Luv-er-lee June - Or June Bug Heaven

Each month, and nearly every day, of the calendar has particular cultural meanings and associations. Most of us associate June with weddings, ending of the school year, beginning of summer, honoring our fathers, honoring our flag, planning vacation time and, in the U.S., more sunshine, heat, and anticipated beach time. But for us info-maniacs, finding out all the other celebrations is just fun!

Wikipedia explains some of the U.S. associations with June; for example, June is named after Juno (Hera), the goddess of marriage. June’s birth flower is the rose; you know, red roses indicate love, yellow indicates friendship? But the other flower for June is the Honeysuckle. I remember the honeysuckle bush of my childhood home, picking the flowers, pulling the inside stamen and tasting the sweetness – in June.

June in the Northern Hemisphere is equivalent to December in the Southern Hemisphere. June 25^th is known as LEON Day [Noel spelled backwards], but that still does not explain the shopping networks Christmas in July shows.

Food-wise, June is also known as Dairy Month, National Fresh Fruit and Vegetable Month, National Iced Tea Month, and Turkey Lovers Month. On the first, heat up the fryer for Donut Day or make a garbage can cake to celebrate Oscar the Grouch’s birthday. Don’t forget Donald’s (the Duck, that is) birthday, June 9, 1934, or Superman’s birthday on June 30^th, or more generally celebrate the song “Happy Birthday” written June 27, 1859 [not to mention daily singing while you wash your hands insures cleanliness). Bring out the candy thermometer for National Fudge Day on the 16^th, or head for the nearest body of water with a basket full of goodies for International Picnic Day on the 18^th.

Juneteenth celebrates the end of slavery as announced by the Union soldiers in Galveston, Texas on June 19, 1865. However, the day did not become a recognized Texas holiday for 115 years. Now, many ethnicities and communities find ways to celebrate this day of freedom. While my daughter in Azerbaijan chose to make jambalaya, others celebrate with Red Velvet cake and Strawberry Lemonade.

Did you know the radio was patented in June 2^nd, 1896? Or that the first drive-in movie in New Jersey arrived on June 6, 1933? National Yo-Yo day is the 10^th, just two days before the anniversary of the creation of the baseball in 1839. Where would we be without sandpaper, invented June 14^th, 1834, or the typewriter, patented on June 23, 1868, or even more importantly, June 26^th, 1498 when the toothbrush was invented?

What else can you celebrate in June? National Adopt-A-Cat; National Drive Safe with National Safety Month (might be time to consider taking Oprah’s pledge to NOT text or use your cell phone while driving), National Tennis Month (what a great way to maintain your January exercise resolutions), Great Outdoors Month (let’s clean up the camping gear) that connects with National Fishing Week and National Camping Week.

For those more interested in personal development, enjoy Power of a Smile Day on June 15^th, National Forgiveness Day on the 24^th, and Let It Go Day – whatever has been bothering your psyche – on the 28^th.

So, my last question is how do you plan to celebrate Potty Training Awareness Month next year?

References:

http://familycrafts.about.com/library/spdays/bljundayslong.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/June

http://www.baxterbulletin.com/article/20100609/LIFESTYLE03/6090301/Juneteenth-Reflect-on-freedom-with-a-June-19-celebration

http://lovejoyjewelry.com/celebration.htm#jun

Dear Daddy

It’s another Father’s Day without you. Fifty years have passed since you died. Can you believe it? Now I am even older than you were on that last June day.

So much has happened, Daddy, since that day in 1969. The world has changed in ways you could never have foreseen. Remember the beautiful gardens you created? The beautiful roses you cultivated along the end of the peninsula of our hometown, when you worked for that family? They are all gone, Daddy. The area is filled with condos and concrete. But I did manage to finally find the rose you hybrid – in Oregon of all places. I still remember how you and I used to plant my favorite flower, tulips, along the front fence of our yard.

