Before Eighteen

I am on thought overload this evening.

I seriously can't focus on any of the things I want to blog about. You can expect some posts in the near future about: why almost all of the black men in my family are dead and the women aren't, lynching, the latest zogby poll questions I got in my email, Stanford University's tuition changes, recurring dreams and whether you'd stay with someone who cheats... but it's just not flowing tonight. I can't focus my writing because I have too much to think about.

My saving grace is that I have been tagged by I Am Not Star Jones (love that name btw) over at The Unemployment Cafe. Here are the rules:

1. Post these rules before presenting your list.
2. List 6 actions or achievements you think every person should accomplish before turning 18.
3. There are no conditions on what can be included on the list.
4. At the end of your blog, choose 6 people to get tagged and list their names.
5. People who are tagged write their own blog entry with their 6 suggestions.
6. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged.

This is a hard one for me because my main focus from ages 12-17 was doing really well in high school so that I could get into a top college and get enough scholarships/financial aid to attend. I didn't think accomplishing much else was absolutely essential. Everything else was a nice to have. I still think doing well in school and getting into a top college is the job of a teenager. But, I'll give this a go:

1) Read a book a week: I know, it sounds daunting but being literate is one of the best gifts you can give yourself. And heck, you have no kids, no rent or mortgage to pay, and if you tell your mom you can't wash dishes right now because you're reading and right at the exciting part of the story, guess what, your mom isn't going to complain. She'll be too busy saying, "Thank you, Jesus! My baby is reading instead of messing around with boys!"

Oh, and try to pick up real books instead of the "street-lit" type books. And if anyone tries to give you a book by Zane, run!

2) Be Child and Disease Free: I know some of you might be saying, "Turning 18 and not being a teen mother and not having chlamydia is an accomplishment?"

Um, I hate to break it to you but in some parts of the world it is. I was one of a handful of black girls to graduate from my high school without a baby and I 100% credit that to keeping my legs closed. Do I think white girls weren't getting pregnant? Nope, I think they were. I just know they were having abortions. Black teens didn't have the money for that though. And so they had babies, put off dreams of college, and on and on.

Maybe teens nowadays are so much savvier and know all about safer sex and so are not worried about this at all. But then again, there's Jamie Lynn Spears. Oh and let's not forget about "Juno". I hate how Juno makes it look like a friendly white family (or single mom) is going to adopt your baby. But guess what, if you're black, your baby probably isn't getting adopted if you give it up. Nope, unless you can find a way to make "South Side of Chicago" sound like an exotic African locale, your baby will be in that orphanage or foster home for a long time.

And I don't know why folks try to sugar coat it for teenagers but I can't tell you how many folks I knew in high school that had to get treated for gross stuff like gonorrhea of the throat. You show people a picture of that mess and they will not even think of having sex. Yeah, maybe #2 should have been called keep your legs closed and your mouth off of people's privates... trust me, you will have plenty of time for all that later.

Anyway, now that we're all grossed out, moving right along!

3) Eat, Pray, Exercise: When you're a svelte teen you never think you're going to turn into a contestant on the Biggest Loser. But you will if you eat junk and don't exercise. So learn to eat properly and learn to love exercise because both will keep you from leading a life where you're either fat or constantly yo-yo dieting. If you can pick up a sport that you can stick with, that's even better. Gosh, there's so many soccer leagues in LA, an adult could play every day of the week if they wanted to. But it's hard to come into it as an adult and say, "I know nothing about soccer. Teach me!"

And the prayer will help you your entire life, so connect with God early on and figure out what it is you believe instead of blindly following tradition.

4) Volunteer and be of service: I think all teens should have to volunteer in a homeless shelter, a home for the elderly and with kids younger than themselves.

Teens need to learn compassion and understand that they could end up in the homeless shelter or in an old folks home. Plus, working with kids younger than themselves gives them the chance to be a responsible role model and learn how to develop leadership skills.

5) Develop organizational systems: Learn to keep a schedule with a to-do list. Learn how to prioritize the things you need to accomplish. Develop the habit of doing the "big rocks" first instead of putting them off till later.

There are so many disorganized people in the world and it just makes your life more difficult as you get older. This doesn't mean a teen has to get married to a Franklin Covey planner or spend a ton of money on some big binder. I used Chandler's assignment notebooks for years and they only cost $6.

6) Never have a drink: I know every teen movie has the scene where everybody's having a blast and is trashed. But those teen movies don't show the addiction, the fatal car crashes, the rapes and the violence. There's too much of that with teens.

I remember in high school I walked in on a friend about to be gang-raped by a group of guys we both knew. She was completely drunk and passed out. They tried to force me out of the room but I raised hell and got her out of there. I always thought about how if I'd been drinking too, those five guys would have raped her and maybe me too.

