Little Emily’s nose crunched as she bent down to examine the deep red rose petals creating a carpet leading to the wedding arch. With her right hand, the toddler carefully arranged one petal after another until they were perfectly aligned. The gathered celebrants smiled as the wedding photographer knelt, then lay on the grass, snapping one shot after another, capturing that moment, when she should have been following the bride and groom.
My brother pledged a fraternity in his first year at a university. I attempted to pledge the sorority next door.
Sam loved living in community, which surprised me. Our home life had been one of closed-doors and secrecy. No one was let in and we weren’t allowed out except to play in our own backyard. We never brought school friends home. For me, it was because I didn’t have friends. Sam probably didn’t either as he was an intellectual and a clumsy athlete.
We attended the same college, at the same time. He was one year ahead of me, but he majored in science and electronics. I was majoring in math. None of our classes overlapped.
I was a loner. When Sam got accepted into a fraternity, I thought I should do the same. I had no clue what that entailed.
Sam’s brothers watched television shows and sang popular songs. They went on outings to Disneyland and to Santa Monica Pier. I wanted the same thing.
In order to be considered I had to ‘prove’ myself. I sat at fancy dinner tables with so much silverware that I had no idea what to use when. I had to dress up. The problem was that the bulk of my clothes were homemade. I had one dress, a white dress trimmed in gold rickrack. My mom made it. I had always worn it with pride. Compared to what the girls in the sorority wore, I looked like the poor cousin. Which I was.
I kept up the ruse. Perhaps just to prove I could be accepted, or maybe as a dare hoping they’d kick me out. My attempt ended when the sorority was asked to model clothes for a banquet held by wealthy women.
I wore a pantsuit my mom made. And the white dress.
After the show, I was expected to mingle with the women. They asked background questions. As soon as I told them who I was and where I was from, I was dismissed. Not with a wave or with a pleasant smile, but with a turn of the head.
My brother’s fraternity accepted me as a friend. In fact, to make the relationship legitimate, they created a title: Friend of the fraternity.
I got to accompany them to parties, on outings, when they went to dinner. I had a great time. Until my brother told me I had to tutor one of his brothers. Not in the common room, but in the man’s bedroom. Sitting on the bed. With him cozied up next to me.
He smelled. He wasn’t attractive. He was engaged. He mauled me. Sloppy kisses once the door was shut. Hands under my blouse and trying to go elsewhere. I’d push him off, tell him to stop, which only made him pause. Then he’d resume.
I withdrew from the fraternity. Moved out of my dorm. Moved into an al-woman’s residence. I didn’t tell my brother where I lived.
One summer day, as I sat out on the balcony, that voice called my name. He wanted me to let him in. To come down. I locked myself inside.
A few weeks late I was walking home from my on-campus job when a familiar convertible stopped next to me. It was him. Married now. Said his wife wanted to meet me, to show me the wedding photos. I stupidly believed him.
As soon as we entered the apartment he locked the door. Both locks, top and bottom.
I knew I was in trouble when I saw that he’d opened the sofa bed and made it with sheets.
His meaning was clear. The wife was at work.
I won’t go into details except that it is my METOO# moment.
When I finally got away, when he knew his wife would be coming home, he allowed me to run away. I ran and ran and ran. I felt he’d never find me in the Law Library, so I ran inside, found the women’s restroom and locked myself inside.
I cried and threw hate at myself. Why was I so stupid? Why did I let him do that? Why didn’t I fight harder? And even more important, why did I submit?
I was able to avoid him for the rest of my years at the university.
My family drove to Napa. When we arrived, my brother said he’d invited the man and his wife to join us. I came unglued. Crying, sobbing, snot pouring down my face. I refused to get out of the car. Told I had no choice.
I told my family what the man had done to me. I was told it was my fault, that I must have taunted him. Invited him.
Fortunately the couple never showed up, but I couldn’t relax and enjoy the beautiful Napa weather.
That happened more than fifty years ago, but it still angers me today.
