Me and my writer
It was special to talk to a dear friend about my writing tonight. About its content, its message, its potential.
The writer in me is rumbling right now, getting ready to settle in and work some magic.
It’s so cool.
Fairy tale
It’s Halloween. Maybe my doorbell will ring, only to reveal Prince Charming in all his glory. Hmmmm. Maybe I should have dressed up as a Princess, complete with gown and upswept hair.
That is how you manifest a Prince.
Tonic
I have fed two days worth of nasty headaches with Excedrin and homemade soup and fresh produce. Drugs mixed with nature’s medicine.
It worked.
Ahhhhh …
I’m ready to meet the man whose eyes I will look into and know that all the risks that come with true commitment are worth taking.
Yes.
Him.
Treasure
Probably the most powerful memory I will carry from the “Italians in the Arts” event at Rutgers is the sound of poet Maria Mazziotti Gillan’s booming voice. She writes about the experience of growing up Italian-American and her words resonate with me.
I looked in The Dream Book, a collection of writings by Italian-American women that is one of the prizes on my bookshelves, and found her there. Here’s a sampling:
Public School No. 18: Paterson, New Jersey
Miss Wilson’s eyes, opaque
as blue glass, fix on me:
“We must speak English.
We’re in America now.”
I want to say, “I am American.”
but the evidence is stacked against me.
My mother scrubs my scalp raw, wraps
my shining hair in white rags
to make it curl. Miss Wilson
drags me to the window, checks my hair
for lice. My face wants to hide.
At home, my words smooth in my mouth,
I chatter and am proud. In school,
I am silent; I grope for the right English
words, fear the Italian word will sprout
from my mouth like a rose.
I fear the progression of teachers
in their sprigged dresses,
their Anglo-Saxon faces.
Without words, they tell me
to be ashamed
I am.
I deny that booted country
even from myself,
want to be still
and untouchable
as these women
who teach me to hate myself.
Years later, in a white
Kansas City house,
the psychology professor tells me
I remind him of the Mafia leader
on the cover of Time magazine.
My anger spits
venomous from my mouth.
I am proud of my mother,
dressed all in black,
proud of my father,
with his broken tongue,
proud of the laughter
and noise of our house.
Remember me, ladies,
the silent one?
I have found my voice
and my rage will blow
your house down.
One poem after the other is like this. She is stunning.
I have stumbled upon treasure.
Wash woman
Slept at my parents’ house last night. Had an overnight bag with a few pairs of pants and a few tops that needed laundering. At about 7:30, after my siblings and their families had left, I announced I had a load of wash to do.
My mother, not the most spry woman on the planet. sprung off the couch with a smile on her face. “You do?” she asked, hardly containing her excitement. The next thing I knew she was filling the washing machine as I gathered the clothes. And she was already going to town pretreating a small stain on my brown turtleneck that was giving me trouble.
“OK, put them in,” she said, way too excited for me.
I opened the lid and dumped the dark clothes in.
“Mother, did you put warm water in here again?” I said.
“No! It’s cold.”
“It’s not cold.”
“Feel it. Go ahead. Feel it.”
“Fine. I believe you. All I know is my clothes last a long time because I wash them with cold water,” I said.
“That’s why you have a hard time getting stains out,” she said.
It was a parting shot as she left the room.
This is our dance.
Brunch
Went to brunch with my mother and sister in the Jersey ‘burbs today. There was a couple sitting across from us dressed in comfy Sunday attire, each reading a section of the paper as they drank coffee.
I like when couples are that comfortable with each other. Together, but separate.
It’s good.
Dose of culture
Going to an ‘Italians in the Arts’ event at Rutgers tomorrow. Nice to be able to see my peeps in a positive, smart light.
Bring it.
In the cards
Went to buy my cousin a birthday card at CVS today. He happens to be a nice guy with a smart sense of humor, so I was hoping for something clever.
I was dismayed to find almost every single funny card in the section that said “guy” was about beer. The fun of drinking too much of it. The fantasy of having it pumped in by IV. Yada, yada, yada.
Uh, hello. This is my choice? Beer or beer? Frat humor or frat humor?
The grownup men of the world should rise up in revolt.
Today
Today was one of those days where I just felt worn out. No particular reason. Probably had to do with my mind working overtime and being so active that I lost sleep last night.
Today everything felt like a strain. Even work I love. So intense does this time of transition feel.
Today I was acutely aware of what I must do to take several facets of my life to the next level. Practice what I preach, so to speak.
Today my mind was like a merry-go-round, but one that is rotating at warp speed.
Today will soon give way to tomorrow. I will slow down. I will.
