Tuesday, November 8, 1994
I talked with Mother today.
When I asked her how she was doing, she said, “Same old, same old. A man was breaking into the apartment and my German Shepherd bit him. I gave the guy $20.”
Tuesday, November 8, 1994
I talked with Mother today.
When I asked her how she was doing, she said, “Same old, same old. A man was breaking into the apartment and my German Shepherd bit him. I gave the guy $20.”
There was a time when a family’s having meager means was an embarrassment, something to hide. Nowadays, it seems that just about everybody was “born by the river in a little tent.”
With pride, the nouveau poor assert that their family was really poor, but they didn’t know it. What the just-discovered-that-they-were-poor need to know is that real poor people know that they are poor. Indeed, having always lived in a house and had enough food to eat qualifies one as rich in the eyes of real poor people.
When I hear the nouveau poor tell sad stories, then, about what they describe as a hard life, I sometimes wonder if these stories are just a way for people to boast and pat themselves on the back for overcoming. And because of this overcoming, they seek praise, respect, admiration, and perhaps your vote.
When these rags-to-riches bootstrapping stories seem inauthentic to me, I think how real poor people don’t have anything–not even their stories.
Recently I saw two memorable films: MAID, a Netflix limited series, and Mass, shown only in theaters.
I’m not qualified to speak to the technical aspects of films or the quality of the performances of the actors. Here, I want to briefly share what struck me hard as I watched these films.
In MAID, we watch as a young woman, Alex, attempts to escape from what she feels is an emotionally abusive situation. She is living with the father of their two-year-old daughter, Maddy. Along this road to freedom, Alex cleaned 338 toilets, had 7 types of government assistance, made 9 separate moves, and spent 1 night on the floor of a ferry station. All of this happened during the entire third year of her daughter’s life. And not only is Alex a mother, herself, but she also feels responsible for her own mother.
Watching Alex on this journey is exhausting. But beyond all the hard work as a maid and the toll taken by complicated relationships, her journey exposes a world that is impossibly complicated and restrictive when someone in need attempts to access government-funded programs created to assist people in situations similar to the one portrayed by Alex in MAID. Although Alex had a hard way to go, her homelessness was not nearly as humiliating and terrifying as it is for most people who can’t find a safety net when they fall into this category.
The movie Mass is about two sets of parents meeting six years after a tragic mass shooting at a school. The parents of the school shooter agree to the conversation, which is hoped to be therapeutically healing for the parents of one of the victims of the shooting. As the conversation unfolds, it is obvious that feelings of profound grief have been devastating for both sets of parents.
As we witness the excruciatingly painful toll the tragedy has taken on both sets of parents, we begin to understand the essence and the core of what it means to be human. These actors show us naked humanity. Naked humanity experiences a range of feelings such as anger, blame, and hate tumbling over one another in order to be recognized as the priority. And yet, in the course of a conversation, we also witness that intangible unique aspect of humans called grace. Indeed, we have the capacity to change powerfully negative feelings into something that resembles sympathy and empathy.
A couple of weeks ago, I laughed out loud when I saw the Dairy Queen “Sweeter” Vest on CBS This Morning, and I knew that I had to have one. I immediately went online to order one and they were already sold out. Though disappointed that I couldn’t order this goofy sweater vest (especially when it likely turned out to be more of a marketing ploy than actual merchandise), I was happy for the laugh, especially since it wasn’t at anyone’s expense.
It seems that most things that make us laugh are at the expense of another’s misfortune. We tend to laugh when someone is socially awkward in some way. In silent films, the funniest scenes were when someone slipped on a banana peel, ran into a door, or in some other way did something that would make them feel embarrassed.
People also find it funny when someone does their best but ultimately fails or “falls on their face.” I have fallen on my face in many areas of my life.
For example, I’m a terrible cook. I love cooking, but it is not intuitive for me. Some of my most embarrassing moments have been associated with my cooking.
When our son brought his then-girlfriend (now spouse) home for dinner for the first time, he prepared her for my cooking by telling her, “When Mom cooks, it’s a lab experiment.”
