the music of my mother...my mom has a large collection of folk music from the 60's and 70's. growing up i was tortured by the sound of BOb Dylan, joan Baez, and such crying the plight of the civil rights era. they fought wars with poetry and acoustics and curled in a ball in my closet trying to block them out.
but now i actually like Dylan and some of the sound i once whined through.
This year the music world lost two of my mother favorite singers.
Odetta husky meaningful voice loomed through our house as if it were so apart of the meaning of our home it held the walls up and kept the roof from caving in.
Mirium Mekeba on rare foreign sound close to my grandfather home land...a mix of meaning and plight of south Africa. i remember her with the smell of Portuguese sausage on Sunday mornings, and wind blowing open the old dusty shades in the hall that only showed light on those warm afternoon.
Monday, December 29, 2008
remember the trip to boston
Scanning the crowd for something familiar, but there are few familiar things in a science museum to an 8 yr old. I was alone but oddly not panicked; I spent most of the day, most of my life wandering around alone. Even when I was forced to tour the museum with a pack of girl scouts and their stay at home moms. These woman creeped me, they always seemed to be talking but rarely did they actually “say” anything. I remember even at that age thinking I was smarter then them, at least more street smart.
Anyways those hyenas left me in the lobby as they cautiously held their daughter hands and led them to the departing bus. It took me a moment to realize I was alone in the crowd. The way children do, it took me that beat, that sudden awareness of the open waters and then I found my panic coming. I rushed around very aware they could just leave me, they could get on a bus, and being as unsavy as they are of the urban terrain just as easily leave me, rather then forge a plan to find me.
If they did realize they didn’t have me, it would be the usual time spent amongst them clucking like hens about what to do, how typically it was for that girl to get “herself” lost, and I could image them standing around the bus doors not really stepping back out into the urban jungle they had just prepared themselves to leave. I was very aware I would have to bring myself to them, I was quicker, more agile, and wasn’t burden by suburban hesitations.
I ran out side, circled around the penguin tanks and piles of mothers eyeing for their daughter safety. I took moment to admire the irony and realize the sadness of my own worth in this situation. I know if they knew I was gone they would worry madly as mother do for young but would not act as quickly as they would if it had been their own child. Not just cuz I wasn’t there own child but because I was that child. That odd, quiet, strangely configured kid who was all too familiar with that sensation of wandering off. They couldn’t image me crying on the steps waiting for their rescue and so I couldn’t imagine them moving panicked to be my rescuer.
I saw a bus pulling off about 100 ft away and then the rush of fear rose up from my feet pulling me in to a mad dash towards them and spilling out in a screaming pitch calling for them to stop, don’t for get me, I am here, you don’t have me.
The bus has gone from a rectangle to the square with burning red eyes looking back at me and spitting grey smoke.
I am out of breath, collapsing over my self, face first into the cloud of toxins and deeply breathing them in. I am out of breath from a young life time not spent doing too much running and now choking and ready to vomit.
I could almost cry and it must show. The tourists are looking at me as strangely as they do the penguin tank. I can see the moment where the mothers want to ask me if I am ok; I turn and play it cool. By this moment I cannot stand the idea of someone else mother helping where it was someone else’s mothers whom had just left me in this situation.
I stride with my head up back to the tank that easily gets plenty of attention I would never know, I think I am pulling off a pretty convincing calm but I am sure my face is red with terror.
A woman is following me, I can see her in the corner of my eye. I walk faster, not afraid but more annoyed. She gets closer, gingerly reaching out to comfort; I book it, fuck her. Fuck her motherly concern; I avoid her as I would brattily avoid my own mother when I don’t want to deal with her.
I run looking back seeing her grow small, feel so big myself. I am in full wind in hair stride. Feeling almost too proud of her defeat. Then BAM I slam right into the cushiony side of another woman. She had to be a mother; no one just gets that cushiony with out having a few kids to blame it on. She had one of those bodies if you cut her head off you wouldn’t know if you were looking at her front, her side, or the back of her. It was all the same round, soft perspective. I don’t find her body repulsive; I always found this shape oddly soothing. And even though I was heading face first into it, and then thrown the ground by it, I still found it comforting.
The round women helped to my feet more embarrassed then I was, she brushed me off with the familiarity of my own mom, holding me up by me arm checking me for damages. I kind of hung there for moment slack, pliable the way child gets when being held, good thing she had me by this odd hold or my desperation would have driven me to hug her. Cling to her for comfort, my arms getting lost in her rolls and being too short armed or her too round I would grab onto her fleshiness with two handfuls.
Then I heard something familiar, the shrill substitute teacher voice of my den mother. That voice that when it come into a room it shuts everything down, which seem counterproductive for an organization that promote community involvement. That voice that I couldn’t imagine calling me to dinner every night, or talking to me about drugs, or explaining what a tampon was. I thank god that voice wasn’t my mom. Seem fitting that very un siren sound would be the one to call me to safety.
Seem all the troupe was gathered for group shots around the corner, the voice was gathering them for a last shot before getting on our bus still parked where it had dropped us off. Still languid, un abandoning, but as my custom forgotten because remembering direction was never my strong suit.
I rounded the corner to see the smiling faces gather, FLASHES, and then dispand quickly getting on the bus and ready to retreat to the safety of their suburbia. No one notices my absence or my return. I blended in, half teary but guarding my face as if just tired.
I sat by the window watching it all grow away from me, strangely missing the city, its streets, its smell, its intrigue.
I heard the hens discussing their day. They talked about the difference between people from Connecticut and people in Boston. Funny to me now because to anyone not from the Northeast we are all the same stick up your butt new Englanders. But the moms marveled at the bigness of the city which again now amuses me, having seen much larger and grander cities. I hadn’t realized then as I do now this was their big trip, their escape more then our wonder. They were mommies of the kind that didn’t really see the world after mother hood and perhaps would never see much of the world at all beyond motherhood.
