Original Myths-How Flowers Got Their Colors, Scene 1

Copyright 2011-All Rights Reserved


1. Honeybee, Hummingbird, and Butterfly

One morning, shortly after the beginning of things, a spring shower drenched Meadow, after which Rainbow, lustrous with colors, appeared in the sky.

photo credit: http://www.freenaturepictures.com/



At the north end of Meadow, Honeybee looked out of the beehive and said: "What a perfect day for my first time to collect Flower nectar."



Honeybee had spent her childhood inside the colony, learning the ropes. Now she was 21 days old--an adult and ready for her first foraging flights. Today, she was flying to the center of Meadow where, it was rumored you ought to be able to get a really big nectar load from the combine of Flowers there.

Before she left, she was told by the Nectar Gathering Supervisor that finding and gathering nectar from Flowers was just a matter of color cues. That is, a Flower's color would always guide her straight to the nectar pouch. Furthermore, the Supervisor said: "You are expressly instructed to look for blue and violet Flowers because we bees are especially attracted to these hues."

Honeybee was the type who could be relied upon to follow instructions. Sometimes, she could be a little anal about it. Most of the time, however, this trait of hers served her well. When Honeybee flew away from the hive, heading for the center of Meadow, she felt good about having been carefully instructed and she thought she was fully prepared to do her job.

When Honeybee got to the meadow, she noticed Hummingbird beating his wings at light speed as he flew back and forth, inspecting someting pale and ghostly growing amid the green blades of grass.Close by, Butterfly was doing the same, darting to and fro from one gray thing to another.



As Honeybee drew closer, she looked down at the pallid cluster of sickly looking things languishing in the middle of Meadow. She could not tell what they were, not could she see Flowers with colors anywhere.

Round and round, she flew for several minutes, looking for colors to cue her. But she found none. She was confused, so she bzzed over to Hummingbird and asked: "Is this the centerof Meadow? I was told I could find Flowers here, but I don't see any colors like blue and violet to guide me to them."

Hummingbird was just as perplexed as Honeybee. "This the right place, babycakes. Matter a fact, I been lookin m'self for orange or red Flowers to turn me on to the mother load. Been lookin for an hour and I cain't find nuthin," he admitted. "Les ask Butterfly. Them butterflies pretty good at figurin things out."

They zoomed over to Butterfly who had paused and was staring at the gray things below her. "Pardon us,"said Honey bee, "do you know where Meadow's Flowers are? I was told to look for the colors at the center of Meadow, but I can't see any colors at all. There's nothing down there except for the green grass.
So I don't know where to look."

"Same here," said Hummingbird. "It's a problem cause I gotta take in a load  a necta so's I can pay the rent, know what I mean?"

"Well, I think I've figured it out," replied Butterfly, stroking her chin. "Those drab, colorless things sticking up between the blades of grass are Flowers. At least, I believe they are."

"Say whaat?!" Hummingbird was so astonished at the very idea that he stopped beating his wings for several seconds.

Honeybee stopped bzzing, and just hung in the air speechless. She couldn't comprehend the idea. It went against everything she had been taught about life and how the world functioned. When she recovered herself, she proclaimed, "Whoever heard of Flowers without colors!"

Butterfly, who was something of a detective, had a very logical mind and she replied: "Whoever is right! But we are at the center of Meadow where Flowers are supposed to be, and, as you said, Honey bee, there's nothing down there except green grass and some pallid looking things that could possibly be Flowers. As a famous detective once said, 'Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of butterfly--or a honeybee--can invent!'"

Next: The Flowers, Scene 2

Original Myths - How Flowers Got Their Colors, Prologue

Copyright 2011-All rights Reserved

1. Prologue


At the beginning, all things came to be in this dimension by vibrating themselves into being from the engergy of All-Spirits. Each thing, as it came into this dimension was to bring its own particular color with it.

And so, the shining Sky children--Sun, Moon, Rainbow, and Stars, came to be by rippling and shimmering themselves into the heavens.

Then came the Four Sacred Elements: Earth, the Pillar, manifested itself by whirling and spinning faster than the eye can see, while Fire, the Resplendent One, flickered and crackled; Water, the elixir, surged and gushed; and Wind, the Sage, wafted and danced itself into existence.

One by one, other things vibrated themselves into existence, like Mountain, who came to be by quaking and thrusting itself up so that it stood tall and mighty against the sky, and like Valley, who dipped down so that it lay snugly beside Mountain. Plains and Meadow and Trees and Grass blazoned forth by rolling and zigzagging into the spaces where Mountain and Valley could not fit.

Then Flowers wiggled and waggled themselves into being so that they peeked out between blades of Grass sprouting on Meadow. But, alas! Something had happened to them as they vibrated!

This is the story of what (happened). And who (was brave enough to find out). And how (everything was put to right).

Next Time: Part 2- "Honeybee, Hummingbird, and Butterfly"

Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: "Scotch on the Rocks"

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Scotch on the Rocks"


"What’s Goin On?" is a scene from the story, "Scotch on the Rocks" which is in my memoir,The Mee Street Chronicles. This story is about the first time I was confronted by an alcohol counselor about my drinking. Alcoholism is a serious disease. Most people are like I was. They don't know or understand that it is a disease. Before the drinker can get help to treat it, the drinker has to first acknowledge that alcohol is a problem. Then she or he has to be willing to get help. This story is about my attitude toward my drinking at that time of my life. And what happened after I was confronted about it.



"What's Goin On?"


The five o'clock crew at Allen's Lounge was off and running. The place buzzed like a busy hive. What's goin on? I heard Marvin Gaye ask over the chattering hum of the crowd. Home free! That's what's goin on, I answered in my head while situating myself on a barstool. No alcohol counselor and his stupid questions around here! I nodded hello to the regulars lining the bar like pigeons waiting for bread crusts. Behind the bar, Allen, tall as an ostrich and dark as bitter chocolate, counted bills and change to balance the cash register. Jay iced down the beer while Les, looking like a sad-eyed, basset hound, poured up half-dozen drink orders as Katie, the waitress, reeled them off.