Now I understand that there was little I could do. Now I understand that even if I had reported it, nothing would have changed.
I’m just beginning to process that like many women, that man took something from me. What hurts is that my brother must have guessed it might happen. That my parents blamed me.
They say that time heals. Time doesn’t, but love does. My husband knows what happened. He believes me. And loves me just the way I am.
Internet junkie, I’m not.
I do know the exact spot
for downloading my music;
soul-soothing, rhythmic tonic,
not too classic, not too hot.
Find a gadget? Takes a “sec,”
because I know where to check.
Instagram is not for me.
And Facebook, although it’s free,
takes gumption. But what the heck!
I’m not the kind to chat a spell
Instant Messenger? Oh, well.
Not for me. Not in the least.
To me, they’re hair of the beast.
I’d rather a story tell.
So tell me not of wonders fine
or places to order wine,
clothes, gadgets, or new shoes.
I’ve plenty, in many hues.
At excess, I draw the line.
Speak to me of stories new,
Politics, and skies of blue.
Face to face I yearn to be.
Into your eyes, so I can see
you smiling right back at me.
Do you remember the time I fell and hurt my back?
I’d just had knee replacement surgery.
Been home only a few days.
My bird cage needed cleaning, something
I should have done prior to going to the hospital.
My husband offered to help.
He changed the toys.
The seed and the water.
He pulled out the bottom tray
Dumped the detritus.
I came over to help,
Leaning on the walker my doctor had ordered.
When I reached out to change the paper in the bottom,
I lost my balance
Found myself leaning backwards
Backwards
Backwards
I tried to grab Mike’s shirt but missed.
The floor came up to hit me, spanking me
Harder than my dad had ever done with his belt.
I landed, so hard that pain radiated up my spine.
I recall collapsing onto the floor, crying out in pan,
Immobilized.
I don’t know how long I lay there.
I tried to sit up, but the pain was too much.
My husband went across the street and returned
With two strong young men
Who picked me up and gently placed me in a recliner.
You called then.
You heard my pain, my tears despite
My saying nothing.
You insisted I go to the hospital
When my husband had said the pain would go away.
Did I ever thank you?
X-rays showed a fractured vertebra.
Not so big that I needed medical intervention,
But enough that I felt reassured
That I had not imagined the injury.
That happened before you moved to Arizona.
I miss you so much.
That wasn’t the first nor the last time
You’d offered support.
The cub dug and dug, determined to find whatever lay beneath the mound of dirt.
His eyes glittered, his tongue lolled about as his head swung left and right, right and left.
When the hole was six inches deep, he paused to look inside. He squinted his eyes and sniffed.
It wasn’t edible, it had no smell, but there was something. Something shiny, something round, something interesting to a small bear.
“Look, Mama,” he said. “Look at what I found.”
Mama bear trundled over, bent her massive head to one side. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” She sat on her haunches. “Keep digging.
The cub scooped out pawful after pawful, creating an ever-growing mound of dirt behind him.
Soon his entire front end was inside the hole, but he kept digging.
The dirt mound grew into a small hill. Then a bigger hill. Then a small mountain. And still he dug.
“I can’t get it out,” he said with his head deep inside the hole.
“Keep digging,” Mama bear said and she clean her claws.
The small mountain grew taller and taller, without growing in width, almost like a dirt and rock tree. Rubble piled up around the outside of the mountain, a jumble of leaves and dirt and rock. And still he dug.
The cub’s body was completely in the hole by now, but his mama wasn’t concerned. She had rolled over and fallen asleep.
The small mountain grew into a tall mountain, and then an ever taller mountain.
“I’m quitting,” the cub said. He sat in his hole and cried and cried until his mama woke up and rescued him.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
The cub nodded. “Yeah even though I never freed that shiny thing.” He looked up at his mama. “Do you know what it was?”
“Of course I do. Don’t I know everything?”
The cub looked at the mountain he’d created. “I made that,” he said. “Me, a little cub, made that giant tower.”
