My words never come when I want them to.  Or, the right words come eventually, but I often feel like when I press the moment it doesn't happen.  That's a better description of what's on my mind.

My grandmother was often quite good with words; she was a big believer in them, and would say things like, "is that your definitive answer?"  when playing trivial pursuit.   

More on that...

When I arrived at Brownland this afternoon it seemed practically empty.  My mother, two of my uncles and two of my aunts were out tending to practical matters.  My grandaddy was in the library, chin to chest, dozing while watching television.  Another of my uncles was in the kitchen, cleaning up.  

I sat down in the dining room, unnerved by the silence, until suddenly my cousin Philippe filled it up with his little voice, calling, "Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma."  I went upstairs to get him up and dressed.

My family came back in waves.  The usually rambunctious greetings and hellos were subdued; everyone looked gray and tired.  My grandfather started shuffling from room to room, restless and upset.  His face is the picture of sadness and confusion; it's hard to take in.  

I rode to and from the house with music blasting loud.  For some reason I'm really focused on music.  Although I think of my grandparents' house as one filled with music, the only song I know my grandmother truly loved is "Our Love is Here to Stay."   This was my grandparents' song, the enduring thing that would bring a smile to their faces with just the opening line, "It's very clear ..." 

Other than that, I realize, the house was always filled with music of other people's choosing.  My mother (Ray Charles would play and my grandmother would say to my grandfather, "we have a teenager who loves this music" even when my mother was *ahem* nowhere near teenaged), my uncles (my Uncle Howard was big on Louis Jordan, and "Open the Door Richard" is a family fave); my aunt MaryAnn (Miles Davis, in particular); the twins and me (um, Planet Rock.  Don't hate).   My grandparents loved jazz, loved old school vocalists like Sarah Vaughn, Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington; talked about going to see Pearl Bailey; apparently played a lot of Sinatra, as well.  I remember my grandfather's total engrossing fascination with Ken Burns' "Jazz" and how enthusiastically he recalled going out on U Street to hear music.  

My grandmother grew up with a fairly strict if loving set of parents.  My Nana (her mother) would not allow my grandmother to listen to contemporary music much at home; Nana was a big fan of classical music.  I can't say that I ever asked my grandmother what she preferred to listen to, musically speaking.  I know that in my experience of her stateside, once moved to Brownland, was that her preferred station was NPR, for more information to feed her voracious brain.  That said, my Gramma was a great dancer; she could really kill it on the dance floor with my grandad, "Suave Dave".  

I sang "Superwoman" by Alicia Keys while I was in the car headed home.  It kind of reminds me of her-- Still when I'm a mess/I still put on a vest/With an S on my chest/I'm a superwoman.

I mean, what's more super than raising 8 kids?  And raising them to be bold, dynamic individuals who believe they are capable of doing anything, while also instilling compassion, curiosity and making them each into great parents themselves.  AND, being a true partner to her husband, trotting the country and the globe putting down stakes and making friends in each place?  AND teaching children in each of these places, children who, to this day remember the rigor, intelligence and generosity of spirit she brought them?  

The picture on the beach is my gramma and her girls, Aunt Carlyn and Aunt Jean,  playing with my mother.  Don't they look FLY?!  Look at those glamour gals!  Super women, each ...

Words of Wisdom from Magic Dave

My grandfather's words to us when gramma first experienced seizures:

"God gave us 63 wonderful years together.  She's my soulmate."

Amo, Amas, Amat ...

Here is another thing I have in common with my gramma, via my mama-- crossword puzzles. People are always talking about the kind of swagger someone must have to do the NYT Sunday puzzle in ink.  I have to tell you... Carolyn & Lynn think nothing of it.  My mother brought a book of crossword puzzles to her natural delivery of me; crossword puzzles are de rigueur  for any sort of long wait.  And  we always, always consult on possible answers.

Today I was in the living room with my mother, grandmother & grandfather.  My mother was reading her book, sitting next to Gramma's bed.  My grandfather dozed, shirtless (inexplicably so... I imagine it was the heat, but the air was on).  I loaded a puzzle on my NYT crossword puzzle app and saw a clue that my grandmother would absolutely know.  

We're both Latin geeks.  Gramma took it at Dunbar; I took it at Banneker.  We each excelled at it.

"What's the literal translation of video?"  I said, with a laugh, after telling my mother that I'd hit a clue Gramma would absolutely know.  My mother repeated it to Gramma, who appeared a asleep and disengaged.

"I see,"  she said, very clearly.

Carolyn rocks.

This be the place

I am kind of tired, so I just wanted to plug in this picture.  I've been taking photos from inside my car with my iPhone.  It lends a strange boxed in quality to the whole thing.  But It's kind of NOT present here.

The old weathervane Brownland sign is atop the new one.  

Back on the Road

I'm headed back to Brownland.  My grandmother is suffering from more frequent  and violent seizures; she is not long for this world, I don't think.  

I have been thinking about her a lot, and I've been thinking about our relationship quite a bit.  