I lit a cigarette and glanced up at the huge, lighted mirror in front of me. Scattered at tables, men in blue or gray work uniforms, just getting off from work at Whirlpool or Alcoa, drank quarts of Budweiser or shots of whiskey, smoked cigarettes, traded lies, hawked the women, and speculated on which one might want a just-for-tonight lover. The women, in bright colors, sat in groups of two's and three's, cutting their eyes at each other, whispering behind their hands, or throwing their heads back in noisy laughter. Most of them sipped pretty drinks—the kind I never had much use for—like Tom Collins or Tequila Sunrise, although some toyed with a glass of beer.

I caught Jay's eye and winked. He was a beauty. An x-rated honey-dripper. Cinnamon skin, thick eyelashes, naturally arched eyebrows, sculpted, full lips. And so good in bed that I could pretend my woman-jones didn't exist. Sometimes, all his sexiness and beauty triggered my inferiority complexes. At other times, my ego swelled with the idea that a sugah-lump like him had picked me to be his woman.

"What's up?" I asked as he came toward me

He shrugged, slapping a napkin on the counter. "Gonna be jumpin in here tonight. Allen's got me working the night shift, so I won't get by your place until 2:30. You want your usual? It's on me."

"Yeah, scotch on the—"

He finished it. "Rocks, lemon slice, water back."

"What else?" I smiled.

He grinned at me and started to pour. As he did, a voice hollered out.

"Give her another!" It was Sylvester sitting at the other end of the bar; he slammed two quarters down for Jay. I waved at Syl and nodded my thanks. He, in turn, lifted his shot glass ceremoniously in salute.

Jay put two drinks in front of me, went down the bar to collect for it, rang up the order, and trotted off to the john.

I shifted my sight to the mirror behind the bar. It ran the length of the wall. The bottles, in front of it, artfully arranged in stair-step fashion, caught my eye. Like ladies of the night displaying their wares to the highest bidder, the shimmering liquor winked and promised good times: Scotch in emerald green bottles, whiskey in topaz brown bottles, vodka and gin in diamond-clear bottles. I picked up my glass and sipped. Nothing like the first scotch of the day, I told myself while savoring the bitter, slightly oily taste of J & B.

A good feeling began to settle over me. But before the good feeling could make itself at home, out of nowhere, I heard the counselor ask: Do you want to quit?

Spooked, I glanced over my shoulder, frowning as I scanned the crowd. Was that asshole of an alcohol counselor in here? Did he follow me to Allen's? But, no. There were only Black folks here, getting down to some serious partying. I stared into the golden liquid in my glass. Do you want to quit? He’d asked me. An icy tremor passed through me. How could I give it up? My palms felt clammy and I wiped them together.

There'd been times when I'd thought about it. Especially when I'd come into Allen’s, and somebody at the bar would ask me if I remembered what I'd done the night before. I hated that question. It shamed me. They knew what I'd done, but I didn't. It was unnerving because a big, black hood had dropped down over my brain. What I'd done the night before was gone. Wiped clean. When someone asked me, I'd drop my eyes, afraid that I'd made a fool of myself. Afraid that somebody was going to rib me for it and I wouldn’t be able to, couldn’t play it off. How could I when last night was a bunch of empty pages scrolling in my head?

I pulled on my cigarette. Why couldn't I remember? What was happening? Maybe I should seriously consider quitting. But when that line of thought came to mind, I had to have a drink since thinking about quitting was unnerving. By the time I'd finished drinking and thinking, mother scotch had moved the whole idea to the back burner.

What's goin on? Marvin asked me, his voice fading on the last notes of the song. I took a long swallow of scotch, almost draining the glass as The Isley's kicked "Love the One You With" into high gear. It was then that the door swung open so hard that the hinges squeaked and sang. I turned my head to see who was coming in. There at the entrance stood Jay's wife—a harmless-looking, brown terrier with the soul of a war dog. For a millisecond, she was motionless; then, she swooped in.

Thank God, Jay was in the john. If she had come in a few minutes earlier, she'd have caught me sitting here carrying on with him. But she didn't need to catch me to know I was guilty. When Jay was here, nine times out of ten, I was, too. Marsha knew, like everybody else in Evansville, that I was Jay's sideline woman. It was a common practice. Husbands took lovers; wives looked the other way. Marsha didn't frequent the bars, so ordinarily Allen's Lounge was safe territory for me and Jay. But not, it seemed, today. In the mirror, I watched her double-timing it straight to me, her jaws tighter than Dick's hatband. She stomped up beside me and stopped, hand on her hip, glaring. Without looking at her, I lifted my glass to drink, weighing the threat of danger her presence signaled while cold sweat inched down my stomach.

"What the hell," she addressed me in ringing tones, loud enough for everyone to take notice, "do you think you're doin in here with Jay?"

At the sound of her voice, the bar's noisy crowd suddenly came to attention, slipping into the I-was-a-witness mode, drinks forgotten as eyes turned to watch local drama.

Marsha moved a step closer. "Ain't I tole you bout this shit before?"

Survival instinct screamed for me to get the hell out of the bar, but my feet had turned to concrete. Careful not to look her in the face, I took a drag on my Pell Mell and tapped some ashes off the tip.

She took the drama up a notch, playing to every person in the room. "I hope," she proclaimed, "you don't think I'ma jus sit back in some corner while you fuck around with my husband."

I could feel her breath on my neck. Was she going to jump me? My heart was thumping in time with the record's beat. Since I'd never been a fighter, I had zero confidence about myself when it came to fisty-cuffs, but if she made a move to beat my ass, would I just sit here and let her?

The crowd hung with bated breath on every word. She huffed and puffed for them. "I'ma tell you one more time to leave Jay alone."

I kept silent, gambling that she'd interpret my silence as browbeaten humiliation and leave me be.