A glutton for punishment and foolhardy at best, when we have guests, I usually try new recipes because I want the meal to be special. Everybody knows not to do this. I can’t resist.
There was the time when I invited a colleague I really wanted to impress to dinner. I was going to roast lamb accompanied by mint jelly, as I had read that mint jelly made the dish extra special. I’d never had lamb before and had no idea how it was supposed to smell as it roasted. As the roasting progressed, I became more and more distressed by the intense and unusual aroma. Luckily, I had a chicken that I could roast.
Upon entering our house, my colleague gleefully exclaimed about the aroma of the roasted lamb and said roasted lamb was her favorite dish. As I placed the roasted chicken on the table, my colleague asked about the lamb that she had smelled. When I told her that I had thrown the lamb in the trash because the aroma made me think there was something wrong with it, the look of shock on her face indicated that I had certainly made an impression…just not the one that for which I had hoped. I can laugh now.
On another occasion I invited a colleague and his family for Sunday dinner. They had two young children who were impatient for dessert because they could see the beautiful pound cake on the sideboard. They were excited when I told them that there would be ice cream, as well. I was excited about this cake because I used the recipe from a dear friend who made the best pound cakes ever. As we grown-ups ate my very, very dry cake in silence, their 5-year-old screamed, “This is the worst cake I ever taste!.” I can laugh now.
Even when we were not having guests, cooking a meal was never routine. I had a library of cookbooks, collected favorite recipes from friends, and even had an onsite tutorial from a friend on how to make the best brown gravy.
My best dishes were by accident. I would make a dish that was praised but would have no idea why the dish turned out the way it did. Invariably, wanting to replicate what was previously praised, I would try to improve on it when I made it again. Apparently, I had been successful in pleasing our son on a simple dish—green beans. Trying something new, I added whole green peppers to the green beans to spice them up. Unfortunately, if one were not paying close attention, one could have both green beans and peppers on the end of one’s fork. When our son got the pepper surprise, he abruptly stood up from the table, threw his napkin down beside his plate and asked accusingly, “Why did you have to ruin them?” I can laugh now.
My husband never wanted to hurt my feelings about my cooking, but I knew when the meal was an ordeal for him. On these occasions, while holding his fork with his right hand to eat, he would have his left forearm on the table with his fist clenched tightly. During one of these fist-clenching times, after taking two bites of one of my “lab experiments,” he looked at me with the saddest expression on his face and in a soft plaintive voice said, “Hon, I just can’t eat this.” I can laugh now.
In March 1992, my Black sisters and I were in San Antonio attending the annual conference of a professional women’s organization. Historically, the organization’s membership had been virtually all White, except for a couple of notable Black women who were the best in their field. By 1992, our coterie of Black sisters had increased to a small minority with some status.
During a free afternoon, five of my sisters and I decided to shop for pottery and jewelry while enjoying the sights along the River Walk.
Not too far from the hotel, we encountered an Asian American colleague who was usually in solidarity with us because the same issues and concerns Black members raised also plagued other nonmajority members. The number of Asian American and Pacific Islander women in this organization could be counted on one hand.
My sisters and I greeted our colleague warmly and we embraced all around. A fellow member of the program committee, I asked if she knew what time the meeting was that evening. Expressing dismay that I didn’t get the notice, she let me know it was to be at 7:30 p.m. After more hugs, she moved on.
Now knowing the time of the committee meeting, I suggested to my sisters that we get something to eat while we were out during the afternoon so I could eat with them.
We continued to meander down the River Walk, stopping to look in shops along the way. In one of the shops, “Diva” expresses great admiration and interest in a lovely bracelet. I encouraged her to buy it, going so far as to ask the clerk if he would give her a discount because she really liked the bracelet. He agreed to give the discount and she bought the bracelet. I felt happy for her, and I’m sure I beamed with satisfaction.
As we continued our shopping, it seemed that Diva was determined that I also buy something, no matter what it was. Eventually, I became annoyed. My motive in encouraging her to buy came from a good place. I did not feel that her motive was the same.