The image on the left was taken on the steps of my grandparents' house in Newton, Massachusetts, where my mother and I lived briefly after she left the Black Panther Party.  I think I'm barely two in it.  The reason this picture intrigues me (besides the fact that I really can't remember ever being so small) is that I'm on my way to nursery school with my Gramma.  Apparently I used to go with her to her nursery school, every day.  I am pretty sure the dress I'm wearing is probably a hand me down from my aunts, and  although I can't remember being that small, I can remember what it felt like to wear my hair like that-- I can feel it pulled tight on my scalp and the bobby pins sticking into my head.  I can smell the cocoa butter stuff my my mother used in my hair.  I'm still thick thighed, and I still walk with my head ducked like that (that is me being careful not to stumble.  I think I've always had a depth perception problem).  

For the life of me, though, I can't remember riding solo with my Gramma.  And not just in this era... I remember my grandmother's car from that era:  a huge brown wood paneled station wagon.  I remember wanting to sit in the "way back" and how we used to be jumbled around in the car, seat belts unfastened and carefree.  I remember my Gramma smoking and driving and calling out things to us and admonishing us to sit down, be quiet and "stop it. All of you."  I don't remember being one on one with her in the car, like, ever.

I used to go places with my Grandaddy all the time-- when they lived overseas, he came to Washington more frequently.  He would have lists of things he had to bring back and meetings to go to; visits to different places.  I would somehow be in the right place at the right time-- lingering in the living room at my Nana's, holding my Elizabeth I book looking bored, and he would clear his throat and ask me if I wanted to accompany him.  I always, always, did.  And we would talk about all kinds of things; I was surprised to realize as an adult that my grandfather is somewhat bashful.  I think of him as expansive and self-assured; the reason I used to want to be a doctor was because I thought I would be like him and know everything.

Although I cannot recall us being alone together in the car, I can tell you things that I learned from my grandmother:  that you cannot think clearly with a messy workspace; that "well heeled" comes from the idea that the very rich had very nice shoes of which they took great care; that dangling participles should never, ever be tolerated; that books are your friends and will always stand you in good stead; that you should greet the day, the world, your life and every single person you meet by looking each squarely in the eye (proverbial or not) and giving a firm handshake.   I learned that if she says she will pick you up, no matter what the hour, she will come.  I first heard many adages, proverbs and sayings from her-- she is an encyclopedia of such.  I learned a few of my favorite short cuts in Washington from her; I adopted her disdain for crazy new neighborhood names.  I enjoyed hearing her talk about different of the communities we would visit, and how she used to ride around the city with her father.  

The last new thing I learned about her was many, many years ago, when my grandparents first renovated Brownland.  I learned that despite having eight children, and constantly entreating all to come visit, with their children, and despite wanting all of us to climb into cars together and ride up and down a mountain or to a historical marker, despite seeming to invite everyone into the living room, or to sleep in Nana's apartment, or to Highland Beach or some other far flung locale, my grandmother truly cherished being alone.  She liked to sit in the sun parlor and read, or research or think without anyone around.  I remember that one afternoon, when I'd stolen into the Yellow Room to read my book, away from all the attendant Frenches, I was suddenly aware that someone else was in the old house, too.    We each had the revelation at the same moment.  

"Tania, is that you?"  she asked.

"Yes, Gramma," I replied.

"I'm enjoying the quiet, too," she said.  And that was that.

In that moment she was the only-cherished child and the apple of her mother's eye; the nerdy bluestocking who loved learning.  In that moment, despite a lifetime of divide, I actually felt like there was a piece of me that resembled her.  And I liked it. 

Neighborhood Renaming and the Gentrification Wars: Whatever Happened to the Ghetto Peacemaker?

My friend Steven and I had a fantasy basketball team called the DC Ghetto Peacemakers. This was started a few years ago, and it was lots of fun. I didn't actually care all that much about the trading and the points and the winning; what I liked about it was that he and I made up a Head Coach/General Manager who bordered on insane and was named, simply "#1". He had a propensity for uttering famous movie lines like, "Get your hand out my pocket!" and traveling with a bonsai plant named Henry, whom he deemed his spiritual adviser. He regularly threatened the other teams' players and coaches, and would make outrageous predictions about the future of the team.

We got the Ghetto Peacemaker moniker from the time that I put down a slap fight in the nail salon I used to frequent on 14th Street. It was in the now demolished Nehemiah Shopping Center. It was a place where I used to love to people watch-- the intersection of cultures was kind of cool there and I got to know the staff fairly early on because my office was located in the same strip mall. The fight was between two young ladies who couldn't have been out of their teens yet. Sadly, it was over a guy, and I leapt up to stop the physicality of the altercation because I a) don't condone fighting, b) don't condone fighting over a guy and c) was horrified by the looks of horror on the faces of the mostly Vietnamese (and mostly inter-related) staff at the salon. In telling my friend Steven about the episode I said, "I guess I'm just a ghetto peacemaker." We both laughed hard about it.