She pronounced her final threat with a flourish. "Don't let me have to tell you bout this shit no more!" A dramatic pause, and then: "You hear me?"

The challenge hung in the air. Despite the fact that I was shivering in my boots, the smart-ass in me finally reared its head, ready to deliver me to the hangman's noose. I opened my mouth with the intention of sarcastically assuring Marsha that I had, indeed, heard her. But Jay glided up before I could say a word, and quickly steered her out of the bar.

(end)

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Love Song IX: La Loba

Copyright 2009-All Rights Reserved

La Loba: Women of the Wolves

passing
like smoke
through
cracks in stars

we glide
as one

from
veiled
underbrush

out
of shadowed
mountain fog

tread softly

gliding
beneath
silver moon beams

see us:
beautiful la loba
women of the wolves

prowling
margins
between worlds

outrunning
the winds of time

riding bareback
together
into the unknown.

see us:
la loba

you and I
moving as one
never apart

women wild
born
to run with wolves

born
one soul-spirit
born
paired and
mated for all time

together
we

guard each other’s soul
we
sleep the same dreams
drink each other’s breath
we
swim in each other’s blood.

shapeshifting
mysterious
la loba

see us:

dancing life
back into
our once-deadened souls

singing love
to ourselves
to each other

transforming
our dried and dusty bones
our strangled selves

see us:

slipping
out of boxes
out of cages

crossing boundaries
crossing worlds

la loba
you and I

women who run with wolves

together
we

step out
of the hidden
the unseen

together
we

stand
at the crossroads

cradling
magic
in our
palms.


5/13/09

Love Song VIII: Dancin

Copyright 2008 – All Rights Reserved

Dancin
(To Our 1st Party- 1/08)

1.

ages ago

I wished

a secret wish
on sweet sixteen
birthday candles

I wished

I could dance
my sweet sixteen
with you

wished

us two girls
could dance
our rite of passage
together

when
the needle dropped
and the
music played

dance

just dance
like any
natural born lovers
would

all
night
long.


2.

for
so many years

when
the needle dropped
and the
music played

it was
only
your name

I wanted to see
on my
dance card

it was
only
you

forever
you

I’d set
my heart
on

you

I wished
would come

dance
with me

wished
would come

fill
my arms

fill
my life

for always.


3.

instead
when
the needle dropped

time

danced
between us

time

filled
my arms

with
an
eternity

of
undanced
dances

of
hollow
desert
years

without
the music
of
you.


4.

now

after years
lost
and
long
with
waiting

tonight

my wish
of sweet sixteen
comes true

tonight
this night
we dance

when the
needle drops
and the
music plays

we dance
our rite of passage
long denied

dance
our dance

at last

two women
smiling in each other’s eyes
dancin

two women
movin and groovin
dancin

two women
fearless and free
dancin

two women
natural born lovers
together
forever

dancin

all
life
long.

6/15/08

Family Album 7

Copyright 2009-All Rights Reserved

Claire Marguerite Lovejoy Lennon (Sept. 24, 1902 – Aug. 18, 1992)

Aunt Claire and Uncle Matt couldn’t have children, but she was the kind of woman that kids and teenagers automatically fell in love with. A listener who always had time for you. Someone who explained things. Soft-spoken. Empathetic. Understanding. She was the kind you wished, when you were a teenager, that you could have as a mother when you’d messed up with your own for the third time and knew you were going down for it. In a time when folks were making Ma Bell rich with their long distance calling, Aunt Claire was an old-fashioned letter-writer. And a very good one. In another time—a later era, she might have tried her hand at writing as a profession. She used to write me very long letters when I was in high school and college. They got shorter as I got older, but letter writing was something she did all her life.

Aunt Claire was born in Warm Springs, Georgia. Her obituary says that she was one of four children and that her parents began their children’s education at home. Apparently they did so well that when Aunt Claire entered school at 6 ½, she was placed in the third grade. She started teaching when she was seventeen.

Like everybody else who taught school then, she was a product of “the normal school” which was set up specifically for public teacher education. After finishing it, you could teach right away. This kind of school is not to be confused with the colleges that existed in the late nineteen and early twentieth century for the upper classes (code words for rich White people); those colleges, by the way, looked down on normal schools as “poor relations”, so to speak, that educated teachers for the “common” or public schools which were for the “unrich” masses. Later Aunt Claire went on to college—Georgia State, Tuskeegee, and Atlanta University—because we all know Black folks have to do double or triple the amount White folks do, just to qualify.

By the time I was born, she was Superintendent at Allen High, a private school for girls. Later, she worked as an administrator at Palmer School, and later, still, she worked with the YWCA. Eventually, she went to Spelman College with Uncle Matt and served for a time as First Lady of the College since the President, at the time, had no wife to fill that role for the college.

I once saw a picture of Aunt Claire as a young girl and I have to say I didn’t recognize her at all. She looked like a White girl—a gorgeous White girl. That means, of course, that she could’ve passed if she’d wanted to. Obviously, she—like a whole lot of others who could’ve passed—didn’t want to. She told me about the time after Uncle Matt had died when she shared a cab with some White women also living at the same large retirement complex as she. They were all going to a concert in Asheville. Some of the women in the cab knew each other, but none of them knew her. On the way, a couple of them began talking about Black folks, making observations that were, to say the least, unflattering—and demeaning. Thinking they were all “one of a kind”, the silver-haired duennas pulled out all the stops, holding nothing back in their conversation, showing—in a manner of speaking—their true colors. Then, one of the old ladies turned and asked Aunt Claire what she thought. Aunt Claire opined that since she was Black, she thought…. Well, you can see where that went. They turned red and clamed up, mumbling some inane excuses and half-hearted apologies. She smiled to herself and proceeded to have herself a good ole time at the concert.