I think the reason they didn't try to rape me was because one of them was a third or fourth cousin of mine... He could never hold his head up around me again.

So that's my six things. Now, to pass this on to six fantastic bloggers:

-1969
-If I Only Had a Blog
-Jali's House
-Gunfighter
-Healthier, Happier You
-Bygbaby
and...
-Black Fire White Fire

I can't wait to read what they write.

Black Friday

The Jena Six Rally may be over but I'm still dressed in black.

What can I say? Advocating for justice is an everyday thing. And black is my favorite color. In fact, I have enough black clothes that I could wear a completely different all-black outfit every day of the week. Someone put me on "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style" so I can learn how to incorporate color into my wardrobe, okay?

I also have another reason to be wearing all black: I'm possibly mourning one of the drunks down the hill.

Yes, one of my warm beer drinking "buddies" may be no more. I mean, I clearly want these drunks gone but I don't want them dead, you know?

When I walked by around 2:00 yesterday afternoon, he appeared to be passed out under his favorite tree. That in itself is nothing new. That's par for the course. However, when I drove by around 5:00, it looked like he hadn't moved. That definitely concerned me. Usually, he moves from the tree to the sidewalk, and then back to the dust that passes for grass in drought-stricken Los Angeles.

I called LAPD on my cell phone. They said it sounded like paramedics were needed and then connected me to the fire department. The Fire Department operator asked me questions like, "How old is he?"

I had no idea. I mean, it's not like I've ever stopped and engaged in conversation with this man. He's always very dirty and disheveled and his face has that hard-core alcoholic look to it. I've never felt inclined to ask, "So, how old are you? Do you prefer warm beer or whiskey?" Nope, we've never talked. I've had nothing to say in response to his slurred, "Hola, bonita!"

I told the operator that he looked older than 35 but younger than 60. I could hear the pause on the other line, like the operator was thinking, "Okaay, that's a 25 year age span. What a dummy!"

I felt distinctly unhelpful. That feeling got worse when the operator asked, "Can you walk over and check if he's breathing?"

Um, NO! I wasn't about to get that close. I'd walked by earlier on the opposite side of the street and besides I'd just seen him when I was driving by on my way to the bank.

The operator sighed, thanked me and asked for my cell number. I sort of hoped it was so he could call me back and say, "He's fine. Just a little too much Jim Beam knocked back today."

Twenty minutes later when I drove back home, the drunk was no where to be seen. One of my neighbors said they'd seen an ambulance zoom up our street with it's lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Today, the guy isn't there. His three buddies are there, but he's not. Does this mean he's been arrested for public intoxication? Does this mean he's dead? Is he in the hospital? The cops never called back to tell me anything. I'm left wondering.

I'll keep my black outfit on tonight since I'm going to see Muse out in Irvine. I definitely need a little amazing guitar playing to start off my weekend. Watching this clip of Muse playing "Stockholm Syndrome" live absolutely convinced me I had to see them. I'll tell you, the last minute of this has some of the best guitar riffing I've heard in quite awhile.



And people wonder why my youngest child wants to be a rock star...

The Drunks Down The Hill

The house across the street that's renting for $3500 a month still has a "For Rent" sign up. So much for the landlord's boast that he'd have the place rented in a week, no problem. I sort of wonder if prospective tenants balked at paying that much when there's a pack of drunks hanging out at the bottom of the hill.

When I walk my kids to school in the morning, the drunks are usually not there. I guess I should be grateful that most days they don't get started that early. But midmorning, when it's time to pick my youngest up from Pre-K, the booze is cracked open and there's four or five weatherbeaten guys knocking 'em back.

By afternoon when it's time to go pick up my eldest, they are laid on on the sidewalk, passed out across parked cars, swinging from tree branches, and yelling, "Hola, Bonita!" at my shadow. And no, I don't have a picture of them because I'm not stupid. The last thing I want is for these guys to think I'm paying any attention to them at all and taking their picture.

However, after a week and a half of their drunken insanity, I've had it. I'd personally love to pack them up and cart them over to Beverly Hills just to see what would happen. I'd deposit them right in front of some jeweler, Tiffany's or Bulgari would be great picks. But, I don't have that option. So, I decided to call the police.

My local police station is called Rampart. If that name doesn't sound familiar to you, Rampart is also the largest police corruption scandal in United States history. Seen "Training Day"? Well, the rumor is that's based on what went down here. Despite this bad rap though, our officers are usually really nice around here, but, like teachers, they're really overworked. I honestly thought that because of this, they'd have a little bit of an attitude on the phone once they found out that there was no murder, robbery or assault going on.

