MM- Remembering and Losing Santa

How can I explain that until the age of eight, I believed there was a true
Santa Claus. I mean the white beard, red suit, big belly and all. I can remember putting out milk and cookies for Santa and in the morning it would be gone. So, how did I get to the point where Santa was no more?

Memory Monday- More Childhood Story Ideas

Now that I have decided to go full steam ahead with my childhood story collection and publish it, I am gathering even more stories. Maybe because I have been sick the last week, I am remembering illnesses from my childhood. Two in particular.

I was to be a flower girl in my mother’s first cousin, Pauline’s wedding. I was about three years old. My mother had made my dress and I was all excited but a few days before the wedding I caught the measles or maybe it was the mumps. That was back in the day when those diseases were common. Needless to say I could not be in the wedding. I remember crying and crying, I was so disappointed.

Then when I was about eight, I fell and broke my arm roller skating. We were living on 24th Avenue. I was rushed to Children’s Hospital. And when I say break, I mean I broke my arm. I stayed in the hospital three days.

Oh, yes, mentioning about my childhood illness reminds me of the time we went to get immunizations, how my parents tricked us and how my brother and I almost got a spanking for running away. Okay, I need to flush that story out. Back to the cough medicine and bed.

Back to Memory Monday

In writing my memoirs about a pivotal time in my childhood that culminates in the year 1963, I made a list of memories that would bring this piece together. These stories will be the basis for a book.

They are:

Little Red and Earthquake
Dimond Park
Trick or Treat
Shirley Temple Curls*
Lisa the Creole girl*
The motorcycle girls.- Wendy*
Amos n’ Andy*
Celia, Wendy, Carmela, Jimmy Sue
Debra the bully
Jennifer – best friend- Louisiana Creole- Gumbo
Carmela and Santa Claus
Steven Fong and the Grocery Store- father’s suicide
Roger Chevron and the party
Getting a whipping at my birthday party
Tyrone getting killed on a scooter on 23rd Avenue*
Blackberry Memories*
Manzanita and the Maypole
Playing the radio and the older kids dancing to it
Playing music of the 50s and 60s- This is Dedicated to the One I Love, I Danced to a Quarter of Three, School is Out.
The Ballet- Taking dance lessons with the black bourgeois kids at Barbara Braxton’s studio in West Oakland*
Black dolls/white dolls
The transition from 24th Ave. to Brookdale Ave.
The girl who’s mother ran away with her boyfriend (Kathy?)
Walking to Jennifer’s house
My little red-haired friend at Garfield School*
Walking by Myself to Garfield School- You're a big girl now
Mrs.Feefee taking care of us and the whipping over a hot dog and Birely's orange soda.
Walking to Monkey Wards
Modeling/charm class at Montgomery Wards
Going to Arkansas
Cabiness, Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Jackson-Hamilton Junior High School
Mrs. Eating Tortillas’ at Celia’s house
Going to school after Mom left for work- Flo going to school by herself
The transition from 24th Avenue to Brookdale Avenue

Things That Work My Nerves

I had one of those days and a lot of things irritated me. This is my list of things that irk me. This is by no means complete but all I can think of right now.

Rude people:

The ones who do not yield at a four-way stop sign. You know the ones who take off behind the car in front of them without regard to if it is their turn.

People who chew and pop gum in public. You can do that all you want in your house or in private. Doing it in public is just tacky and crass.

People who stand so close to you in line at the store, the bank, even at the pharmacy. Back up off me! I don’t know you like that. And there are too many damn germs going around. You ever hear of swine flu?

People who reach across you, step in front of you, stand in front of you and don’t excuse themselves. Total disrespect and hella rude.

Remembering To Be Thankful

We, or rather speaking for myself, I get so caught up in the business of living everyday, trying to keep head above water, that I forget to stop and count my blessings. This Thanksgiving week is as good as time as ever to say how thankful I am.

I am thankful for waking up everyday

I am thankful for my health and know I should do better

I am thankful for my 83 year-old mother

I am thankful for my beautiful daughter

I am thankful for my siblings and extended family

I am thankful to have a job

I am thankful to be in my right mind.

I am blessed in so many ways, I am thankful for so many things

What are you thankful for?

Happy Thanksgiving

Memory Monday- Remembering Savannah

Town square in Savannah

Sound
The smell of magnolia permeating the air in the square of downtown Savannah

Jazz musicians warming up their instruments, the lazy drawl of the saxophone

The seduction of the trombone, deep, unhurried, .

The piano rumbling a series of notes that eventually became a tune,

distinguishable to a Duke Ellington tune.

Smell
Sweet syrupy honey intermingled with scent of fresh baked bread

causing stomachs to rumble.

Sizzling platters of Lady’s and Son’s fried chicken

wafting up to our noses,

the finest in Savannah cooking.

