grocery stores outside Manhattan have an added advantage of sackers and able-bodied students who offer to push your cart to your car or truck, if you live in Texas, for a tip. Manhattan has overworked or disinterested cashiers who expect you to bag your own groceries. When you don’t, they shoot you a dirty look when you smile back, expecting them to do their job. Isn’t that part of the service and prices when no sackers stand at the ready?

The shopping experience begins at the front door and culminates upon exit. The longer I live in New York, the more I remember the standard of living down south. Manhattan has one of the richest landscapes in the world, yet developers and architects can’t see fit to build a comparable supermarket. My neighborhood would be different if Wal-mart, Piggly Wiggly or BJ’s Wholesale opened a store uptown. I don’t think that will happen anytime soon. In the interim, I’ll continue my comparison shopping and preparation for a future Manhattan marathon.

The Writer's Life

Writers can be a lazy bunch. A few years ago, I co-founded and participated in a mixed genre critique group that met in member homes throughout the five boroughs. This group was ripe with competition, envy, and discontent. There were prolific writers skilled in basic and advanced writing techniques, who provided pinpoint feedback, and others who were limited by their reliance on pop culture and media. The twain never met.

Writing is a solitary craft. Writing is a solitary art. No matter which side of the argument, whether writing is natural or learned, writing groups require unlimited patience, social skills, and a thick skin. Writers seek to impress each other within a group - who knows whom, who knows what, and who’s read the latest literary or commercial bestseller. Often times the meetings stalled due to disagreements on writing techniques, or lack thereof, or the critique style of a member. I did not expect the group would last as long as it did. I was not offended by the lack of commitment from some in the group, but it did bother me that some did not have the maturity to step aside and allow the group to prosper. Why would an egotistical hack screenwriter support a successful playwright when the gap between their talent and potential is immeasurable?

When I first happened upon the idea to create a critique group, I had no experience organizing and moderating. I operated on the premise that there were other solitary writers in need of an encouraging, supportive environment, yet did not know where to look. I posted flyers and spread the word among friends and colleagues to recruit and build a writer’s nirvana. Back then, I did not have a questionnaire and screening process. Come one, come all! Let’s create a modern literary movement!

I was the de facto leader of the group, the idealistic artist who knew I stumbled upon something that no one else had or would. Soon after the first blowup, reality set in. I did not create a mobile haven for writers; I brought together people who did not like each other, and took potshots whenever possible. I brought together people who set about derailing critique sessions with personal agendas and sidebars. The assembled arrived famished, ready to devour available sustenance. I brought together people who confused fiction with personal or political manifestoes, devotees of screenwriting teachers and famous film directors, and a few people who knew they would never publish or produce any of their work, yet were along for the ride. The end was swift and painful, hastened by my poor handling of a situation involving the egotistical screenwriting hack and the prolific playwright.

Critique Group Redux

Where are the writers in New York City hiding?

I waited two years before resurfacing from my self-imposed writer’s underground, during which time I wrote in solitude. Writers need other writers to read, critique, and help shape their work. I interviewed aspiring and published fiction and screenwriters to build two biweekly critique groups that I organized and moderate. Prior to the interviews, I placed various ads online and asked friends to spread the word for my membership drive. Certain times it is obvious that a writer will not fit within the revamped fee-based group based on their personal biography and writing sample.

Others do not make it beyond an initial personal interview due to the intensity, focus, or discipline of the groups. A select few crash and burn due to direct personality conflicts. Free groups are a challenge to maintain. Some people regard groups as a burden or perhaps groups overwhelm. I have still to wrap my brain around this riddle. My experiences as a member of writing groups and the dual role of moderator/member are opposite tangents.

Fear of success is unknown to me. I had a brief bout with fear of flying prior to my first international flight to Spain. Fear of commitment crops up each time a member bails on the group, and I reflect on their advertised personal and professional writing goals from the original interview. I do not understand why these people apply, attend an informational interview, and those who make the cut, accept membership.

