An Open Letter

Dear - well, you know who you are…

The saying "It takes a village to raise a child" means EVERYONE in the village, not everyone except you. Amazing how special you think you are. You aren't. Not even a little.

If a person says they will help then doesn't, it's reprehensible. Either find a way or a willingness to help or keep the promises out of your mouth. See, when you don't come through, the rest of the village is forced to pick up your slack, whether they want to or not. Unlike you, watching the child go under is just not an option for the rest of us.

And just so you know, real adults handle their business. Real adults do what they have to do to make a way out of no way. Real adults may get tired, but they don't do lazy. Sitting around scratching your ass is not an acceptable answer. Real adults get off of theirs and make things happen.

Seriously, you disgust me.

I hope that, for your sake, everyone is not as disgusted with your shenanigans as I am. I hope that when they pick out your long-term care facility or nursing home, they find some way to remember human quality you once had so they will not put you away in a roach motel. Even if they don't, you need to start making reparations now so you will have an occasional visitor then.

Let me wrap this up by reminding you of this: that you are fooling no one - especially not me. If whomever writes your eulogy was taught the same thing my mom taught me about what to say if you can't say something nice, there may be lots of awkward silence during your service. Perhaps a musical selection could be inserted instead. Good luck with that.

Enjoy the rest of your miserable existence,

Felicia

Deliberation

As the mother of a teen son who looks an awful lot like Trayvon Martin, the trial over his murder is very emotionally draining for me - so much so that I cannot yet even write about it. Because it needs to be talked about, here is a guest post from a friend who sums up that thing that I just can't verbalize quite yet very eloquently:

Imitation of Life
by Dena Williams

Well…it’s over – the presentation of the case against George Zimmerman for the murder of Trayvon Martin. The pundits continue to speak, analyze, debate, fuel the contentiousness and profit from this horrendous display of brutality, but here is the thing: they can’t tell me what my life experiences have taught me.

It took all I had to follow and listen to this case dispassionately. I had to. I wanted to divorce myself from the hateful contention of racism and prejudice. I listened as though my own life and the lives of people of color I know depended on it. And it does. Not solely because we could die and often times we do as a result of how we look, but because no matter what we do, how we change our language to speak “properly,” take finishing classes so that we can present ourselves with polish, “professionalism” and etiquette, the burden is always on us to “fit in,” to not be offensive, to not be aggressive. The pressure is on us to blend in, to be likeable. These things, we are told, are the pillars of a successful and productive life – just like George Zimmerman put the pressure on Mr. Martin to fit into what he thought a responsible adult should look like and who had the right to be in that community. There is the rub – and the critical failure of humanity.

My (our) Black skin always puts me behind the eight ball. The quality and content of my character will never be the foremost thing that determines the quality of my existence on this earth. It will, at most, be a mitigating factor which allows non-Black people to learn to live with people who look like me.

When the prosecution and defense teams finally stopped speaking, the Trayvon Martin case reduced me to tears because, as I thought about a profiling incident that happened to me when I was a dorky, teenaged, co-ed in a pink hooded college sweatshirt, it hit me: IT COULD HAVE BEEN ME. It hit me very deeply and personally as I recalled the racism I experienced personally and professionally, the accusations hurled at folks who look like me for just walking into a room. I cried as I looked at Mr. Martin’s parents, who are equally guilty of being Black and birthing a Black child. It’s hurtful because it is doubtful that anyone who has not experienced it will ever understand in the depths of their hearts the loss we suffer because we are born Black. Before we make even a single movement we are judged and convicted. We spend our existence having to counteract the effects of the thought process of non-Black people. We lose our lives and our livelihoods as well as the opportunity to live in quiet, clean and orderly environments. We lose the chance to be educated and afforded the opportunity to choose for ourselves our activities. We loose these things because the people in control of the distribution of resources are not Black.