Sight
The Spanish moss sprouting wildly

Colorful books on display

A Confederate flag in the window

My look of horror and disbelief

Reminding me of where I am

Childhood Memories- Ballet Among the Black Bourgeois

Ballet Among the Black Bourgeois

Childhood Memories

Originally Written in 2001

I happened to be reading a novel called Breathing Room and coincidentally I had cleaned out my closet and came upon some pink ballet slippers. In an attempt to get exercise and perhaps recapture my childhood, I had taken some ballet lessons at Grand Dance, a local ballet studio a few years prior. It brought back memories of my taking ballet lessons at a black-owned ballet studio in the ‘60s. The book is told from three points of views and one of characters is Zadi, a fifteen-year old middle-class black girl living in Washington D.C. Her story is told in writings in her journal given as a Kwanzaa gift by one of the other characters. In this journal, Zadi is writing to “Sisterfriend” and she talks about many things, boys, clothes, her father’s new wife and a major part of her life, ballet. She is an advanced ballet student who stresses over her fouette¢s, pirouettes and the wrath of Ms. Snow, the dance teacher. She is also anticipating a role as Odille-Odette in Giselle and dancing for Alvin Ailey or Dance Theatre of Harlem. Zadi takes lessons from a black-owned studio where the students are also black.

This so reminded me so of my experience over thirty years ago when I took ballet and tap dance lessons at Barbara Braxton’s dance studio in West Oakland at 24^th and Market. In a ramshackle building on the corner, I trudged up the gray stairs and past graffiti-strewn walls for my ballet and tap lessons either Saturday morning or Wednesday afternoons. I took lessons off and on from about 1959 when I was about eight years old until about my sophomore year in high school about 1966, as I recall.

There in Barbara’s studio, I learned to loved dance, especially the ballet. Barbara said I had the perfect feet for ballet; I had a natural pointed toe and beautifully shaped calves. Over the years I still hear remarks about my nicely formed calves from my years of dancing. Though I didn’t pursue dance as a career (I had a dance major in my first year of college) the truth was I held back. I was shy, somewhat withdrawn, not wanting to shine and be in the limelight. Barbara would get exasperated with me because when we had individual projects, I would make something up short and sweet. She would always say I had the potential but my dance projects were too short.

The students at Barbara’s studio were the popular girls, the daughters of the black bourgeois. Children of doctors, dentists, lawyers and successful businessmen. Some belonged to Jack and Jill and their mothers were member of the Links. I knew many of them through my father’s club, East Oakland Business and Professional Men’s Group. There was Janet and her older sister, Cynthia (who later married Gene Washington, 49ers football player), daughters of Dr. Watson who had a large medical practice and cute brothers. Mickey’s (the only boy I can remember that took ballet) parents was the first black family to buy a home in Orinda in the ‘50s. His father was a physician also His father was also a medical physician. Judge Broussard’s daughters also took lessons there. Cheryl Taylor was older, but she was the daughter of a renowned officer in the military. She also ended up marrying my high school crush, John Ivey( which is a whole other story). I also remember Joslin, who lived not that far from me who was a very good dancer. I don’t remember what her parents did. Barbara’s studio is where the middle-class and upper class black girls went for their dance lessons. It was like a special club. When I would see these girls at different events or outings it was like a special fraternity.

Some of these girls could really dance, some of them were very awkward and I could dance circles around them but still I didn’t showcase my talent or skills like I could have and as a result I never advanced to toe shoes. Anyway, I remember those days of putting on my ballet slippers, I had a pair or black ones and pink ones and when I put them on, I let my young cares drift away. Barbara was a woman in her 30s and she had two children during my tenure with her. She was a formidable, attractive brown-skinned woman with her hair either hanging to her shoulders or pulled back in that ballet style bun. She also taught tap dance. I remember once my sister having on her tap shoes and my brother picking at her and she kicked him with her tap shoes. Barbara ended up moving to San Jose and closing her studio here in Oakland. That left a gap in ballet for black girls, although there was Ruth Beckford Smith who taught modern dance in the ‘60s with the Oakland Park and Recreation but there was none of African descent who taught ballet for many years probably not until the late ‘70s.

Reading Zadi’s letters to Sisterfriend in her journal, I am also reminded of a book by Rita Williams Garcia called Blue Tights. In that book an inner-city girl is rejected at a white ballet studio and told her body is not made for the ballet and finally finds acceptance at a black studio learning African dance. Zadi talks about the joy she feels at Ms. Snow’s studio and I am reminded of her same security and protection dancing with someone who will nurture and encourage her.

Present day 2009:

A few weeks ago, I attended a choreographer performance for the Oakland Ballet. Several Bay Area ballet dances performed prominent choreographers’ ballet and while there was no black ballerina but a black male dancer, one of the choreographers honored was Alonzo King, whose body of work is without question, one of the finest. Even today there are stereotypes about black bodies and dance techniques. But I am so thankful that an avenue was provided for black girls like me in my early years that may have been discouraged from dance and judged by European standards. I am also thankful I have a mother who appreciated art and culture and exposed us, my sister and me to dance. It has been well over forty-five years since I took my first ballet lesson but my memories linger of the fondness I had for the art and the opportunity to be introduced to dance in a positive manner, an art form I still love.

November 2, 2009