I do not understand people who sit across the table from me professing their love of writing, alleged commitment of improving their writing skills, only to bow out a few weeks or months later with lame excuses. The group or the moderator is the culprit for departures. Competing priorities never figured in their minds leading up to their departure. Creative groups in large cities are akin to group therapy sessions at a community center when they begin to falter; it’s everyone’s fault except the person at the center of the maelstrom.

Fear of commitment manifests itself in some aspiring writers as fatigue, confusion, anger, or disruptive behavior. Some aspiring writers suffer from fear of commitment because success would bring out more fears. A successful writer has a new set of concerns not shared by the unpublished. An unpublished writer can remain in obscurity with dreams of fame and notoriety. There’s an inherent responsibility to readers when a writer publishes, regardless of genre. Achieving success opens a writer to other possibilities and potential setbacks. One door opens, and through that door, three unopened doors are visible.

Some aspiring writers seek an easy entry into an elusive club - fame and notoriety, but few want to work on their craft. Those of us who make weekly pilgrimages to bookstores can attest to the adrenaline rush experienced entering the door. The enormous amount of books and magazines arranged on shelves and tabletops call out for attention.

Who will pick up the gauntlet next as a published author? Do most who seek publication understand why people read books? People read to escape, to learn, to experience people and worlds similar and unfamiliar to their lives. Writers flip through books for motivation - all those printed words on the page, bound in a cover with the author’s name. I look forward to the time in my life when my novels and short story collections are available under “W” in the fiction section of bookstores.

As The World Turns

At 75 Park Lane, several residents of various socioeconomic and ethnic backgrounds live. They migrated to this address from points north and south of the Mason Dixon Line.

Some were born, and others have died in this building populated by widows, single mothers, artists, and divorcees.

Not unlike any other small community or village, word travels fast. There are very few secrets, and fewer friends among the current residents. There's always an eye peeping through a peephole and an ear trained on a door as footsteps climb and voices rise in the hallway.

Thin walls and warped floors. Maddening landlord and his vulgar wife, both of which would be perfectly cast as the innkeeper and his wife in Les Miserables.

Spoiled siblings and hyperactive and competitive residents vie for attention and try to outdo each other. Hyenas laugh, and lambs scurry out of view. Round and round they go, a dance macabre.

Poison Pen

Logging into an online writing and or publishing chatroom can be detrimental to a new or struggling writer's ego.

When I first discovered mIRC.org's Writing chatroom several years ago, I thought I'd be among writers of varying skill sets, and perhaps there would be a few seasoned (published) writers offering feedback and guidance.

The reality fell far below my perhaps naïve expecations. I encountered bitter, hateful, stalled people who couldn't diagram a sentence, let alone write a poem or short story.

More so than not, those who'd schedule their evening or weekend hours around the time a majority of chatters logged on, were hobbyists, or writing groupies. They ignored their family, friends, and in some instances household chores to bitch, moan, and complain about movies or books they thought were below their standards.

When challenged with how they'd change the script or manuscript, a collective silence fell over the chatroom. Silence was golden until someone attacked the person (damn upstart) who wanted clarification or that the complainant defend their position.

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Writers write. Writing is a solitary act. Writing can be taught over a period of time. There are no magic pills, formulas, injections, or secret societies where one can emerge a published writer. Writing is WORK! Writing requires discipline, sacrifice (family, friends, loved ones, exercise), and continual education.

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Online writing chatroom groupies miss the boat. I readily admit my mistake of seeking support and encouragement from anonymous online personas I'd never meet.

Learned Behavior

Good parents teach their children how to manage simple and complex tasks. Children learn more things through observation, some of which they shouldn’t because the sights, sounds, and smells reappear at inopportune times.

I don’t know if I’m naturally combative or if I learned it from my parents. I don’t know if my temper is part of my DNA or I learned how to deal with people and situations from my mother and her explosive temper. My younger brother and I received the brunt of mother’s wrath and rage. My youngest brother was spared, maybe because of my challenging and questioning her as I grew older.