Instead, they were glad I called. They promised to send an officer right away to break up the "party" and they thanked me for calling. Now, whether the drunks will be gone when I leave the house in 20 minutes remains to be seen. And whether they'll be back again tomorrow is also an unknown.

But trust me, if they're back, I'll be calling again.

True Freedom

As a child, I loved the Fourth of July. I wasn't worried about my waistline back then so I'd enjoy a large helping of my mother's potato salad while I listened to her swap stories with my aunts. They'd reminisce about their old Hungarian neighbor, Mrs. Goulash, and how they'd gone to high school with a guy who was, at that time, one of the handful of successful black actors.

The talk would turn to the few other black celebrities and I loved hearing them go on about how Billy Dee Williams was so fine and Jayne Kennedy was beautiful. I wanted to look like Jayne Kennedy when I grew up and be married to Billy Dee.

There was never any talk of Thomas Jefferson or John Hancock, men who hadn't fought for or cared about the freedom of our black ancestors. There was no mention of the Continental Congress or of the Revolutionary War. No, the stories on the Fourth of July relived proms, tales of my grandma, and a pretty and popular girl they'd known growing up, Leslie Link. I loved that name and constantly wondered what Leslie Link looked like and how come she never came over to our house.

We had a health-conscious home so 99% of the time, there was no soda, or what we midwesterners call "pop", in the house. But on the Fourth, that all changed. I'd open the refrigerator to stare at the shiny red rows of Coca-Cola cans, all waiting to be snapped open and poured into small Styrofoam cups filled with ice. I'd gratefully take a cup, my name etched into the side so that I didn't have to use more than one during the day. Cup in hand, I'd go sit out on the back porch, watch my dad maneuver hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. I'd sit and wonder about the stories of Coca-Cola originally containing cocaine. Even at eight or nine, I knew what cocaine was.

If we were barbecuing at my parents house, folks stuck to drinking that Coca-Cola. My parents, being Baha'is, did not drink and so alcohol was not served at their house. This was always a good thing, a protection against drunken, harsh things being said and old, bitter grudges being brought to the surface once more. But we were not always at our house on the Fourth. Sometimes we were at my grandmother's home, a mere six blocks away. There, the alcohol flowed more freely.

I remember sitting on my grandmother's porch, munching on Jay's potato chips and watching the fireworks we'd bought explode into the air. The cascades of shimmering red, white and blue sparks illuminated the darkness before descending onto the narrow brick street below. And then one of my aunts, tipsy and attempting to sit down next to me on the porch step, spilled her beer on me. It ran in rivulets down my leg and a small amount flowed into the dark recesses of my white K-Mart tennis shoes. The smell made me want to vomit but I was more worried that I'd get in trouble somehow for my shoes being messed up. So, I just sat there, not knowing what to say or do.

A few moments later, some folks who lived across the street from my grandma had also had too much to drink. They were arguing and someone threw a television out of the house. It crashed loudly on the concrete sidewalk, and the air erupted with curses flung back and forth. No one called the cops but we all went inside. The fireworks were done for the night. Later on at home, I snuck to the basement and put my shoes in the washer, erasing all signs of their beer desecration. They never seemed the same though. I always felt like I could smell that awful odor.

The rest of the summer always seemed somewhat lackluster, something of a let down in comparison to the joy of eating a hot dog and running through the front yard in the dark, sparklers ablaze in each of my hands. And all these years later, these Fourth of July holidays never seem to have the vivid liveliness that those childhood ones did.

Two days ago, I had no barbecue plans to speak of and living in LA where fireworks are illegal, I have not held a sparkler in my hand in quite some time. Although I can't do anything about the fireworks, I can and did make the barbecue plans and will be getting together with many of the friends who are essentially my California family. Moreso, I am celebrating my grasping the reins of life in a new, liberated fashion. There is nothing like having your life back, having your soul back, and that is true freedom indeed.

Questions And Observations

I know, I know. I've been an absentee blogger for the past few days. Shame on me for neglecting this little space. "Why so incognito?" you ask. Or maybe you aren't asking that and you've actually been thinking, "Good, she's finally given up this blogging thing. I hate reading what she writes!"

First off, my youngest son got diagnosed with impetigo. Don't know what it is? Yeah, neither did I. He had a cold last weekend and I thought the rash above his lip was just skin irritation due to me wiping his runny nose. Then it began turning into something else and spreading at a pretty rapid rate. Curious to see what it looks like? Go ahead and do a Google image search on "impetigo" if you feel a desire to lose the contents of your stomach. How'd he get it? I don't know but he was quarantined at home for a few days and I stayed home with him, praying that no one else caught it...well, I'll be honest: I was praying that I wouldn't get it. What can I say, I live in LA and I'm a teensy bit vain.

