Worlds side by side

The leaves are almost all gone from the front of my house. But on the side, in the corridor between two buildings, the golden trees still sway and shimmer. Nobody told them winter is here. I sit in my house, contemplating the gold, in awe.

I’ve been comfort watching Call the Midwife, which often has me in tears. For those who know the show, Sister Monica Joan (pictured on the TV) is one of the most wonderfully drawn characters I’ve ever encountered on the small screen, a poet and a philosopher, who feels so keenly the suffering of the world, and somehow, in spite of her dementia and also because of it, she is able to transmute pain into the purest hope. It really is a beautifully written show. I pause so often, just gobsmacked by a line spoken by one the midwives, wimpled and not, who attend the thresholds of birth and death with such fierce and unstinting courage, feminist warriors for other women, their families, for love. 

Also, I got dressed up last Saturday evening to see the Justice's star turn on Broadway. I put on make up and lipstick and even blended on concealer with a brush the way my glam young friend Gabbie showed me, so we took a picture.

This morning I read a poem about Gaza by Joseph Fasano. It broke me all over again. The children are still dying. The land still burns. What will become of our souls?

 

Our Justice is a Theater Kid

I was in the audience last night to witness Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson's dream come true. In her Harvard college essay, she had expressed her goal of becoming "the first Black female Supreme Court Justice to appear on a Broadway stage" (Lovely One, page 103). She attained the first part of that dream when she was appointed to the Supreme Court on June 13, 2022. And last night, in a one-night-only walk on part in the musical "&Juliet," she got to experience the second part of that dream. In a part written expressly for her, she performed to a full house that thundered with applause and cheers when she appeared and delivered her lines, even singing one song with the cast. She was brilliant and clearly enjoying herself. "She's just a Theater Kid like us," one of the lead players said, introducing her. As she shares in her memoir, theater is her road not taken. She appeared in plays and musicals throughout her college career, an engagement with stagecraft that she necessarily paused when she chose the Law. Last night that long hiatus came to an end.

"&Juliet" re-imagines Shakespeare's famous tragedy, exploring what might transpire if on awakening from her sleep potion and finding Romeo dead, Juliet decided not to kill herself, too, and instead went on with her life. It was a funny, inclusive, empowering feminist vision of an alternate ending to the bard's play. My friend Lisa came with me to the show, as my usual Broadway buddy, my daughter, is off exploring Quebec City this weekend with her husband. I was just as starstruck as everyone else when the Justice appeared. And the Theater Kid crushed it.

Watching the performance, I felt a secret thrill that our Justice has these other dimensions to her persona, that she could replenish her spirit from what must be a brutal day job with an interlude of the purest joy. When she shared her goal of one day appearing on a Broadway stage in her book, I was sure someone would read it who could make that dream come true. And last evening at the Stephen Sondheim Theater, she acted her heart out, and she was glorious.

Merry & Bright

Miss Harper is ready for the season!

___________

I've dipped my toe back into the ocean of news, having been convinced by a meme that I should not turn away. I watch and read sparingly still, but slowly, I'm reengaging with the world beyond my ken. There's the meme, quoting the great and wise Audre Lorde, which someone posted on Bluesky. I've deleted Twitter or X of whatever it was calling itself, and joined Bluesky, which is infinitely less toxic, while still on the pulse of the news as it unfolds in real time. I'm going to Jamaica for four days over the holidays, and would you believe I wish I was just staying home? I'm in the mood to sit still, to roll up the sidewalk and just be. I also need to make some real progress on the book, but I will have to pause in writing that and make myself pack, contemplate presenting myself, on a beach no less, and in this moment it all feels like too much. Some people have real problems, right? I feel silly whining about this, and besides, the money is spent, the tickets booked, the ocean view room reserved, and my husband's has set his heart on sun and sea. There is no way around it but to go, and unearth some enjoyment at being able to revisit the beach and the turquoise sea of my childhood. I'm trying not to worry about how powder soft the sand is there, which was heavenly when my body was sound, but now it is wholly at odds with my gimpy left leg, which struggles to keep me upright even on flat hard ground. Oh, no one is crying for me, I know this. I'm just trying to get my own head in gear.

 

More Nikki

 

 

I don't know who took these photos of a young Nikki Giovanni, but I love them. They capture her whole spirit, the gentle humor that rode alongside the fierce unflinching intelligence with which she regarded the world, which also infused her poetry.