Sometime after I had suggested that we eat while we were out, a couple of my sisters began making comments such as, “Gwen is hungry, so we better get something to eat.” I was accustomed to the teasing, so their comments didn’t bother me.
We chose a Thai restaurant. During the latter part of what was an amiable dinner, Diva, who was new in the organization, apparently feeling comfortable with us, said that she felt unwelcome when she first joined, feeling that the organization was “cliquish.”
“Elegant “responded in a friendly tone, “I was friendly with you.” I followed up her comment with, “I also befriended you. Do you remember that I invited you to lunch?”
Diva responded in a less than friendly tone, “Yeah, but that was business.”
Taken aback, I mused, “I thought I was being friendly; how did you get the idea that it was business?”
Two of my sisters said nothing and just stared as “Admiral” and Elegant tried to convince Diva that things were not as she perceived them. When I sensed that Diva felt strongly about her initial feelings and seemed to want to be able to express them and be heard, I wanted us to empathize with her and give her experience the respect it deserved.
Sage that I must have thought I was, I said, “You know, Diva, you really might have felt a chilliness toward you because it’s not uncommon for people as strikingly attractive as you are to cause some people, perhaps unconsciously, to wait and see before they extend a welcome and acceptance.”
Diva’s lips turned down and her eyes seemed to float out of their sockets as she responded, “Yes! I’ve experienced this before, and I think people who put themselves up as important and as ‘sisters’ are just hypocrites because they usually do this kind of thing.”
I had apparently touched a nerve. I tried to close this box of snakes that I had opened, saying, “People are human, and this can be a natural and unconscious reaction….,” but Admiral cut me off, declaring, “This is not true in this group. Maybe when males are in the group, the competition is there but not in this group of women professionals.”
The mood definitely changed, and I could smell the stink of anger in the air.
When we are outside the restaurant, Admiral got in my face, saying, “Gwen, I can’t believe you said that!” “How can you think that?” I’m a part of this organization and I know this is not true.”
I felt apologetic and tried to explain that I was just trying to make Diva feel better. Admiral cut her eyes away from me and walked ahead with Elegant. From their postures and movements, I gathered that they were talking about me and rejecting me for my comment.
In the meantime, Diva fell in step with me, saying, “I believe what you said, and I want to talk with you further about this.” Not wanting to keep this line of conversation going, I escaped from Diva and began walking in step with the silent sisters. Diva kept talking with anyone who came near her. My other four sisters got very interested in the pottery we passed along the way, ignoring what Diva was saying.
I deliberately walked next to Admiral and said, “I know you want to kill me for making that comment, but when you think about human behavior, what I said could be a possible motive for the chilliness that Diva felt. Jealousy and envy are real.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” responded Admiral, “but you have so much going for you—you have this nice little shape, shapely legs…. You don’t have any reason to feel as you do.”
“I’m not feeling that way!” I protested. “I’m speaking generally!”
Admiral ignored my comment and told me that I wouldn’t be late for my meeting because we’re only a couple of blocks away. I had no idea how to get back, and told her so, but she only said, “It’s easy,” and turned away.
No one said goodbye to me. With a sigh of exasperation, I began my search for the right direction to return to the hotel for the 7:30 p.m. program committee meeting.
Although I received my COVID vaccination in March 2021, I have continued to shelter-in-place except for a road trip with family to California in mid-June. Optimistically, I set July 1, 2021, as the date on which I would brave the new world and get outside of this personal bubble that has been in place since March 2020.
Like many others, during my time staying at home I adapted to doing essential shopping online. However, I did not do what I consider elective shopping online. I saved that for the time I would be free to shop in person. While sheltering, I made a list of all the things that I wanted to shop for when I could finally go out and feel relatively safe.
Beginning on July 1, I set out to get myself some “retail therapy.” From furniture to kitchen utensils to hair and skin products, I indulged my desire to shop and felt absolutely wonderful that, though masked, I could comfortably go into stores to browse and buy.