I loved riding in your taxi cab with you, Daddy. That big square yellow box with the jump seats in the rear was one of the few places I had you to myself. Even though your skin was blue-black, you would always hang your left elbow out the window and it would get even darker. You had a regular group of people you would take to and pick up from the train station. They don’t do that anymore, Daddy. Cab drivers rarely offer personal service anymore. You used to tell me I could always rely on a cab driver to get me home. I no longer trust cab drivers, Daddy. It has made life a bit scarier.

After dinner and homework, you would take those of the six of us still living at home with you to clean buildings. I was in charge of dusting the rows and rows of desks where all the women sat in the daytime. When I got older, I had to clean the ladies bathroom – that taught me women could be icky.  But I still remember the wonderful pictures of those ladies celebrating my birth, all because they liked you.

You always tried to keep our house a home. Not just for us, but every family member. How many of our relatives lived in the upstairs apartment when they had no other place to go? How many breakfasts, lunches and dinners became family gatherings? How many times did you make modifications on the house to preserve a home for all of us? We even had wakes, birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases, Easters, and yes, Father’s Days in that fourteen room home.

I have so much more to say, Daddy, but there will never be enough space. Since you left, I finished college in Connecticut; completed my Master’s in Pennsylvania; married that guy you never liked and moved to Nome, Alaska; left that guy you never liked and moved to Kodiak where I married a guy you just might have liked,; moved to Juneau; went to Oregon when my husband retired; completed another Master’s degree; tried to complete a doctorate in Washington state; I came out of the closet; worked for Rutgers University in New Jersey; and now live with my partner in Miami. My husband and I are still married and about to celebrate our 22^nd anniversary and life is about to change again.

In the midst of all these changes, Daddy, I still hear your voice telling me you will always love me. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you too.

That Overwhelming Feeling

There is not one human on earth (I’m willing to bet) who has not felt that overwhelming feeling. You know it: “I just don’t know what to do”; “How am I supposed to deal with all of this?”; “I’m so tired. Which way do I go?”; “How do I salvage this situation?”

I’m sure there are a number of us trying hard to deal with this feeling. If you are faced with losing house; dealing with a child whose school/college tuition is due; loss of a job/house/spouse or any other thing you are used to having in your life; and, my personal favorite, being the one who is designated as “the one”. You know, you have always dealt with a number of issues. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed since I’m the one who has “always” taken care of the finances, is responsible for locating new housing, dealt with medical issues, need a job, figuring out how to move, designed our healthy meals, and any other little item you can think of.

In marches the number of self-help books, life coaches, and everyday people who are examples of how you too can deal with the issues facing your existence. Go into a bookstore and check out the self-help section. Turn on the morning shows on any day and there will be a guru/book-selling individual who can guide you through the overwhelming process. Just the other day, a woman who had lost her job as an editor of a major magazine was on promoting her new book. Of course, this woman had sold her house, moved to the country, communed with nature so she could find herself again, AND then used her editorial connections to establish herself as an independent writer of articles. Right!

Some of us deal with that overwhelming feeling with negative behaviors: drinking too much, smoking too much, eating too much, exercising too much, sleeping too much – just pick something. And we do this even when we know the key is daily exercise; using your professional networks; making deals with credit card companies, banks, mortgage companies; reassuring and including your family members about the current situation since they might have ideas you haven’t even thought of; and asking family and friends if they know of potential solutions.

I don’t know what might really help you: the book, family, and/or friends. I do know that worrying definitely won’t help. Try coping with your own worry. I’m not sure what will work for each individual. But attacking the worry issue will at least give you a place to start.

Moving? Get ready for the stress!

Given the economic state of our union, I am sure the number of people who have to move has been high. Whether you are moving from your house, condo, or apartment to a house (yours or your parents), condo, apartment, the process causes pain in the most uncomfortable places; like your arms, knees, neck, back, and a few others.

Of course, there are a number of sources and industries designed to help you move. Moving yourself? There are realtors who will help you find your new digs (if you are not just moving home); online packing lists; places to rent packing goods (the boxes for packing your glassware really are great) and trucks that can even tow your car; moving companies who will pack, load and deliver your possessions, relieving you of the stress of the move.