 

You Came, Too
by Nikki Giovanni

I came to the crowd seeking friends
I came to the crowd seeking love
I came to the crowd for understanding

I found you

I came to the crowd to weep
I came to the crowd to laugh

You dried my tears
You shared my happiness

I went from the crowd seeking you
I went from the crowd seeking me
I went from the crowd forever

You came, too 

 

Walk good, Poet

Nikki Giovanni is now with the ancestors. Thank you for your life, Nikki, your poetry, your celebration of your Black self, your joy. Thank you for that laugh like the music of the sun breaking over our heads. I adored you when I was a yearning teen, a college kid with her fist in the air, a woman in love, a mother. Please say hello to Toni, Tina, Audre, Shay and all the literary godmothers who I like to imagine came to meet you, and are enfolding you now. It sure is lonely down here without you, but as someone said, your body may be beyond us, but all that love and joy and music in your words, you left them with us. Now, you get to rest. Walk good, beloved Poet. I think you always knew our love for you, and you gathered it in with those dancing eyes, those strong skinny arms, loving us right back.

Winter Poem by Nikki Giovanni

Giving thanks for all that is really okay

Political apathy is new to me. I’m so over watching the Democratic party circle fire on itself, with so much recrimination and blame, and dear God please just give all the self-righteous commentary on Joe Biden pardoning his son Hunter a rest! I would have been mad if he hadn't pardoned him, instead leaving him to the mercy of the scruples-free cadre coming into power in a few weeks, most of them with crimes against others beyond anything Hunter ever did—oh, don't get me started. It's a hell of a thing to be so disenchanted, so apathetic about the whole political charade, yet with the clarity of understanding that I have no where else to go, no political entity I can turn to in the fight for the marginalized and jeopardized. I don't listen to the news any more, because what’s the point? Suffice it to say we're just fucked, so let's get on with living, shall we?

We had the usual Thanksgiving crowd, and we feasted and enjoyed ourselves as if the country was not in the process of burning itself down. Yes, I was a stressy mess on Thanksgiving morning, wrapping my arms tight around myself to hold the turbulence in, but later when everything came together, I remembered why I do this crazy chaotic dance every year. So many magical moments of loving connection. 

I’ll put up some photos from the week, but I won't try to organize them chronologically, lest I dissipate my energy to finish this post. Really, I just want to have the record of these pictures. And I want to remember that my husband, after the turkey came out the oven, tapped his children and said, "Over to you," and came and sat next to me in the living room, where we conversed with guests as our kids and nieces did all the re-warming and plating of dishes and carving of meats, ferrying everything to the table for the feast. I also want to remember that when twenty of us held hands in a huge circle to say grace, which always falls to my husband, he said the most beautiful things: that he has been thinking a lot about where we find ourselves this year, and that what occurs to him is that self care is critical now, a radical act, because if we care for ourselves, we will better be able to care for our families, our neighbors, our community, our world. Everyone was moved by his words, which I have so simplified here, forgive me, he said it so much better than I’ve managed, and his words restored each of us in some small measure. 

Later we mixed up margaritas and the night got even more riotous and entertaining. We laughed till our sides ached, and there were also some tears, such as when my niece lamented that she feared passing on her life traumas to her beautiful baby Harper, and when she realized she was crying my son came and put his arms around her, and the rest of us murmured it's okay, it's going to be okay, you'll do your best, it's all you can do, and she will likely have different traumas than the ones you'll be careful to keep away from her, because this is life, and she is loved, she will know she is loved, and she will be okay.

Here is an album of Thanksgiving week 2024, in New York City. 

My man, giving the peace sign, made most of the food—the turkey, the ham, the stuffing, the broccoli in garlic and oil, the roasted Brussel spouts, the three cheese mac and cheese—and I made the corn and cheese casserole and the sweet potato dish with crushed pineapple mixed in and a seared marshmallow topping.

One niece brought rice and peas, lamb, and green beans, another friend brought plantains, my son in law contributed his favorite collard greens, we opened a can of cranberry jelly and that was the whole feast. And it was yummy. 

Little Harper was everybody's favorite guest. Here she is with Auntie Kai-Kai, who has decided she wants to be called Bestie Kai. After a while, our precious baby girl decided there was just too much noise and revelry, too much attention swirling toward her, and she climbed into her daddy's lap and said, "Dada, Happa go to bed?" then climbed back down, walked through the room with her wrist on a swivel giving her adorable royal wave as she chirped, "Bah bye, bah bye," then ran down to the hall to the room where her cot was and waited at the door for Daddy to catch up. Love it when a child understands she has agency.