All we are guilty of is being present before the non-Black people can be off to the races with their assumptions, based upon superficial things that may not reflect our mindset or intentions toward them – just like George Zimmerman was with Mr. Martin. I cannot, in clear conscious, accuse him of purposely setting out to kill Mr. Martin. There simply isn’t enough evidence of that. But I can convict him of profiling and being responsible for killing a human being who was only guilty of being present. Because of his white skin tone, George Zimmerman gets the benefit of the doubt – and he gets to live. Mr. Martin and Black people do not get the benefit of the doubt.

The idea of privacy is something that white people hold onto as a “right,” but Black people are not so naïve as we’ve never had that luxury. People have always taken what was in our possession – our bodies, our children, our family members – and they’ve always listened to our conversations. George Zimmerman was not forced to explain why he did not retreat if he feared for his safety and life, but Mr. Martin was supposed to retreat; he was supposed to just “go home.” He was never afforded the benefit of the doubt that he was in danger – a danger that proved to be very real, because he is dead. He was correct to characterize Zimmerman as a “creepy-ass cracker.” He symbolized his fear and concern, and he is dead. There is no stronger argument for Mr. Martin’s defensive actions that got him shot.

Therefore, my people, we are all at danger, all the time.

© 2013 Dena Williams

"Cindy" for Sandy: A CrossFit Adventure

I love a good challenge as much as the next person - so, yes, when one of my karate students invited us to CrossFit New Windsor to participate in a fund-raiser to help the American Red Cross help victims of Hurricane Sandy, I jumped at the chance.

Before today, I was only a little familiar with CrossFit - and that familiarity came from hearing a few folks discuss it in the grocery store once, seeing a bit of a CrossFit Championship Challenge on ESPN a few months ago and checking out a friend's pics and posts about it on Face Book. What I found out from CrossFit New Windsor owner Frank Volpe was that it's all about improving fitness. "It's where you come to learn how to move your body correctly," he said.

CrossFit workouts are designed to condition the entire body with a combination of plyometrics, weights and other exercises, taking what you can do - like the "Cindy" fund-raiser workout that involved a circuit of pull-ups, push-ups and air squats - for a specific amount of time. Individuals race against the clock to "get 'er done" and try improve with each workout. Improvement means an increase in work capacity which means fitness improvement as well. Sounds like fun, right? Believe me, it is.

Volpe says anyone can start CrossFit regardless of the kind of shape they are in or even if they've never really worked out before. Unlike p90X or "Insanity" workouts, trainers guide you through each exercise, focusing first on safe movement, then consistency of movement and finally intensity. But it still forces you to dig deep to beat the clock. And did I mention there is a different, female-monikered workout each day? "You'll never do the same workout twice," adds Volpe. "Our motto is 'get comfortable with being uncomfortable.'"

Whether crack-of-dawn (morning), after lunch, early evening or pre-prime-time workouts are your thing, CrossFit New Windsor has anywhere from three to six class times to chose from on weekdays and one each on Saturdays and Sundays. And, being so easy to get to from almost anywhere in the Orange County area (located at the Stewart Gym, 343 Sue Kelly Avenue in New Windsor at Stewart Airport - directly across the street from the Orange County Police Academy), there really aren't any excuses NOT to try a class (especially since the first one is free).

Head on over to Cross Fit New Windsor. You really will be glad you did.

Invisible Man

Yesterday on my way to the gym, I saw a young man - maybe a year or two older than my own son - sitting near the traffic light with a "Homeless - please help if you can" sign. He had no gloves and was literally shaking from the cold. And trust me, it was pretty cold here last night.

I only had a dollar on me, which I gave him, but I had already made up my mind I was coming back before he even thanked me. I went home, found a pair of gloves and a scarf stuffed in the closet from last winter and found a blanket we'd gotten years ago as a commemorative prize and brought them back to the traffic light. The young man was so appreciative. While we were talking, a woman drove up, handed him a bag and a $5 bill. He thanked her and told her to drive safely. As she drove away, he looked in the bag and almost cried when he saw what was in it. "I can't believe she brought me SOCKS!" he said as he slipped off his boots and put them on over the little ankle ones he had on. I can't tell you how humbling it was to watch this young man who had just told me he had no idea where he was going to be sleeping tonight get so excited over a new pair of long socks.