On the days I wasn't quarantined, I saw and heard lots of things I wanted to write about but I was too busy trying to catch up on work, etc., so, here's a few of my accumulated questions and observations:

1. Sexist perverts are everywhere: I went to the Vons grocery store on Sunset Blvd. and got stalked through three aisles by some weirdo who, it turns out, used to work with the guy running my checkout lane. Mr. Stalker came and chatted with the cashier while my stuff was being rung up, staring and winking at me the whole time. Oh they were all smiles and laughs. The checker was so busy chatting up his pervert buddy that I bagged my own groceries so I wouldn't have to stand there waiting for the cashier to do that. "Thanks, babe for bagging those. Do you need help out to your car?"
   
   I sooo wanted to say, "No, I don't need help out to my car, you sexist, punk-ass pervert mother-f&*%#6!" But, instead I smiled and said, "No, thank you. Have a great night!" I then went to put my stuff in the car and then came back and tracked down the manager. The manager was apologetic. "I'll be sure to speak with them about that. I'm so sorry." Yeah right. Bet I see the same checker there again next time I'm in there and bet he breaks my eggs. Should I boycott Vons and start going to Albertsons or Ralphs?
   
   
2. I could be a cure for alcoholism if I was cuter and had darker skin: On Thursday, the guy behind the counter in the Kenneth Hahn Plaza Rite-Aid suggested me as an alternative to getting drunk. As he's scanning my stuff, he starts talking to the grizzled man standing behind me in line. "You know, all you need to do is get this sista's number instead of drinking that liquor. She's so pretty, I'll bet she could make you feel better than drinking that whiskey ever could. Come on, ask her for her number."
   
   The man behind me, obviously a hard-drinking, pickled-liver kind of guy, reeking like he'd been dipped in a vat of grain alcohol, was very matter of fact in his reply, which he addressed to me, "Naw, I don't think so. Heh heh. You ok lookin' but I ain't into you light-skinned gals. I'll just stick with what I got right here. Heh heh." Then he hoisted his big bottle of liquor up on the counter, gazing at it like he was staring a lover in the eyes.
   
   Alrighty then.
   
   
3. No, it's not a weave, but I'm still not interested in you: Hey trifling males of the world, I'm just in Starbucks to get some tea, not to hear your lame pickup lines. Most women don't really respond to, "Hey shawty, what your name is?" being yelled across the room at them while they're ordering their tea. (Or do they? Ladies, you tell me.) Really, any woman would have to be crazy to check for that crap. Then, when I walked past the guy without begging him to take me somewhere and have his wicked way with me, he says, "Fuck you then, you ugly ass bitch! Probably a weave anyway." Yeah, um, dude, it's not a weave but I sort of hope you burn in hell.
   
   
4. Drop off your kids, pick up a prostitute: I'm just so tired of driving past the hookers on Figueroa Street standing on the corner a block from an elementary school. I'm tired of seeing all the boo-tay hanging out for all to see. But why does it always seem like they have less cellulite than me? Is it all the standing? Do the pimps get them personal trainers? I don't get it. And by the way, when I get to this same school, I'm tired of seeing the four huge signs warning me not to bring weapons on campus or make threats. Yet we wonder why kids aren't quite so innocent nowadays.
   
   
5. What if Tara Connor was black? Being quarantined this week meant I was home to catch Miss USA, Tara Connor, discussing her cocaine use with Matt Lauer on the Today Show. All I could think of was, "Would this heffa still have her crown if she was black?" Then Matt asked her if the rumors of her sleeping around are true. She completely denied it. Hmm. Tara, you're an underage drinker, you have "dabbled" in cocaine (What does it mean to "dabble" with cocaine?) but you claim you are celibate? Yeah. Sure.
   
   
6. Today I bought a new San Martin de Porres candle. Why? Well, Martin de Porres was the first black saint in the New World and is the patron saint of black people. He's also the patron saint of race relations and racial harmony. Maybe I should send a candle to Joe Biden. I wonder if Joe would consider me clean and articulate. And I should also send two candles to whoever that clown was in Virginia that said black people "should get over" slavery. Reparations isn't only about giving someone money. Reparations is a change of heart, a change of the soul, a change in the way black people are viewed, treated, educated, loved and respected. Think of it this way: Black people have only been able to vote in the United States since 1965. That's 42 years ago. How many people do you know that are 42 years old? My brother would be 43 years old this July and my mom couldn't vote when she gave birth to him. Her father worked for Studebaker's for most of his life, paid taxes his entire life, and was only able to vote for five years of those years. Sigh.
   
   And lastly, the biggest question of all, will the Bears win tonight? My fingers are crossed and the game is about to start! Go Bears!!! (please!)