I tell you this story to show you that ladies of her day either decided to pass as White or they declared for Black. No half-stepping code words like “Biracial” to set themselves apart and tell the world they were light-skinned folks who could pass if they had the nerve to do it. No, sir. They didn’t live in the world of gray, being neither this, nor that. They were Colored folks—and damned proud of it.

Family Album 6

Copyright 2009-All Rights Reserved

Madison C. Benjamin Lennon (March 26, 1909 – Spring, 1976)

Uncle Matt held a distinctly romantic aura for me and I fell completely under his spell. I had heard from bits and pieces of grown-up conversation that he had been a road musician, that he had traveled “all over” as a member of a jazz band. I wonder now how a p.k.—preacher’s kid got away with that. It wasn’t a respectable occupation for Black folks in the 1920’s, 30’s, or 40’s.

Uncle Matt was born in Savannah, Georgia and grew up there as well as in Daytona Beach, Florida where he attended Bethune-Cookman High School which was later named Bethune-Cookman College (one of the historic Black colleges). His junior college years were at Morristown Junior College in Tennessee. Then came his discovery of his feel for music during the years at Wilberforce. He said that his major was Political Science and had planned to go into Law, but he got deeply involved with a band on campus and a love affair with the music muse was born. Uncle Matt told me that from 1930 to 1932, he was on the road with various jazz bands—the Chocolate Drops, for one, and Zack White’s Beau Brummels, for another. Later, I found out he was on the road for about three years immediately following his graduation from Ohio’s Wilberforce University. Marriage to Aunt Claire in 1933 soon put an end to musician’s road life.

He got his Master’s in music at Ohio State University and did further work at Columbia, U. of Wisconsin, U. of North Carolina. So he was well-rounded, variously experienced and definitely qualified to step into the classroom. His teaching life started in LaGrange, Georgia and eventually took him to Asheville, North Carolina in 1941. It was there that as Director of Bands, his bands at segregated Stephens-Lee High consistently made their mark as the state’s best marching-concert bands, often walking off with first place honors in competitions.

Asheville was a 3-hour drive from Knoxville over the Smokey Mountains so going over there was a treat that we did only so often. When we did go to visit Uncle Matt and Aunt Claire, my favorite aunt and uncle, I could see how the students loved him. They called him “Doc” Lennon there. He got a lot of respect, as did his band. Though I only got to watch his band a few times, a blind person could see that they were A-Number One; they could even beat Austin’s band with their unique marching style—which was a definite crowd pleaser. I remember that the drum line set a wicked beat and the drum major and majorettes behind him gave us a performance that had you clapping and hollering. I heard people often compare his band to the revered Florida A & M State (another historic Black college) that routinely turned out the very best in college marching bands—White or Black. After integration closed the doors of Stephens-Lee, Uncle Matt went to Atlanta to teach at Spellman College (yet another historic Black college) as Director of Instrumental Music from 1966 until he retired in 1973. After he retired, he organized and directed a rhythm band with Asheville Senior Citizens until he died. I think it was Asheville High School that established a music scholarship in his memory for deserving young musicians planning to go to college.

Uncle Madison was my music man. My Jazzy Boo. He was so cool. I do miss him.

Woman Series: Women Who Run with the Wolves-Part II

Copyright 2009- All Rights Reserved

It is useful to make sure that we understand how the word wild or Wild Woman is used by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes in her book, Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. Wild is not used in negative sense, meaning out of control, but “in original sense of living a natural life, one in which a creature has innate integrity and healthy boundaries.” Wild is defined as: Occurring in a natural state, not cultivated; Uninhabited or uncultivated region, not inhabited; Extravagant; fantastic.

Though we are born with our wildish nature, we women have been “civilized” into rigid roles and that has “muffled the deep, life-giving messages of our own souls.” We are repressed, captured, pushed down, forbidden, cut back, diluted, tortured, weakened, sanitized, unnatural, consumed by others.

Estes tells us: “Within every woman there is a wild and natural creature, a powerful force, filled with good instincts, passionate creativity, and ageless knowing. Her name is Wild Woman but she is an endangered species.”

“The Wild Woman,” says Estes, “is the female soul… the source of the feminine…all that is of instinct, of the worlds both seen and hidden… all the instincts and knowings needed for our lives.”

Dr. Estes contends that when we women lose touch with the instinctive soul, we live in a state where we are cut away from our basic source. The purpose of her book of stories is to help women find a way to live their instinctive lives.

She says:
“This is a book of women’s stories, held out as markers along the path. The stories were chosen to embolden you. They are for you to read, contemplate, and follow toward your own natural-won freedom, your caring for self, animals, earth, children sisters, lovers, and men. …the doors to the world of Wild Woman are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”

You might ask: What fruit, what flowers, what life nourishment—spiritual, emotional, physical, mental—for body and soul is there in these stories?

One answer is in this quotation from Estes. “If a story is seed, then we [the listeners] are its soil,” says Estes. The stories in the book are “seeds” and women or the listeners are the “soil.” Living things are born in and from the soil. Living things are nourished and nurtured there. Living things are protected and given strength and sustenance there. Hopefully, the fruit or flower that will bloom from the listener’s “soil” is a woman's inner life being set in motion which leads a woman back to her own real life as "knowing wildish women.”

Estes believes that “stories are medicine… with such power that we need only listen” to find remedy, restoration, repair of any lost psychic, soul or spirit drive. Such is her goal in this book of intriguing tales, myths, stories. I urge you to listen to these stories to find your way to healing paths. Listen to them and find your way to the Wild Woman within you.

Wild women live their instinctive lives...their true lives.

Do you?

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D. Publisher-Ballantine Books, 1992.
End

Storyteller II: The Journey, A Story of Humankind

Copyright 2008- All Rights Reserved

Most stories we love are essentially those that tell us about someone else’s journey. Human beings love stories that tell about struggles, challenges, dangers on the road of life. We love to go on the adventure to witness the battles, the hardships, the ordeals that somebody fights through to get that prize (an object, a fortune, a person, freedom, knowledge, maturity, love etc.), the“treasure” at the end that’s worth all the hell endured. We love these stories because we want to know what the story’s main character did to make it through. We’re curious about how somebody climbed over the hurdles, vanquished the monsters, and outsmarted the villains--how that somebody ended up with the “treasure” sought after and hard won. It’s an age-old story line. There are many, many variations on this theme.