We talked for a few more minutes and he told me now he happened to be without roof overhead and out in the cold. His story was a simple one and could easily happen to anyone. One day he had a place to live and the next day he didn't - it really was just that simple.

I asked him what he needed and he said the most pressing things were the simple things: toothpaste, a folding toothbrush and clean boxer shorts (he wears a size 32). He used to have a tent where he would sleep when he couldn't find a shelter or other indoor place, but it had been stolen. It hurt my heart to think about how cold it might get tonight and how he might have to endure it with nothing but the little blanket he'd just been given.

Getting protein on a regular was difficult, he said, but what he misses most about not having a place to call his own was being able to take a hot shower and having a cold fridge in which to store food. "You have no idea how much I miss having a fridge," he told me.

In my head, I saw that young man's face - especially how cold it looked when I first saw him and how incredibly happy a small display of kindness from a passing stranger made it when the woman passing by handed him the socks - all night. The reality is that no matter his circumstances, he is someone's son and used to be someone's neighbor, classmate and friend. There's something incredibly tragic about that, I think.

If my own son or any of my neighbors, classmates or friends ever needs a helping hand from a stranger, I hope they get it, I really do.

You don't have to have a lot to be nice to someone. Kindness costs nothing but time. Spend some today.

Greetings from Snootyville!

Just got word from a co-worker that one of the parents of a client I work with considers me SNOOTY. I work with juveniles in crisis and this parent and I went to high school together 30 years ago. Not only was he a year older, but he was in none of the accelerated classes I was in nor was he one of the standout performers on the track team that I spent the other half of my waking hours on/around. If his definition of SNOOTY is 17-year-old me with my head burried in a book or training six days a week for hours at a time, then I guess I'm guilty as charged.

Here's the scenario: his kid is in a lot of trouble. Facing criminal charges for a pretty violent act he allegedly perpetrated, he also stands the risk of being removed from his home because the arrest for that crime violated his existing probation. Dad seems to think I'm not being supportive enough in court because I don't sit with the family while we're waiting to be called by the judge. I'm not an attorney, mind you, just a case planner trying to make sure he is doing all the stuff the court has asked him to do. But my day doesn't stop just because I'm in court waiting for the judge to finally make it to the bench for this one child. I've got other clients whose needs are just as important, which means I need to text and make calls to coordinate those schedules that I sometimes do in the down time we spend waiting around. It ain't all just about his kid, that's for certain.

Plus, his son has been extremely disrespectful to me in the past, even going so far as to curse me out in the family court waiting room in front of his mother and grandmother because I was telling him stuff about the consequences of non-compliance with the judge's orders that I guess he didn't want to hear. His mom didn't say one word about his behavior, either, other than a half-baked excuse tossed over her shoulder as she jumped up to chase after him.

As his son's Day of Reconning nears, I imagine my former school-mate's family is a little panicked over what might happen to their child. Perhaps I am the convenient scapegoat on whom to blame all that is wrong, who knows? I do hope the family gets what they need, which might involve he and mom stopping for two minutes and realizing that I'm not the one on trial, their child is. The professional that I am will always, always, always do whatever is necessary to assist the families I work with, but there comes a point that they must also be working with me. And their effort should at least match mine, as I don't think it is fair to ask me to go farther or work harder than you are willing to. Neither of us can do it alone. Man up and make your child do what he is supposed to: go to school, report to probation, drug treatment and work. Sitting back and letting him do what he wants will get you nowhere fast. Someone has to be the parent, here - and, as I don't live with him, it can't be me.

Rant over. Ms. SNOOTY signing out...