The two sat in the shade of the tower all afternoon. When the sun rose above them and the temperature soared, they lumbered away.
From that day forward, Mama and Cub returned to the tower and relaxed in its shade.
“What shall we call it?” Mama asked.
“Bears Tower,” the cub said.
And from that day forward until Man changed the name, every creature knew it as Bears Tower.
Dieting is no easy job.
It eats at my resistance like
Easter candy, long gone stale,
Tucked away in last year’s basket.
I yearn for a choice piece of chocolate,
Nougat or caramel crème or a
Generous slice of dark chocolate torte.
Those things aren’t in my fare for
Housed within my body are too many
Ounces of fat cells, to the point of
Ugliness, obesity, just plain fat.
Gaining cannot happen, but if I
Have the willpower to succeed,
Success will come my way.
I hope.
The thing is, candy is alluring.
It calls my name, over and over
Until I have no choice but to sneak a bite
A piece, a chunk when no one is looking.
Guilt overwhelms my every thought.
Asking, why did I sabotage myself?
I’m a strong woman, I tell myself.
I’ve overcome emotional and physical abuse.
I’ve suffered chastisement from an employer.
I’ve raised three amazing adults
And been married for decades.
But yet I can’t walk away
When a simple piece of candy,
Or a perfectly baked cookie,
Or a slice of peach pie,
Or a spectacular bowl of ice cream
Appear, like magic.
I tell myself that
I Will. Try. Again.
Luz brought out a huge bag of popcorn
Aida brought plates and forks
Susan pulled a bag of napkins out of her purse
Domingo played riffs on his keyboard
Sebastian cleared his throat
Fred stood
Natalie carried in a pan of lumpia
Valerie opened a box of doughnuts
Marilee came with a mixed salad
Fred called everyone to attention
Asked them to rehearse
The tune for the festival.
Meg arrived with a steaming bowl of pancit
Barb placed a covered apple pie on the table
Joyce arrived with a cake
Dave asked everyone to stand
Stu smiled, held his hands up
Fred began singing
Everyone joined in
Smiles on their faces
Voices not really blending
But the sound was perfect
Tessa blew out the candles
Her cheeks reddened
With joy, with love
Felt and shared
They were all blessed.
The doorbell rang. And rang. And rang.
Norah attempted to ignore the sound, sure that it was some type of door-to-door salesperson. She hated them. Well, felt sorry for them as they were just trying to earn enough money to pay rent. Or buy a car. Or get something to eat. She believed that most were being taken advantage of, were being used, or abused and no way would she support the company behind the racket.
The ringing turned to knocking. Then pounding.
With a huff, Norah tossed her knitting on the table next to her chair and strode to the door. Yanked it open, prepared to lecture the knocker.
When she saw the smiling faces, Norah’s lit up in return. Her arms, of their own accord, spread wide open and her words called them to snuggle inside.
“Happy birthday, Grandma!”
Gerald approached the tall oak in the center of town. It was so old that even the elders recalled it standing proudly in front of the cathedral. Its leaves sounded like fragile paper in the wind, its branches danced to the soft music of voices far away.
He was required to register his name in the book embedded in a hollow at the base of the tree. This wasn’t the original book, for his people had been recording names since time began. Since people learned to write. As each book filled, one of the town’s ministers replaced it with a new one, one with clean pages, ready for continuing the ritual.
Gerald bowed, tossed a coin into a basket for that purpose, took one, two steps forward. He placed his right hand on the trunk, bowed his head and asked for forgiveness. Hope. Success in life. Blessings for his family.
He’d brought the family pen. His grandfather had inscribed his name using it, as had his father and his father, going back generations. No matter how old, it never ran out of ink, never lost the ability to record another name.
Which name should he write? His birth name or his preferred name?
Gerald hesitated as his mind dwelled over the dilemma. Birth or preferred? Preferred or birth?
With lightness filling his mind, Gerald leaned over the book, placed the tip of the pen on the page, and wrote.