I think I’ve been coping well with the isolation but, while shopping, my feelings surprised me. It seemed to me that being around other people, in the flesh, triggered dormant emotions that I can only describe as a sense of being vitally alive! For example, though I think I’m usually polite to store employees, during these excursions, I was extra polite and friendly. My behavior was akin to how one might react when seeing friends after an extended period of time. My smile, though no one could see it, never wavered at annoyances that might have caused consternation in the past. It never faded, no matter what obstacles were thrown in my path that might hinder me from reaching my shopping goals.
Sadly, my euphoria was short-lived. With recommendations to continue wearing masks even when vaccinated, the apparent strength of the new virus variants, and breakthrough infections in vaccinated people, I am, once again out of an abundance of caution, only engaging outside my home when absolutely necessary.
While feeling pandemic whiplash like others, I’m preparing to make the best of resuming my digital life and will reignite my self-reflection and self-care.
Notwithstanding my mature attitude about being isolated, again, in some of my reflective moments, I wonder if those of us who shelter in place more vigilantly are being profoundly changed. Is our hypervigilance about avoiding being infected or infecting others making us less inclined to seek out opportunities to be physically present with others even when it will be safer to do so? Is our success in adapting to the requirements of this pandemic a harbinger of the crisis to come as we become less and less social beings? Are we getting more comfort and satisfaction from being alone with ourselves than we once experienced being with friends and family? Are we reveling in the utopia of isolation?
Or, is this pause in heretofore normal social contact allowing us to awaken to the joy, appreciation, and satisfaction of being in the same physical space with one another as sentient human beings?
We will have to wait and see.
After September 11, 2001, everyone had a story about where they were, the efforts they made to get home, and what they did to connect with loved ones upon hearing the devastating news about the attacks made on American soil by foreign terrorists. The senseless tragedy was almost beyond comprehension.
After September 11, 2001, I witnessed a NASPA staff that was shaken but not defeated. Although there were a multitude of anxieties, such as fear of being in Washington, DC, doing work on Capitol Hill, taking the Metro to and from work, flying on behalf of NASPA, and even opening mail because of anthrax, staff members adapted and redoubled their efforts in support of student affairs professionals who were needed more than ever on their campuses.
After September 11, 2001, student affairs professionals served as navigators and provided safe harbors for all members of their campus communities. Using their skills of empathy, understanding, and knowledge of crisis intervention, they were the first responders for students, faculty, and staff. They did what they were trained to do and shared strategies with colleagues across the nation on how best to respond to these unprecedented times, and the increased needs of the student and campus community amidst fear, uncertainty, and a range of reactions, including the bizarre and self-destructive.
After September 11, 2001, NASPA leaders looked beyond the tragedies of the day and sought ways, where possible, to reduce risk on campuses and, unfortunately, to prepare for the aftermath of future senseless tragedies.
After September 11, 2001, what did NOT—and never should—go unnoticed is the commitment of student affairs professionals to working with campus communities to create a climate that promotes learning and a sense of security and belonging in the face of adversity.
I wasn’t surprised by my mixed emotions, several weeks ago, when headline after headline and several television stations were hailing the accomplishments of Zaila Avant-garde, the first African American champion of the 2021 Scripps National Spelling Bee. My feelings were complicated to say the least:
Despite my mixed emotions, I’m glad that Zaila received so much attention because her success will alert other families and their children that they, too, can have the kind of success that Zaila, the scholar-athlete, has achieved.
Luevinia, Altoria, and Vidella were my best friends in the sixth grade at Melrose School in Memphis.
The scene was on the playground at recess after lunch. I won’t go into the pretend marriage between a boy I liked and myself, but it was on this occasion that my three friends—who were getting me ready for the pretend wedding—decided that the clothes that I was wearing were just “too ugly” for the “wedding.”
Vidella decided to lend me her pink sweater to cover up what I was wearing. I had never had such a soft lovely piece of clothing that I could remember. I felt beautiful in the sweater. The photo that resulted showed me posing as if I were a movie star, with head thrown back to highlight the grin on my face and one hand behind my head for good measure.