Pride and Prejudice

My son left this morning at 7:30AM to meet his friends at the train station. They were heading to the Pride Parade in NYC. He was very excited - as it is the first time he's attending ever. I, on the other hand, am a nervous wreck.

He's gone to NYC before with friends. He's even taken the train without me, too. But even though he is heading to one of the most tolerant cities in the world and it is 2012, I'm kind of afraid for his safety.

The reality is that the world is often not a nice place to those who are deemed "different" by societal standards. Besides ridicule and nasty rhetoric, physical violence can also be a reality. It doesn't take a heck of a whole lot to push a crazy, bigoted person over the edge, it really doesn't.

I know I hugged him goodbye, smiled and waved as he pulled out of the driveway to connect with his buddies, but I'll literally be on pins and needles until he pulls back in. Seriously.

He's almost 19. Is there an age or a point where the mommy worry switch gets flipped off? Sigh...

Legacy

This has been a heck of a year so far. I've lost several friends and acquaintances to breast cancer and several more to heart attacks and accidents. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, a call, email, text or Tweet would come about someone else's passing. The memorials and funerals have truly exhausted me, but they have gotten me thinking about legacy a lot more than ever.

My reality is this: I am a breast cancer survivor. Since there is absolutely no cure for this disease, the chance that it could come back with a vengence and take me away from my family is very real. Other than some meories and a few blog posts, what will be left of me after I'm gone? And what will those life left-overs say about me and what I did with my time here on earth?

The frineds whom I lost recently ranged in age from 21 to 65 years of age. Their legacies include their children, their writing, their advocacy and the promise of what life had in store for them had they been here still to live it. They leave behind husbands and wives, children and Internet sisters, girlfriends and parents, relatives and friends who all remembered them "when" - when they were alive and kicking, doing their thing and living life like they had all the time in the world. Sadly, they didn't. How will the memories of who they were live on?

A few days ago, I was asked to write a bio for a presentation this spring. I was warned that writing about myself can be difficult - which I already knew, but I really had no idea why until I sat down to write this particular bio. Most of the people reading it will know me from the world of martial arts, although the award is for teaching outside the dojo. The truth is that I'm more than just a teacher and a karateka, but if you only see me in a gi or behind the podium in a lecture hall, you'd be none the wiser. The difficulty in writing about all you do and all you are, I found, is all about what NOT to include. Who wants their bio to read like they are a superhero?

But isn't that what we all are? Nobody just does one thing all their life - be that world politics, a more mundane day job or heading a fabulous yearly fund-raiser/event. We're all much more of a multi-faceted entity than how we can describe ourselves to someone we're meeting for the first time.

So this is who I am: mom, wife, advocate for at-risk youth, college professor, karate student and instructor, track coach, former soccer coach, dancer, drummer, rabid Prince fan, editor, writer, publisher, photographer, track star, best friend, payer of tuition, chief cook and dishwasher, dog walker, cat litter scooper, blogger, dreamer - still, none of them completely capture my essence.

What I want people to know about me when I am no longer here for them to get to know for themselves is not the sound of my voice or my love of R&B. I want folks to know about my passion for doing what is right - be it in the dojo or with people who expect to learn something from me in the classroom or for folks who stumble across my breast cancer blog. I want people to know that I felt things while I was here - and that I tried my best to do something to help right as many wrongs as I could.

I've learned a little something from every person I've ever come in contact with, too. All of it - the good and the bad - have helped mold me into the person writing this today. As I learn more lessons, I have come to understand that I am still a work in progress - and I hope to be until the day I draw my last breath.

Thanks for being a part of my progress, dear reader. Thanks for letting me be a part of yours, too. But thanks mostly to the wonderful souls who have gone on. The facets you let shine were appreciated more than you could ever know.

Exodus: Piles of Stuff

My son will be moving to his new place in four short days. Located about five minutes from his college campus, his house will be the semester home to my almost 18-yr-old and two other college guys. Sigh...