Cut to at least 6 or 7 years later, and I'm not laughing anymore. It seems like interaction in the public domain of my neighborhood has become a seriously unpleasant and unfun thing to do ... where previously it was great to live at the cultural crossroads for the city, it now seems that every movement and decision in Columbia Heights is as laborious and time consuming as turning a ship. With no wind. In the middle of an ocean.

The recent attempt to put up "Tivoli North" signs  from Monroe to Shepherd on 14th seems like a naked power grab to me; there isn't anything useful or helpful about it.  The argument from the newly minted "Tivoli North Business Association" is that rebranding will help the businesses struggling in the corridor.   This makes no sense to me-- mere blocks away we have the first revitalized/regenerated neighborhood commercial corridor.  Business is booming, even in a recession. There is big box retail, there is small box retail, there are tons more people living in the neighborhood, which is what actually provides the impetus for retail to return to the once-dead corridor.  Why would a struggling business want to identify itself as being in a different neighborhood-- one that no one has heard of?

Stepping away from the logical argument and getting to my emotional one-- since when is the area from Monroe to Shepherd "no man's land"?   Columbia Heights is Florida to Spring Road, 16th Street to 11th, but people kindly let the boundary go to Sherman (which is where Pleasant Plains Begins.  Columbia Heights does NOT go to Georgia Avenue.  It just doesn't).  The next neighborhood up is Petworth, folks.  There's a Metro stop, and everything.  

I keep seeing posts from people, on other websites where this is being discussed, and they seem to be genuinely confused about the place name.  It doesn't make any sense to me.  What's with the mania for renaming place?  It feels a lot like Columbus' discovery of the new world.  We were already here, man, what you mean you're renaming the joint?!  

April Showers

I have been burning up the road between DC and Barboursville. My grandmother is dying of small cell lung cancer; recently it spread to her brain. She decided to come home to Brownland, the ancestral land of her father's family, to die on her own terms.

I think the decision is very much in keeping with my grandmother's persona. Because my tendency, with regard to family stuff, is to withdraw, I have decided that I would attempt to be as present as possible in the process, and be a good granddaughter, daughter, niece and cousin. It's easier for me to manage the unmanageable when I assign myself a specific task. My talks with Jim D. have helped me think about what "present" means, and why this is important.

When she was still in the hospital, this meant sitting in the room with her, my grandfather, and some of their children. Because I was sleepy, I closed my eyes and just listened to them. It was nice to hear their familiar voices, engaging in familiar conversation. My grandmother was struggling to talk, though... it was hard to understand her. At the same time, she was determined to express quite complex thought. It was interesting to listen to, and I found myself understanding her in almost an intuitive fashion. I felt like I was listening to her persona rather than her voice, and hearing her thought process that way.

Now, at home, she is more clear but also more tired. She is alternately seeking company and wishing for silence. She says the names of visitors or people she wishes would visit. My grandfather sits with her more and but seems present less. It's strange to watch the titans of my youth grapple with the basics of every day existence.

My grandmother catches pieces of conversation and repeats them; sometimes it's a glimpse of her dry humor or love of word play. Sometimes she's expressing disdain for the verbal attacks we launch at one another; sometimes she is talking out of her head, I think.

More on Books

O Books We Love: I'm reading a lot these days... more time on my hands, I guess, and also tamping down my own writing impulses. I think the more I survey, the less I have to do. I read Little Bee. The jacket asks people not to tell the plot, although I'm not completely sure why. I guess there are elements of it that are a surprise to people who don't watch the news? I liked the structure of the book, but didn't find it especially illuminating. I'm trying to get into some memoirs-- The Sisters Antipodes and When Skateboards Will Be Free. Also bought Outliers, even though I'm really skeptical that Gladwell didn't identify any female outliers in the book. The sub rosa list is more chick-lit. I'm telling, it's allll research! Twins of Tribeca, 4% Famous, Lipstick Jungle and Everyone Worth Knowing.

I have kind of a love/hate with both Weisberger and Bushnell. I think each drinks her own Kool-Aid, but I also kind of admire the bravado. I feel bad that Bushnell only made a few grand off of Sex and the City; she really deserved to share in the phenomenal success it became because it was her, you know, life. That said, she's kind of a one trick pony with this four-women-who-are-phenomenally-successful-tres-chic-and-sad genre. Can we please, please write about a Happy Miranda (and I say this as someone is consistently "a Miranda" in those stupid quizzes)?! Weisberger is pretty much The Devil Wears Prada main girl character-- she worked for Anna Wintour at Vogue and then went to the New Yorker. Then wrote The Devil Wears Prada. On the one hand, I ain't mad at her. On the other hand I think it's funny that she was kinda ... skewering Wintour because she felt so above it, but then was kind of not really a success at the New Yorker, per se, and her literary medium is not exactly what you would call high brow. It's sort of a weird way for things to play out. Do you know what I mean? And neither Chasing Harry Winston nor Everyone Worth Knowing raises the bar in any way. Prada was pretty much delicious because of La Wintour. I'm just sayin'.