When I teach this age-old, universal theme in a literature class, I tell my college students that it shows itself in cultures worldwide. They may not be interested, but I find it to be fascinating that we, no matter who we are, tell this story again and again to ourselves, and that we’ve told it for ages. In literature, we call this theme The Quest or The Journey. Journey stories portray, in a straightforward or symbolic way, the very basic human experiences that give us the following message over and over again: Life is a journey of various stages, each having its own problems to be overcome, but each with its own potential rewards.

The Quest is a story… about adventure, about self-discovery, about possibilities and transformation. It’s a story that tells us to have faith and hold on… that tells us it really is possible to triumph over the things inside us that would cripple or restrict us…that it really is possible to triumph over forces outside of ourselves that would stop us cold. Just have faith and hold on. Because it’s not the treasure at the end, it’s the treasure you get for going. It’s the treasure you get from facing what happens along the way: when you struggle, wrestle with the problem that seems so big and bad that you think it’s gonna eat your ass up; it’s the treasure you get when the questions in your head make you unsure of yourself and the choices you’re making. Do I really want to do this? You say to yourself when things get hairy. Isn’t there an easier, softer way? You start to wonder when those ordeals show up to kick your ass. The thing is: It’s not the destination but the journey that matters. And it will change you. Because The Journey tests you. Transforms you. Defines who you are because of the choices you make as you travel your road. The Journey, then, becomes the real treasure. It’s the means by which you’ve been changed. And, to me, that’s what counts: change, growth, taking your life up to another, a new level.

One of my favorite stories about The Journey is a movie trilogy, Lord of the Rings. In the first installment, The Fellowship of the Ring, the main character, Frodo undertakes a journey to return the evil ring of power to the place of its origin in order to destroy it. Frodo volunteers to go. He has an inkling that The Journey will be hard, but I don’t think he realizes, from the outset, how difficult—how frightening and full of challenges it will turn out to be. In legend and in real life, Journeys always are, but that’s the point of The Journey--to go through it and learn from it, to be transformed by it, and to bring back “the treasure” which will benefit others in some way. Traditionally, in The Quest, the Journeyer needs these three qualities above all because The Journey takes you on a treacherous, long, and really hard road of trials: persistence, courage, and insight. And I can see that you would need these things, yet there’s another thing I think you need. The Journeyer has to be willing to go. Sometimes willingness, I think, is even more essential than courage on life’s Journey. If you aren’t willing, you won’t answer when life calls you to put your foot on the road. Willingness is the better part of persistence, pushing you forward so you’ll follow through, instead of giving up when those hurdles, those obstacles, tests, and ordeals show up. Don’t get me wrong. The Journey does require courage. (Courage, not just bravery; being brave isn’t quite enough. It’s courage that sends you into the lion’s den when you’re scared to death.) And you need insight, as well, to figure out things and people that you come across along the way.

Frodo is willing and does answer the call. Then, as things get really hard, because The Journey is always a hard thing to do, Frodo doesn’t want to keep going after he loses Gandoff, his mentor and guide. At that point, the Elf queen tells Frodo—who is now questioning his purpose, confused about whether to continue, and grieving the loss of Gandoff—that because the world depends on him to do this task, which is his and his alone, it won’t get done if he doesn’t complete it. That he is the Ring Bearer, but he must be willing to go. To do it. No one else can.

Now, that’s a scary thing to tell somebody…that the world is depending on you to do something that nobody else in the world can do because this task is yours alone. Wow. You better find some willingness, some courage, some persistence behind that heavy message. And you better find it fast. That is, if you’re going. Somehow though, most of us human beings look inside and find the qualities we need to take our journey. That’s a good thing because nobody else can be us, can travel our road, can complete our individual tasks. The story of The Journey encourages us to go ahead, to have faith that we can do it—whatever it is. To hang in there and do whatever it is we’re supposed to do. Because nobody else can.

I am always inspired by this universal theme called The Journey. It was Joseph Campbell, the scholar, who, some years ago, originally discovered the worldwide presence of this thematic motif in his studies of cultural myths; Campbell defined The Journey’s purpose in human society, breaking it down into stages with identifiable characters who play essential roles. I never tire of rediscovering the power of this story and I never tire of sharing my understanding of it. I invite you to look at the story of humankind through a universal lens called The Journey. It is outlined for you below.

The Journey (The Quest)
Purpose:
To answer the challenge, complete The Quest, to restore the ordinary world’s balance.
To meet difficult tests, ordeals which are part of life; to learn, to grow from them, and, ultimately, change because of these experiences, then bring back the gift or “treasure” earned and share the “treasure” with others.
A story of a heroine/hero who must separate from the ordinary, familiar world to travel on a difficult journey that promises to transform her/his life.

People on The Journey:

The Journeyer (heroine/hero) – person who needs to learn something and who will undertake hardships and sacrifice to answer the challenge of The Journey and complete it.

The Herald – something or someone appears announcing/implying the coming of significant change and issuing a challenge, problem, quest, or adventure.

Mentor/ Guide - Mentor is a wise person (or animal in fables) who provides guidance and knowledge to the Journeyer, usually gives “magical” or special gifts or advice for The Journey ahead.

Helpers, Allies – Help the Journeyer learn the rules of this “new” world.

The Other/Alter Ego – Mirrors the Journeyer in some way by representing/symbolizing our darkest desires or rejected qualities about self, or our untapped resources/abilities, or the “best” in self. This Other can be “good” or “bad.” The Other mirrors the Journeyer and meeting this person is crucial to the Journeyer who must decide to either recognize and acknowledge, to claim or not claim this part of self. If the Journeyer does not claim it, his/her growth, change/transformation cannot take place. And the quest fails.