So why is moving still so stressful, no matter what sources/services you use? If you have children, you already know why! Yet, even if you are moving yourself, or you and a partner, the stress can be unbelievable. First there is the task of DECIDING where you are going, if that is not already determined. Then the next DECISION is what kind of place you are looking for. Okay, let’s say that’s done. You have to look at your budget and DECIDE how you are going to move – packing and traveling on your own or using a company. What if you have to DECIDE whether or not you need help moving? (The use of friends has been known to ruin any and all friendships.) The next DECISION is what you can/want/don’t want to pack – a decision that can be complicated by DECIDING to downgrade. Inevitably this leads to DECIDING how you want to pack your possessions. (I’ll always remember how I had not made provisions for my plants and my aloe vera ended up in the corner of our open truck – right where the wind would tear it apart.) Let’s not forget the unpacking process, especially if you are going long distance and those friends are no longer available to you.

No doubt you can see where I’m going with this. You might have already realized I am in the middle of moving. I have not even mentioned the DECISIONS about notifying your apartment agency, cutting off your electric/water/cable/telephone, sending in your change of address notices, contacting various agencies (medical, magazines, employment or unemployment, book clubs, credit cards who you better let know before they freeze your account because there are charges coming from places you have never been before), when to empty your refrigerator and how, what to do with your canned goods, what to bring on your trip like your computers and, uh, weapons, bringing goods to charitable organizations, not to mention notifying other family members. I’m sure I have missed a few more DECISIONS you have to make.

The stress comes from the sheer number of decisions you must make. And I have no solutions for you, except to try to make these decisions as soon as possible. If you are like me, I set up my own spreadsheet, establish completions dates and how to number boxes, and then realize that nothing goes according to my timetable. I hope you have better luck than me.

To the Women of My Family

To My Sister, My Daughters, my Nieces, my Grand-Nieces and Cousins and all of my other female relatives:

I have tried to figure out to say something to you. I have never known how to say it. The fact that I did not know how to say it was complicated by the fact that it took me so long to realize what I wanted to say to all of you. It has to do with pride and learning to feel and have pride, like Dorothy Dandrige. Her pride and self-esteem were threatened when she tried to achieve her goal. So much so that she had to leave her country of origin.  But I believe she had pride and self-esteem because she grew up with it, despite the times and the resulting tribulations for women of color.

Unfortunately, Mother never made me proud: of who I was, who I am, and who I would become. She didn’t have the ability to understand that her strength would eventually become the strength of her daughters. She really was a power house, but always minimized what a black woman could do. Ah, but she could dress! I have such fine memories of her when she really decked herself out: her hair done up like no not one, black dress that hugged her curves, Chanel No. 5 wharfing around her; a necklace drawing attention to her ample bosom, and heels making her taller than Daddy – but he never minded.

But the idea of education as the way to make your way in the world, as told by my father, resulted in trials and tribulations he could never have even fathomed. He always saw us as the most beautiful women in the world. He didn’t seem to understand that we were not the best, the most beautiful, the absolute epitome of womanhood! We all must admit that Daddy had his lapses and dalliances, but he saw all of his sisters, daughters, granddaughters, nieces, and all of the women in his family as the best.

Today, I watched a show that would never had been possible when I was a teen. It was called “My Black is Beautiful”, shown on BET. It was all about black women realizing that no matter their size, their features, their dress, they were all beautiful. It was only a half hour and I wanted more! I can’t tell you how this made me feel. As I get older, I have continued to have a real need to feel lovely, beautiful and desirable. So I went to their Web site and found a elegant manifesto. To my family of women, whoever and wherever you are, I hope you will find something in this.

 From the color of my skin, to the texture of my hair, to the length of my strands, 

to the breadth of my smile

To the stride of my gait, to the span of my arms, to the depth of my bosom, to the curve

of my hips, to the glow of my skin...

 My Black is Beautiful.

It cannot be denied. It will not be contained. And only I will define it.

For when I look in my mirror, my very soul cries out,

My Black is Beautiful.

And so today, I speak it out loud, unabashedly, I declare it anew.