Another photo that reminds me of how clothes can be an uplift or a downer was taken when I was fourteen. Although I had moved to live with my mother in Chicago two years earlier, my brother had stayed with my dad. So, on the occasion of my brother’s seventh birthday, my mother and I traveled back to Memphis.
The birthday party was something of a reunion, in that the kids I had played with when I lived in that neighborhood were there. My living in Chicago would have been something to increase my status among the kids if it had not been for what I was wearing.
Cute shorts and tops with sandals were the expected standard for the girls. Why, then, was I wearing my one-piece green gym suit from school with the elastic waist and elastic mid-thigh? I had no cute shorts and tops. The gym suit was my only option to keep cool in the heat of August in Memphis. Needless to say, I tried to stay out of sight as much as possible.
During the time when I was applying to colleges, my mother was losing jobs. She told me that there was no money to pay for my senior pictures. Understanding the situation, I told her that I would take the pictures and, if there was money when it was time to pay for the pictures, we would buy them.
The instructions for the photos was that the girls were to wear a black sweater and white pearls. My only sweater was a drab, olive-green, nubby-like sweater that looked as if it needed a clothes shaver. It was totally wrong for the picture. I didn’t have pearls either. My mother had some gold-painted beads that I paired with the ugly sweater.
When it was time to buy the pictures, my mother had the needed money. It was later that I found out that she had pawned the treasured wedding rings that my stepfather had given her in order to have the money for my senior pictures. With new eyes, I not only felt bad that she had pawned the rings; I felt even worse than bad because I had complained about not having a black sweater and white pearls.
Clothes don’t make the person.
It’s not what you wear it’s who you are.
My mother’s parents probably used similar words and sentiments when she asked for new clothes.
My mother and a boy named Wesley Lee were the only students in the school that the teachers thought were ready to take the exams required to graduate from the eighth grade. The exams were given at the Sunflower County Seat in Mississippi (M-i-crooked letter-crooked letter-i-crooked letter-crooked letter-i-humpback-humpback-i) rather than at the school.
This trip was a very special occasion and a testament to the accomplishments of these students. My mother’s Aunt Alma (by way of marriage to my mother’s daddy’s brother) promised to get her the white dress and shoes that girl graduates were required to wear. Instead of buying new clothes and shoes, Aunt Alma gave my mother one of her old white dresses that she often wore to church and a pair of her white, old-lady, blocky-heeled shoes. The shoes were so much larger than my mother’s feet that she had to wear them with socks instead of nylons.
My mother was so embarrassed about how she looked in Aunt Alma’s clothes that, for the first time that she could remember, she was nervous and scared. Thinking about how awful she looked caused her baking soda deodorant to stop working. She could smell her sweaty underarms and was sure everyone else could too. Although she passed the exams, the memory of the shame about how she looked and felt in those clothes lasted.
Words and sentiments thought to teach and appease get passed down through generations when parents can’t afford or won’t buy their children the clothes they need and want.
I was living with my dad; my mother was living in Chicago. When my dad didn’t buy me clothes, I would write to my mother to ask her to buy me what I wanted or needed.
When all the other kids in fourth and fifth grades were wearing penny loafers, I was still wearing the scuffed white and black Oxford shoes that had been popular in previous years. The really cool kids put a nickel or dime in the slot where the penny was supposed to go. I really wanted penny loafers! I even sent my mother a picture of the shoes in case she didn’t know what they were. I never did wear penny loafers. I didn’t feel that I belonged.
When it was time for school pictures, I wrote my mother to ask her to please send me a new coat. I told her that when I took school pictures the year before, the sleeves on my coat were too short and kids laughed at how I looked. My sleeves were even shorter in the next pictures since I was wearing the same coat. I was ashamed and felt ugly.
Clothes may or may not make the person. Clothes may or may not cause others to prejudge based on what one is wearing. Clothes may or may not have an effect on one’s behavior and level of confidence. However, from my personal experience, how I think about myself in particular clothes impacts my feelings of self-confidence and ultimately how I perform the task at hand.