Stages of The Journey:

Home- the known, familiar, safe haven of the everyday world of the Journeyer before the “story” begins.

The Call – A herald presents the Journeyer is presented with problem, challenge, quest, adventure to undertake to earn a reward/ “treasure.” (Journeyer may not know what the “treasure” is or that a “treasure” can be gotten.) The call can be accepted or refused. (Refusal of The Call - If Journeyer refuses call, the reason is usually fear. The call then comes again later.)

Meeting the Mentor –Journeyer meets a mentor/teacher/guide to get training & advice, to learn new skills for The Journey, to gain confidence in abilities to undertake The Journey.

The Threshold (Crossing) – The Journeyer crosses the gateway that separates the ordinary world from the special, “different” and, “new” world. This crossing tests & questions the Journeyer’s commitment The Journey and whether she/he can succeed.

Tests/Road of Trials – This stage challenges the skills, powers, abilities of the Journeyer who must undergo a series of tests. These serve as preparation for the greater ordeal yet to come. Stakes are heightened by the Journeyer confronting challenges, tests and enemies, by setbacks, hardships endured and dangers encountered by these tests. Because of setbacks, Journeyer may need to reorganize strategy or rekindle morale with help of allies and helpers.

Final Ordeal – Central trial/ life/death crisis; The Journey teeters on the brink of failure. The Journeyer faces her/his biggest fear, confronts the most difficult challenge and experiences symbolic “death.” Only through the "dying" of her/his old self can the Journeyer be reborn. “Rebirth” or change/transformation grants The Journeyer greater insight, wisdom, “power” to see the Journey to the end.

Reward/Treasure -The Journeyer has overcome her/his biggest fear, confronted the most difficult challenge, survived death, now earns reward. Reward is the “treasure” earned/sought. Could be an object, or knowledge, “gift,” a blessing, or love that will now be put to use in the everyday world the Journeyer will return to. Often it will have a restorative or healing function but it also serves to define the hero’s role in her/his society.

Transformation- Journeyer is changed by experiences of The Journey and returns to ordinary world with the “power” (knowledge, gift, wisdom, skills, etc.) to be a boon to others.

Love Song VIII: Dancin (For January 2008)

Copyright 2008 – All Rights Reserved


1.

ages ago

I wished

a secret wish
on sweet sixteen
birthday candles

I wished

I could dance
my sweet sixteen
with you

wished

us two girls
could dance
our rite of passage
together

when
the needle dropped
and the
music played

dance

just dance
like any
natural born lovers
would

all
night
long.



2.

for
so many years

when
the needle dropped
and the
music played

it was
only
your name

I wanted to see
on my
dance card

it was
only
you

forever
you

I’d set
my heart
on

you

I wished
would come

dance
with me

wished
would come

fill
my arms

fill
my life

for always.



3.

instead
when
the needle dropped

time

danced
between us

time

filled
my arms

with
an
eternity

of
undanced
dances

of
hollow
desert
years

without
the music
of
you.



4.

now

after years
lost
and
long
with
waiting

tonight

my wish
of sweet sixteen
comes true

tonight
this night
we dance

when the
needle drops
and the
music plays

we dance
our rite of passage
long denied

dance
our dance

at last

two women
smiling in each other’s eyes
dancin

two women
movin and groovin
dancin

two women
fearless and free
dancin

two women
natural born lovers
together
forever

dancin

all
life
long.

6/15/08

Knoxville Remembered Series: Sports or The Curse of the Flying Ball

Copyright 2008-All rights Reserved

When I was growing up, there was one pool in Knoxville where Black people could learn to swim—on the west side at Edward Cothren Pool. In summer, Mama sent me to learn. Janice was usually there too. And Calvin, who eventually became her husband. Easy swimmers, I called those two. They stroked the water like they lived in it. I wasn’t an easy swimmer, but I loved being in the water, and so swimming became something special to me—something I could do well and loved.

One of the reasons I took to the sport of swimming, I think, was I considered it something all my own. Let me explain. Both my parents made their living as gym teachers and when I was growing up, people just expected me to be good at sports. Why? Because they assumed that the whole family would be good at sports. Like it was in the blood, so to speak. It wasn’t. Truth be told, Mama was really an English major in college. The only reason she had this job as a gym teacher because that was the only opening at Austin when she applied, and, thanks to old Jim Crow, Austin was the only high school in Knoxville where you could teach if you were Black. And that was really how sports came to be what she did for a living.

As for me, I was not good at your everyday sports. “Not good” is a kind understatement, “lousy” is a more accurate description. As a kid, I longed to be able to jump rope, my playmates singing chants to keep time while the rope slapped the ground. Didn’t happen. They’d be swinging the rope, I’d jump in, get tangled up, and fall. And forget Jacks. No matter that Evelyne tried to teach me how to play this game where you pick up as jacks as possible before the little ball hit the ground. No way. I could never master it.

I was great at climbing trees, at the swings, and at hand-walking Jungle Gym bars, but those weren’t group games, which I just couldn’t seem to pull off. Swimming, though, that was a different thing. I took to it like a natural. Not like me and softball. Not like me and volleyball. I have to admit that it was a point of pride with me that I could swim fairly well when most Black people in Knoxville didn’t know how to swim.

Even Daddy couldn’t swim. And he was Mr. Sports personified— the revered coach and gym teacher. The reason he’d never learned goes back to his mother who’d dreamed, one night, that he drowned. This scared her so badly that she’d warned him never to go into the water, and he never did. At first, Mama couldn’t swim either; she learned to swim along with me, but I was better at it because I got to spend more time doing it than she did. I can tell you, the best things about swimming, to me: number one, there were no balls that I had to hit or catch; number two, it didn’t require the kind of hand-eye coordination that was my nemesis; and, number three, it wasn’t a team sport.