I don’t like how I used to and in some instances handle myself when I’m angry. I grew up in a large and boisterous family. The mode of communication could quickly gravitate from loud and joking, to vindictive and stormy within an hour over a card game or if one of the grandchildren said or did something to another.

How much does environment shape lives? I know my earliest family and southern Bible-belt experiences have affected me.

Friends, Lovers & Others

Friends

I remember friends I met in kindergarten who are no longer in my life, separated by time, distance, or dispute. Friends can provide a buffer between family, school, and church. Honest and true are those who pace the floor while their best friend is in surgery, housesit when their friend is on vacation, or visiting family in their hometown. Lifelong friends are ambrosia and wine on a banquet table in unpredictable lives of love, loss, triumphs, and temporary setbacks.

I long for the time I once again have balanced and rewarding friendships. I’ve had too many friendships where I’ve been the father, big brother, or mentor, or oftentimes all in one. It’s emotionally, spiritually, and physically exhausting to be on all the time. I want to be taken care of as I’ve taken care of others. I earnestly believe I was born to teach and lead, yet I yearn for others who know more than I do, and are willing to teach me.

I know there are no guarantees in life, and it’s doubly so in platonic friendships. Friendships are in essence (sexless) relationships that must be maintained and nurtured regularly. I’ve expelled all fair-weather friends and colleagues from my life; it’s enough dealing with the categorized friendships. I have my writers, artists (actors, dancers, former models, and musicians), international yet deeply rooted in America, and internationals who have no desire to become Americanized.

Imagine the ringmaster skills needed when bringing these various personalities together under one roof for a birthday party or other social occasion. The writers and both international groups might look down upon the actors or dancers, the musicians might frown upon the models, and the models might try to hog the floor in a desperate attempt to attract attention.

It might be easier to use a GPS system to keep track of the various partygoers and steer them in the right direction in an attempt to stimulate conversation that might not otherwise take place.

I have been fortunate, I think, to have had an assortment of friends throughout my life thus far. Friends at school are different from friends outside of school. There’s inherent competition with classmates as friends. In junior high, I graduated second in my class, not because of my GPA; I would have graduated valedictorian, save for an unsatisfactory in conduct. The band director gave me a “U” in conduct for being mouthy. There I sat in the counselor’s office having forgotten (erased?) what I said or did to the band director while a classmate-cum-friend flashed his toothy smile at the news he’d graduate number one in our class.

I stumbled through my salutatorian’s address on graduation day. I saw red. I flashbacked to my former (and still) smart mouthed self: Why couldn’t you have shut up? My schoolteacher aunt wrote my address for me, having graduated at the top of her high school class years before; she knew what to say on such occasions. We were disappointed for different reasons after the ceremony.

Lovers

Sometimes friends evolve into lovers, which presents its own challenges. On the flipside of that continuum are lovers who become friends. This isn't advisable for the uninitiated. It’s a delicate balancing act between the past, present, and what the future might hold (relapse back into a romantic relationship of flowers, balloons, and roses). Fire and ice roses are a good source for those who want to soothe ex and current lovers. Everyone has a different ideal lover: steeped in friendship or organic. Organic lovers tend not to be vested in each other beyond the honeymoon stage of meeting and dating. A number of people are impulsive and patient, going from one lover to the next, and back between, trying to create an instantaneous picturesque relationship.

Others

Where do those fit in our lives if not a platonic friend or lover? In this electronic age of cyber chatrooms, online message boards, and dating websites, some people reach out to each other through their keyboards, monitors, and cell phones. Some people forge an electronic relationship with people they’ll never meet. Married men reach out to married or single women online, and vice versa, because they don’t feel fulfilled at home, and unable to communicate said deficiencies to their mate.

Then there are people from the office who hover between professional and personal relationships. The office worker whose desk overflows with live plants, family photos, trinkets from theme parks and past national and international vacations, and a variety of coffee mugs. I've worked a few places where I've forged relationships that teetered on a fine line. The relationships were ripe with frustation and/or confusion. Most co-workers will allow enough access to their personal lives.