Gerald. Peggy.
There’s a name on my birth certificate
Given to me by my parents
The name they used until
I said ‘Stop.”
I hated that name.
It signaled inferiority.
It marked me as different.
I tolerated it.
My teachers taught me to write it.
Each letter carefully formed
At first in print, but then cursive
One letter looping into the next
When I got brave, in my teens,
I demanded a different name.
Not so different,
Just a nickname with many of the same letters.
That name defines me.
I’m not the formal, sophisticated person
Bearing my birth name,
But an athlete, a sports fan.
I use that name everywhere
Except on formal documents.
Even my doctor’s office
Calls me by my preferred name.
Claiming my name is powerful.
It strengthens me.
Gives me the ability to say who I am
And who I intend to be.
Claim your name.
When my dad brought home a box-shaped camera around my eighth birthday, I was hooked. Granted I didn’t get to use it as film and processing were expensive and our family had little money to spare, but I loved the black and white images. It didn’t matter if the top of someone’s head was missing or the feet or an arm. It didn’t matter if the image was too dark or bleached out or if it was a bit fuzzy.
There was an intrigue about immortalizing that moment, that brief glimpse into someone’s life that thrilled me.
Polaroid cameras granted instant gratification. You had to be patient as the image processed, right before your eyes! It was a small miracle, taking place in color.
I don’t remember my first camera. Most likely it came from a thrift store or bargain basement warehouse as the only money I had was from picking and selling fruit from our neighbor’s trees.
I don’t recall what I attempted to immortalize or what happened to that camera.
In college I enrolled in an art class, not because I was interested in art, but to fulfill a graduation requirement. I hated columns: Greek, revival, whatever. I hated cornices but found gargoyles interesting.
When the course turned to paintings, my interest was tickled. Scenes a happy people lounging in a meadow or leaning over a fence or watching horses race touched me deep, deep inside. They calmed me. Snuggled into my heart and brought a peace I’d never known.
The abstracts confused me, but I relished every slide of a real-life image.
Next came photography. My brain lit up, reminding me of my futile attempts to freeze a moment in time. The images before the class had a depth and clarity beyond my comprehension.
With my little camera I began taking photos of trees and flowers and people from afar. None of my products were good, or even acceptable, but I saw them as learning opportunities.
I joined the Catholic group on a retreat. I had no idea what a retreat entailed except that it was in a forest. Somewhere.
When I got off the bus in a quiet place surrounded by humongous trees, my first instinct was to capture that image. Little cameras are incapable of taking photos of giant trees, so all my attempts were failures.
Inside the cabin, I was assigned a top bunk. I climbed up, to see what it would be like, while someone began playing the guitar. I’d recently rekindled my love of music, so sang along quietly, a smile, I’m sure, on my face. The woman across from me asked to see my camera. She took a photo of me when I was distracted.
Imagine my surprise when the developed images included one of me! Light hair, shoulder-length. Wired rimmed glasses sparkling in the flickering overhead light.
I dabbled with photography off and on, as time allowed. After marriage, a trip to Yosemite introduced me to the great Ansel Adams. I studied his books, joined an Ansel Adams photography club and took classes at the community college. My husband set up a developing lab in a bathroom and we experimented with exposure, highlights, different techniques.
We entered photos at the county fair. I never got a prize, but my husband did for a picture I took, but he processed. I was given a small show at a downtown photography store. I never grew tired of seeing my work in the front windows that faced the street.
I bought better and better cameras as the ‘bug’ continued to intrigue me. I created albums for our kids. Each got several when they turned into adults.
I learned how to frame a scene, how to choose contrast, when needed. How to look for an interesting something in the foreground. How to edit on my computer.
Photography still intrigues me. When we travel I always have my camera plus my cell phone. I take shot after shot hoping to catch one that fulfills my expectations. And then, back home, I assemble those images into albums that capture the memories we created.
Photography fulfills me in the same way that singing in the choir does, that writing a story does, that spending time with friends does.