One had bought a watch on the street. She gleamed, and it gleamed. Bragged about the price and how her husband will never know what she rally paid for it. They all giggled and winked knowingly. I had no dad and could imagine getting anyone such a thing or anyone in my life ever caring what I spent on something I got them. The watch looked precious but I was skeptical. Half way through the drive home as she admired it simply fell apart as if nothing was ever really holding it together. It was nothing but a handful of parts. Oddly that when I admired it most and kind of wanted it.
Anyways those hyenas left me in the lobby as they cautiously held their daughter hands and led them to the departing bus. It took me a moment to realize I was alone in the crowd. The way children do, it took me that beat, that sudden awareness of the open waters and then I found my panic coming. I rushed around very aware they could just leave me, they could get on a bus, and being as unsavy as they are of the urban terrain just as easily leave me, rather then forge a plan to find me.
If they did realize they didn’t have me, it would be the usual time spent amongst them clucking like hens about what to do, how typically it was for that girl to get “herself” lost, and I could image them standing around the bus doors not really stepping back out into the urban jungle they had just prepared themselves to leave. I was very aware I would have to bring myself to them, I was quicker, more agile, and wasn’t burden by suburban hesitations.
I ran out side, circled around the penguin tanks and piles of mothers eyeing for their daughter safety. I took moment to admire the irony and realize the sadness of my own worth in this situation. I know if they knew I was gone they would worry madly as mother do for young but would not act as quickly as they would if it had been their own child. Not just cuz I wasn’t there own child but because I was that child. That odd, quiet, strangely configured kid who was all too familiar with that sensation of wandering off. They couldn’t image me crying on the steps waiting for their rescue and so I couldn’t imagine them moving panicked to be my rescuer.
I saw a bus pulling off about 100 ft away and then the rush of fear rose up from my feet pulling me in to a mad dash towards them and spilling out in a screaming pitch calling for them to stop, don’t for get me, I am here, you don’t have me.
The bus has gone from a rectangle to the square with burning red eyes looking back at me and spitting grey smoke.
I am out of breath, collapsing over my self, face first into the cloud of toxins and deeply breathing them in. I am out of breath from a young life time not spent doing too much running and now choking and ready to vomit.
I could almost cry and it must show. The tourists are looking at me as strangely as they do the penguin tank. I can see the moment where the mothers want to ask me if I am ok; I turn and play it cool. By this moment I cannot stand the idea of someone else mother helping where it was someone else’s mothers whom had just left me in this situation.
I stride with my head up back to the tank that easily gets plenty of attention I would never know, I think I am pulling off a pretty convincing calm but I am sure my face is red with terror.
A woman is following me, I can see her in the corner of my eye. I walk faster, not afraid but more annoyed. She gets closer, gingerly reaching out to comfort; I book it, fuck her. Fuck her motherly concern; I avoid her as I would brattily avoid my own mother when I don’t want to deal with her.
I run looking back seeing her grow small, feel so big myself. I am in full wind in hair stride. Feeling almost too proud of her defeat. Then BAM I slam right into the cushiony side of another woman. She had to be a mother; no one just gets that cushiony with out having a few kids to blame it on. She had one of those bodies if you cut her head off you wouldn’t know if you were looking at her front, her side, or the back of her. It was all the same round, soft perspective. I don’t find her body repulsive; I always found this shape oddly soothing. And even though I was heading face first into it, and then thrown the ground by it, I still found it comforting.
The round women helped to my feet more embarrassed then I was, she brushed me off with the familiarity of my own mom, holding me up by me arm checking me for damages. I kind of hung there for moment slack, pliable the way child gets when being held, good thing she had me by this odd hold or my desperation would have driven me to hug her. Cling to her for comfort, my arms getting lost in her rolls and being too short armed or her too round I would grab onto her fleshiness with two handfuls.
Then I heard something familiar, the shrill substitute teacher voice of my den mother. That voice that when it come into a room it shuts everything down, which seem counterproductive for an organization that promote community involvement. That voice that I couldn’t imagine calling me to dinner every night, or talking to me about drugs, or explaining what a tampon was. I thank god that voice wasn’t my mom. Seem fitting that very un siren sound would be the one to call me to safety.
Seem all the troupe was gathered for group shots around the corner, the voice was gathering them for a last shot before getting on our bus still parked where it had dropped us off. Still languid, un abandoning, but as my custom forgotten because remembering direction was never my strong suit.
I rounded the corner to see the smiling faces gather, FLASHES, and then dispand quickly getting on the bus and ready to retreat to the safety of their suburbia. No one notices my absence or my return. I blended in, half teary but guarding my face as if just tired.
I sat by the window watching it all grow away from me, strangely missing the city, its streets, its smell, its intrigue.
I heard the hens discussing their day. They talked about the difference between people from Connecticut and people in Boston. Funny to me now because to anyone not from the Northeast we are all the same stick up your butt new Englanders. But the moms marveled at the bigness of the city which again now amuses me, having seen much larger and grander cities. I hadn’t realized then as I do now this was their big trip, their escape more then our wonder. They were mommies of the kind that didn’t really see the world after mother hood and perhaps would never see much of the world at all beyond motherhood.
One had bought a watch on the street. She gleamed, and it gleamed. Bragged about the price and how her husband will never know what she rally paid for it. They all giggled and winked knowingly. I had no dad and could imagine getting anyone such a thing or anyone in my life ever caring what I spent on something I got them. The watch looked precious but I was skeptical. Half way through the drive home as she admired it simply fell apart as if nothing was ever really holding it together. It was nothing but a handful of parts. Oddly that when I admired it most and kind of wanted it.
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