Harper's mommy's hair has grown wild and free and for Thanksgiving she made no attempt to tame it, and she was as beautiful as she always is, whether or not she's sporting lipstick and freedom hair.

The nieces and my daughter had decided that they'd prepare charcuterie boards to nosh on while waiting for dinner to be put out, since they know from past experience that they're always starving by the time the food is served.

Continuing our Thanksgiving week rundown in random order: The day before, Wednesday, some of us did a jigsaw puzzle while my son in law made a special floral arrangement for the table. 

This is Harper having a tantrum. She gently lowers herself to the floor where she writhes and whines in protest about whatever is not pleasing her. How I wish my son had had decorous tantrums like this! I could have assured myself that I was a much better mother than I felt at the time. Harper's parents have the right touch, though. They ask her how she is, try to discern what's going on, but they don't get overwrought, as I used to, even to the point and getting down on the floor with my tantrumming son and crying along with him.

Earlier in the week, on Tuesday (since we seem to be going in actual reverse order of events here) my son took his favorite auntie from Trinidad and the Dallas contingent to see his firehouse, after which they all decamped to Brooklyn to my daughter and her husband's new apartment. 

The firehouse visiting crew hung out in Brooklyn till late in the evening, keeping my daughter company as she baked the last of the pie orders she received for the season, including two for me and her dad, and one for her brother and his wife.

My daughter in law and Harper had a lovely moment in the kitchen playing with shopping bags. Another of Harper's aunts made an adorable video, which I will post below.

Over the course of the week, we watched the entire new season of The Great British Baking Show, as we are all unabashed fans of the soothing niceness of the people who are cast for that show.

A few of us, myself included, had to sneak in some actual work time while still following the bakers on TV. We also binge watched Lioness and Call the Midwife at different points in the week, catering to everyone's varied programming interests. On Friday we watched Gladiator in preparation for our Friday night mass movie date, which was Gladiator II at the red-leather reclining seat theater.

Harper has everyone, including her uncle, wrapped around her little finger. I believe she is fully aware of her power over us all.

My daughter snapped this photo at 2AM during the kitchen clean-up process. She later sent it to the family group chat with the caption "Successful Thanksgiving."

And finally, here are two videos, one in our kitchen, the other at my son’s firehouse, that made me smile:

On their way!

 In just a few hours, they'll be here with us in New York!

❤️

 

 

 

The week before the feast

There's the rug I eventually chose. We laid it down this morning. It doesn’t add much to the room, but it’s inoffensive, so I’m okay with it. It a damp, gray day over here. With the brush fires we’ve had in local parks recently we need the rain. My cousin Nicky arrived from Trinidad two days ago. She’s here for Thanksgiving next week. We’re watching the new season of The Great British Baking Show. The Dallas contingent, including sweet little Harper, gets here on Sunday. I'm so looking forward to seeing that little girl. My kids and their loves, and our two nieces, will sleep over with us from Wednesday till Saturday, the better to partake in festive chaos. Over in Brooklyn, my daughter is busy making orders of her salted caramel apple pie. She sold out this year. Pie pick ups will be happening from our house next Wednesday. We’ll have nine people staying over in our apartment and about twenty people for the feast day itself. Here we go!

Being quiet

 

I have been feeling as if I don’t know how to write here anymore. As if I just need to be quiet. If you want to know the truth, all the analyses of the election outcome simply don’t add up to me. I don’t think Anne Seltzer’s Iowa poll got it wrong. Rather, I think in addition to all the voter suppression methods put in place over a period of years, there was something buried in the algorithm of the machines in the districts where the far right over performed, and certainly Leon (as I now call him), with his self driving cars and space rockets could have handled that “little secret”—perhaps it was the “little secret” Orange couldn’t help crowing about at his Nazi rally a week before Election Day. But of course, I sound as crazy as all the election deniers from 2020 saying that. And what even is the point, as nothing will be investigated or corrected. We are heading into the darkest of days and I feel a fair bit of dread. So I’m keeping my head down. Being quiet. Waiting to see what it is that I need to do. I’m not in denial or delusion. But I am in limbo. Suspended. Not knowing just how bad it’s going to get. No more unicorns and rainbows of hope. We’re beyond that I think. We’ll need clear eyes and true hearts now.  

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“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.” —Carl Jung