I'm a planner by nature. Since he decided on the college he wanted to attend, I've been buying toiletries and other things he'll need for school a little at a time. Suffice to say that in late August, there is a big pile of bags, boxes and storage bins in the middle of his bedroom. I think he has enough body wash, deodorant and lotion to choke a small farm animal.

But as the time for the pending move draws closer, each trip to his room to add something else to the pile feels a little more melancholy. Part of it is the realization that my "little" boy is well on his way to adulthood. Part of it is the flashback to my own pile of college necessaries as my college move-in day drew closer. My parents had taken me shopping to get a little fridge, a stereo with a cassette player (don't laugh) and a typewriter, but it's only now as I get ready to untie the apron strings myself that I identify with what they might have been thinking as the pile started getting bigger. Did my mom ask herself if she'd given me everything I needed emotionally to survive in the world outside of our little town? Was dad secretly wondering if I'd remember to eat on a regular? Did they worry that I'd be a menace to my room and dorm mates with my quirky habits? Were they concerned that I wouldn't study but instead party like it was going out of style? I know all these things have crossed my mind in the last few weeks - and more.

Still, Friday will be here before you know it. And although I concern myself with the minutia of new towels and bed linen and making sure his new laptop is college-ready, I know I'll miss seeing him every day. I'm sure that drive back home after the last part of the pile has been transfered from his bedroom in our house to his bedroom in his new one will be a long and probably even a sad one. But I also remember making a "Temple U or Bust!" sign on a sheet of paper that I couldn't wait to stick in the back window of the van before we headed off to my college all those years ago - as well as the excitement/anxiety over what the future held that my pile created. I know my son is feeling that now, too. And I'm most happy about that :-)

Of course, I say that now. I very well may be in a tight ball, rocking myself to and fro on Saturday, though. Hey, don't judge...

As the Financial Abyss Looms...

Sounds like a soap opera title, right? Pity it is the sad state of affairs that is Capital Hill.

And sad it is. What's the big deal about the raising the debt ceiling anyway? Or I guess I should ask what's the big deal about raising it NOW? As it's been done at least 15 times over the last 20 years, it floors me that this particular congress is having such a hard time sorting it all out. And while the three sides point fingers at each other, most Americans I know are getting a bit PO'd by their posturing and whining - and getting to the point where they're ready to toss the lot of them and start from scratch.

It's like our elected officials have forgotten the very reason they are in Washington to begin with: to represent and protect the best interests of their constituents. But as the markets here and around the world hit the skids and the neediest of us all (the poor, elderly and disabled) may not get social security, ADFC and disability payments on time, they bicker. In their many television interviews, all of them have on their little flag lapel pins, though. I guess they don't want us to forget that they are true patriots, maybe.

Note to Congress: if the NFL owners and players can sit down at the table and work out their differences, you can to. Play ball!

Graduation Eve

Cap and Gown pick-up? Check!

Tomorrow is the day. At least it is supposed to be. As the ceremony is scheduled for outside and it is supposed to rain all day, graduation day may actually be Friday. They will once again try for outdoors then, but, since it is supposed to rain then, too, it might be moved to the auditorium instead. We'll be nice and dry, but the powers that be only give each graduate two tickets then instead of four. My son has two biological parents, two step-parents and three siblings. How that will work I have no idea...

I'm not stressing, though. I'll see him flip his tassel. cheer a little and cry a lot. It will be what it will be.

But no rain would be nice, though...

The First "Last"

This is the picture I took of my son this morning - his last day of high school. Kinda teared up a bit...

Tonight is his last high school performance ever. He's choreographing and performing in two dances. Pretty sure I will be bawling by the end of the second one...

Kind of a bitter-sweet time, here. Part of me is happy he's graduating and moving on to bigger and better things. Part of me misses the ages and stages we've experienced as he traveled from diapers to tying his own shoes, to dating and teen angst to licensed driver and soon-to-be college freshman.

Friday is his senior prom. OMG, I better run out and get some more tissues...