Unfortunately, at Vine Junior High, I was faced with having to take gym, and those group games I was so bad at playing came back to slap me in the face, reinvented with a new name: team sports. This time, I couldn’t avoid them. Everybody had to take gym every year. And to make the situation even worse, Mama was my teacher.

In autumn, Mama had us playing volleyball. That was unfortunate because when I played volleyball, my feet inevitably tangled up as I looked up, reaching, with both hands, for the volleyball coming my way. My feet would tangle and that’s when I’d fall on the player in front of me, or I’d collide with the player next to me. The other team loved it. My teammates did not.

In winter, Mama had the class playing basketball. She’d point to a couple of girls to be opposing captains, usually somebody like Pansy or Rosalyn or Janice or Judy. Then, the captains called out the names of girls they wanted on their team. Do I need to tell you that I was always one of the last chosen? Always last—after Charlene and Bea. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, and I got fed up with it, but I couldn’t really blame them. Who’d want somebody playing guard position who was so scared of fumbling and falling that she hardly ever moved around on the court? That meant girl I was guarding always got to make a lot of baskets when I was on the floor. My teammates, of course, didn’t like that.

Even the other losers in class who couldn’t play well enough to save their souls got disgusted with me. Folk got real savage about winning the game, you see. So, I resolved to do better next time. Next time came and I found myself guarding Juanita who was moving all over the court like a jackrabbit. I gritted my teeth with resolution, determined to do better, and desperately tried to keep up with her. She faked to her left, and darted forward. At that moment, I lunged at her, heavily off balance, tripping myself up and lurching into her.

Of course, Judy, who was refereeing the game, had to call a foul. She sighed and gave me one of her Judy-looks that said: "I want to cut you a break, but all you seem to know how to do is throw a wrench in the works." After Juanita got her free throw, scoring off my foul, we began again with her moving this way and that way, and me lunging around like a lumbering cow. It was beyond frustrating to me to try to guard somebody darting around on the floor. Why didn’t she stop moving so I could do my job?

Finally, in a reckless attempt to do better for my team, I simply snatched the ball away from her. Well, I can tell you that didn’t go over well. Not with Juanita, who started shouting at the referee to do something. Not with Judy, who was blowing the whistle at me in a long, aggravated screech. Not with my groaning teammates. Not with my mother, who looked at me like I was an idiot. In the end, I ended up on the bench for the rest of the period.

Come springtime, it was softball that was my nemesis.

Once more, I’d always be the last one picked for a team since it was widely known among my classmates that catching the ball was simply beyond me. Because it would have been plain foolishness to put me on one of the bases, I was always assigned an obscure outfield position.

One fine day, after they’d put me out there, Pansy made a hit that stopped both teams cold. Everybody watched the ball go up, up, up into the blue, looking as if it would outrace gravity and never come back down again. Eventually, gravity snagged it; and, slowly, it began to curve down to the ground. Down, and down, and down, it sailed, coming into the field area where Judy, Charlene, Beverly, and I were positioned. As I watched the ball, it suddenly occurred to me that I might be expected to do something... to-- Ohmigod!--catch this thing.

At this revelation, I looked to my right. Judy was running, eyes up tracking the ball as fell downward, her hands out to make the catch. I looked to my left, and there was Charlene, who, like me, lacked the athletic prowess to catch anything--there she was, caution thrown to the wind, making tracks for the ball, too. Behind me, deep in the outfield, Beverly was coming up, full steam ahead, legs pumping, dust flying, looking like the Roadrunner. I looked up at the ball again and trembled. What was I to do? This one, I calculated, was coming in like a cannonball—picking up speed as it dropped, so it would hit somebody or something—hard!

Here was my problem. Flying balls terrified me. I had gotten hit so many times when I was little, standing on the sidelines as my parents’ basketball teams played, that now, the moment a flying ball came my way, I froze, not sure whether to run, put my hands over my face and head, or try to catch it.

Staring up at the ball, I decided right then, it wasn’t going to be me trying to catch this thing that could maim me for life. Let the others come and get it. Let them get knocked senseless. There’d be no more flying balls going upside my head. This ball was not going to make me its target. Not today.

And I stepped back and out of Judy’s way. She caught the ball in a fluid, one-handed jump that was a beautiful thing to see. Her catch won us the game. Our team was still cheering as Mama sent me to the showers. And believe me, I was glad to go.

It makes for a funny story now, but back then, I wasn’t going to risk life and limb for a flying ball. Not then, and not now. No, sir. Not me. So, you can see what I meant when I say I was lousy at team sports.

But I’m not at lousy at swimming.

In the pool, the green-blue water laps at my arms; the smell of chlorine is strong and clean in my nostrils, and the feel of the water on my legs is like luxurious silk. I’m the only one swimming in the regular lane for lap swimmers.

No team members here. No group games. And no flying balls either.

Thank you, Jesus!

(end)

Knoxville Remembered Series: Old Austin

Copyright 2008 -All Rights Reserved

In my time, Austin High was the only high school that Black kids could attend in Knoxville, Tennessee. Jim Crow ruled as law and lord of the land in the South, and that was the way things were until public school integration in 1964 or thereabouts when the Knoxville had to cave in to the Supreme Court’s decision.

The original Austin was built at 327 Central Street in 1897 by the efforts of Miss Emily Austin who came South during Reconstruction, just as many Whites did, to teach Black people. That Austin was built to educate “coloreds” (the politically correct terminology in that day) from ages six to eighteen and it graduated students who completed the tenth grade; later, in the Roaring Twenties, Austin added the eleventh grade, and, finally, in 1936, the twelfth. By then, the city had constructed the Vine Street Austin, old Austin—the one I still dream about. This was the Austin where I grew up, where I was like a mascot, adopted by faculty, staff, and students. I called this one “old” Austin because by 1952, a new Austin went up right next door; then, old Austin became Vine Junior High.