My Black is Beautiful.

Whether celebrated, imitated, exploited or denigrated. Whether natural from inside

or skillfully applied.

My Black is Beautiful.

To my daughters, my sisters, my nieces, my cousins, my colleagues and my friends,

I speak for us all when I say again,

My Black is Beautiful

www.mbib_manifesto.pdf

Oh, Lena!

The recent death of Lena Horne hits me hard. My uncle was an acoustic bass man and played behind “Miss Horne” several times. It was still the time when black musicians who got gigs in white clubs had to enter through the back door. People loved the performances but the musicians were still discriminated against by club owners and managers. I’m watching a re-cap of her interview with Ed Bradley on CBS “Sunday Morning” and feeling so sad about her life. Being put in movies where they wanted her to appear more colored; keeping her marriage to a white Jew secret for three years, although the marriage lasted 24 years; finally being able to sing the songs she was famous for only after she became old enough to perform independent, cabaret-style performances of her choosing.

My mother and father used to attend the after-hours musical extravagances of black musicians; those times after they had finished at the white clubs and just got together to play the music they like to play. My Uncle Peter would tell them where the action was. I was still a child and they would take me with them. As each singer would get up, I would be transferred from lap to lap. I remember Carmen McCrae and Pearl Bailey. And I remember how bony the lap and breasts of Lena Horne were.

But I also remember that rich, full voice. The sultry movements (okay, I didn’t know they were sultry then, but it only takes a quick look at her movies and performances to know the truth) and the passion so evident in her voice.

I’m gonna miss you, Lena. You are part of my past. A remembrance of the love of my mother, father and Uncle Peter. And the true meaning of being a black woman when that wasn’t cool.

What Happens When You Ban Books?

Before my daughter went to Azerbaijan, she came to visit me. As soon as she saw me, she pinned a button on my coat that she was sporting on her own: “I Read Banned Books”. Then she said, “Mom, I recently looked at the list of banned books and realized I had read them all because of you. Thanks.”

 As a librarian and a dedicated believer in the First Amendment, I was happy and pleased. And then, I began to think about what it meant to have my children read books that others thought were damaging. What if I was wrong? What if reading those books had damaged them in some way?

A review of the list of banned books created by the American Library Association and cataloged by Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_most-commonly_challenged_books_in_the_United_States relieved me of my worries. How could have deprived them of reading Hemingway, Orwell, Twain, Blume, Angelou, Faulkner, Morrison, Golding, Lawrence, Baldwin, Walker, Cormier, Steinbeck, and Mitchell? A favorite book for the girls was The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky – they bought copies for all of their friends as Christmas presents.

If I had not insured they read these books, we would not have had discussions about utopias and dystopias, child abuse, superiority, self-esteem, survival, anti-Semitism, religion, spiritually, and of course sex. At the age of nine, I bought the girls What's Happening to My Body? Book for Girls: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Daughters by Lynda Madras, only to discover it had been banned from a high school library in Alaska! That was our first discussion about banned books.

In high school, I took entire advanced placement questions on Hemingway and Faulkner. I found Walker’s and Baldwin’s books giving me a taste of the black society I did not know. Maya Angelou and Richard Wright brought me to tears, letting me develop my feeling of empathy.

I worked for a public library in central Oregon at one point. The Harry Potter books were published while I was there and I sent them to my grandson. My [step] daughter called me, excited because her son was finally reading. The county I lived in, however, had the first lawsuit asking for Harry Potter to be banned from the public schools. Meanwhile, the seniors asked me to organize a discussion group where they could discuss why such a book would be banned.

One day, while I was working circulation, a woman with a son about nine years old, asked if she could attend the discussion group. I urged her to please come. She told me that she might not be wanted because it was her husband who had filed the lawsuit for banning. What I remember most was the frown on her face and the light in her son’s eyes. She did not attend the meeting.

For me, when you do not let your children read banned books, you lose opportunities to help them grow. You engage in an unconstitutional practice. You act out of fear. And those are something of which I could not have deprived my children – or myself.