At both Austins, my daddy—Coach “Dusty” George H. Lennon—was the Physical Education teacher, the Head Coach for football, basketball, and the occasional track and field event. That was his job way before I was born and he kept it until integration. When Daddy was Austin’s football coach, games in Knoxville were nighttime affairs because we had to “borrow” a White school’s playing field at night since we had none of our own.

On the afternoon of Austin’s games, the band paraded through the Black community down Vine Street, and on up—uptown—to Gay Street, majorettes strutting their stuff, drumsticks tapping a snappy beat, the Band Director, Mr. Cobb, dressed to the nines in white shoes, white socks, and a uniform suit of white with gold trim on his hat and epaulettes. Everybody turned out to see the band. Because everybody’s child went to Austin sooner or later, and it was likely that a band member or majorette or cheerleader was a sister or a cousin; and if kin wasn’t a band member or cheerleader, then perhaps one of them was your neighbor’s child, or the child of a fellow church or club member.

When we were very little, Janice Tate and I were the band’s tiny tot mascots, marching just behind the drum majorette. I remember we were still living on Mee Street then, so I hadn’t made it to second grade yet. I must have been in kindergarten, at least. Janice, too because she and I were always in the same class. We were small enough to be “cute” but not big enough to last throughout the entire march. I remember that Daddy would pace us in his car so that from time to time Janice and I could scramble into the front seat and rest for a few blocks before jumping out and marching again. I liked being the band’s mascot—liked marching to the rhythms of the drum line—like showing off my little legs, even though I was convinced that Janice had prettier ones—liked being recognized by the community folks—and I liked the attention the drum majorette gave us.

In a very real way, Austin’s band was our community property; all Black folks owned a piece of it. When they heard the “Street Beat”—a syncopated rhythm beat out by the drum line without accompanying music—they poured out of their houses and watched, beaming with pride, as the band marched by, not a foot out of step. They shouted compliments like—“ Go on, girl! Do yo thang, baby! Y’all know you tuff stuff!”—and sent the band, smiling, on their way to the next block. The community held them high in esteem; we just knew Austin had the baddest band in town.

White folk downtown on Gay street turned out too—bankers, merchants, sales girls, and shoppers alike. They loved the performance: a high-stepping band dressed in spiffy-looking, orange and blue uniforms, playing a toe-tapping-head-nodding-hip-shaking beat, and to top it off, they were led by a drum majorette—always good-looking, tall hat, short, peekaboo skirt, tasseled boots, showing off the kind of legs that White “cheesecake” movie stars of the time, like Betty Grable and Jane Russell, wished they had.

The band was always one of my very favorite things about Austin, where the world was all Black. To me, Austin housed a village—elders, griots, mentors, all of them, extended family. There was gangly Mr. Davis, the principal, and the pigeon-toed, bespeckled Mr. Ford, a musical genius who regularly turned out top-grade Choral Arts choirs. There was dark-haired Madame Stokes, our French teacher, whose eyeglass frames matched her colorful blouses—pink frames today, and tomorrow pastel blue or lavender ones. And, of course, there was Mama, the English major turned girls’ basketball coach and gym teacher. When I had to miss first grade, Mama would take me and my tricycle to school with her and I’d turn Austin’s gym into my own personal race track when no one was around. And when I got bored, I’d run outside and sit in the dust, watching Daddy and his boys at football practice.

That Austin, like that Knoxville exists now in my dream time. Integration marched in and kicked ole Jim Crow segregation out. And other things. For one thing, school integration killed off the jobs of a lot of Black teachers and coaches all over the South. I realize today, to my sorrow, that integration —in education, in public spheres, in the marketplace, to name just a few—killed a great many other things as well—among them our community cohesiveness, our sense of worth, and a lot of idealistic values based on something finer than greed and conspicuous consumption. Back in the day, Black folk championed integration—had high hopes for it, in fact. Who knew that it would backfire in our faces? When school integration came, for example, Daddy had seniority over other White coaches and teachers, but the powers that be swept that aside. Daddy’s track record as the “winning-est” coach in East Tennessee, Black or White, mattered not. The powers put him at the previously all-White Fulton High where he was to serve as assistant to the White coach. But that didn’t happen. Probably because the coach was too intimidated by Daddy’s winning record and experience to let him near the football field or the basketball court; so unhappily, Daddy ended up being study hall monitor all day, every day for the rest of his days until retirement. When Daddy died in 1980, The Knoxville News-Sentinel headlined his death calling him a “Giant Among Area Coaches” and The Knoxville Journal said “he maintained a brilliant winning record in both football and basketball.”

The Knoxville of my growing up—the one where I’d see a “White Only” sign over the water fountain at Kresge’s five and dime—exists no more. That Knoxville, where I only saw white people when I went uptown with Mama to go to the bank and pay bills, is no more. That Knoxville is gone. Gone is that time when we could only go to Chilhowee Park on Thursdays—the day when White kids and their parents stayed away because Black kids and their parents were allowed in to ride the merry-go-round and the ferris wheel. Our place to swim--Edward Cothern Pool, the only place we could go swimming to cool down summer’s heat--is gone. So is The Gem Theater on Vine and Central, serving up second or third run Hollywood B movies to us Black kids who could only see movies there or in the balcony of the Bijou. All of those things have vanished. Time rolled in and rearranged things--as time always does.

Yes, like the old song said: Time brings about a change. Time merged the two Knoxvilles—one White and the other Black—into one. Time changed Knoxville, just as time changed Austin so many times. The 1952 Austin—the one I graduated from—is no more. Now there’s another called Austin-East High School. Which was supposed to school both Blacks and Whites. Supposed to.

Change is not always easy to swallow. But life is change.

The city named the football field at Austin-East for Daddy while he was still alive. And I liked that. I like remembering Old Austin because that memory is part of what defines me. Austin's legacy is still around. And I like knowing that. It's good to know that there’s still an Austin around in Knoxville, Tennessee.