tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13029547539451449362023-11-15T07:19:32.197-08:00A Daddy's Girl's Search for LoveEbony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-36010117993323841192020-05-11T20:02:00.002-07:002020-05-11T20:02:35.478-07:00Let the Adventure Begin <div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Easing into my chair aboard the 747 at Newark international airport, I grab my phone and scribe a post on what used to be the Facebook wall “</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let the European Adventure</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Begin</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">”. I remembered how I got there, It was just a few months since Pop lost his battle to cancer. Me, a daddy’s girl, was still mourning. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I wanted to do something to get out of my comfort zone. I wrote a sort of a bucket list and at the top was a directive </span><b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">go to the most romantic city in the world, Paris</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Observing the passengers I was sandwiched between, I remembered asking family and friends to join me on this adventure. No one had been as far as Europe. No one believed I would travel solo, but I did. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And like a good adventurer, I wandered along the winding roads of the Latin quarters, ate crepes overlooking the Eiffel tower, drank as much french wine as I could stomach - and as I stood by the Arc de Triomphe that is exactly how I felt Triumphant.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">For a moment, I forgot the pain and sorrow that awaited me back home.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">When I returned my friends and family all vowed to join me on my next trip. My first recruit was my Mom, my road dog. and others followed starting their own tribes. Then a vacation rivalry ensued </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">We traded pictures, then post.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Safari in South Africa, Tiger Village in Thailand, Hot air balloon ride above the Great Pyramids of Giza. Whatever it took to win.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Always announcing the trip with my mantra.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Let the African Adventure Begin! Let the Caribbean Adventure! Let the Asian Adventure begin! Let the Middle Eastern Adventure Begin!</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And then just as I was about to embark on what would have been my 14th country having made the announcement - Let the Portuguese adventure begin. President Trump announced the travel ban.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">We are in a pandemic now and as we learn to survive in this age of social distancing. I remembered wasn't the monuments and sites that made the trips memorable it was the people</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The black Paris tour guide for the of South African descent who told me “I always wanted to meet African Americans”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The British Poet who escorted me to the London open mic open mics </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The group who announce welcome to Begin before asking folar a picture on the Great Wall. (they had never seen foreigners before)</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And our cultural parallels </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The Thai woman who pulled my skirt down in the temple the same way a baptist church mother would. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Egyptian BarTender who called me Nubian upon approach. I responded </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Brand Nubian</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> a discussion on global Hip Hop followed.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The French Students who cheerfully shouted Obama when I told them I was a New Yorker. French people celebrating an American President, that was a different time.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">My Last adventure was cut short instead of the wine of the Duro valley I have a bottle of Trader Joe's port (they say it's bottled in Portugal)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Wondering How will we continue the adventure in this time of social distancing </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>How about an adventure to Los Livingroom to reconnect with family </b></span></div>
<b><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Or an adventure to the Santa Bathroom Spa to learn how to do your hair and nails</b></span></div>
<b><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>An adventure to Del Kitchen to learn a new recipe </b></span></div>
<b><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Then there is St Bedroom to learn new technology. I don’t know about you but this is my first time I am using Zoom.</b></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Do the things we have been putting off.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Until we can come back together enjoy the adventure of introspection. </span></div>
<b><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Let the adventure begin!</b></span></div>
Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-91812333387358771122011-09-30T17:46:00.000-07:002011-09-30T17:47:00.035-07:00It's My AnniversaryAnniversary are days to commemorate milestones and major events. It is also a time to reflect on the changes in life. Its been a year since I started this blog as look back I am amazed at the progress I have made. <br /><br />A year ago today, I got laid off from a job where I was unhappy. At the time, I had no intentions of leaving because I was afraid to the unknown. The year has taught me that I am a marketable and skilled worker. I have a new job where my work is valued and there is great opportunity ahead. <br /><br />Last year, I was on my way to my best friends wedding and unsure of how to identify myself (incidentally the Bride is about to be a Mom). This year I have over 100 followers for this blog and I am confident in my identity. I am writer! More importantly I am Ebony and that is enough!<br /><br />Graduate school was just a thought last year. This week I wrote two papers and all I do is read. I am getting my but kicked and I am loving it. School has got me thinking political again. <br /><br />I wanted to write a play last year. I have produced my play three times in two states. Not to mention I am performing for the Black Woman’s Political Caucus tomorrow. Not bad. We are still working on the book though. It’s going a memoir now by the way. Four chapters and counting!<br /><br />As for love, I am still single. I did have I bit of a break through. I dated someone I liked. I didn’t work out, but I opened up to someone. Frankly, for all the dating I was doing I never gave anyone a chance. I realize now I wasn’t ready<br /><br />Grandma was here last year. I am realizing just how much I have lost. I know I have to live because that’s what she would have wanted. That’s what I am doing.<br /><br />Thank you to all my followers and readers. You have keep me inspired though the year. Now I am asking for your help. What should I do this year? Leave me a comment.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-46228103940491309712011-08-22T02:37:00.000-07:002011-08-28T12:48:34.872-07:00Rain on UsThere is an old saying that if it rains during your transition then you made it to heaven
<br />.
<br />My mother and I were clearing our backyard for the wake when we heard the first roar and saw a flash of light in the sky. Mom dropped the back trash bag and lifted her hands, still covered with plastic gloves.
<br />
<br />“She made it! She made it” Mom said looking to the sky as the rain came down mixing with her tears.
<br />
<br />We had lost so much over the years. My mom lost her mother and I lost someone who care for me like a mother
<br />
<br />“It just something I believe in”, she said to explain her actions.
<br />
<br />Perhaps she thought I found her silly. I didn’t. Grandma’s sudden departure left a void in my heart. In two years, I lost two people who loved me the most.
<br />
<br />It’s times like this when you gotta believe in something. Why not take comfort in the roar of thunder and taste of salt water on your tongue, sprinkles soaking your skin.
<br />
<br />I embraced her not wanting to leave the rain even as the thunder roared stronger. It was Grandma’s farewell. Just like Grandma’s presence and her life, we knew it was not going to be a sprinkle; we were in for a storm.
<br />
<br />The rain continued over the next few days and it was evident as the heel of my sunk down into the runner protecting my black pumps from the damp grass to place a single white rose on the silver casket. Surrounded by the generations of family all there, I could hear whispers saying “She made it.”
<br />
<br />I said, “Yes she did.”
<br />
<br />
<br />Earnest Pugh "Rain on Us"
<br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xeEdd6jWTyEEbony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-40224251155386633582011-03-28T07:51:00.000-07:002011-03-28T08:02:46.147-07:00Can’t Give It Away!I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.<br /><br />“Those black women…” , the short Latino man said. “Are all the same!”<br /><br />Here I was being faced with racism and sexism at its worst in a place where I went to seek refuge and spiritual growth. This was my church!<br /><br />The church stared a community center and wanted to include job placement as one of its services. Mom wanted me to volunteer while I was still at the Organization, but the thought of spending my evenings listening to more problems and excuses of why people wont go to work after 8 hours the Organization made me want to cringe. Things had changed. I was unemployed. Although I had my hands full with the show, writing and rebuilding my business, I missed hearing “Ms. Wash, can you get me a job?” Artistry is my career, but workforce development is my ministry. Helping others find jobs was how I showed my love to the community. I wanted to give, even though I didn’t have a job myself.<br /><br />I arrived at the community center to find nothing. No people? No classes? What was going on?<br /><br />“ I am here to see Sister Johnson”, I told the stanch woman sitting a the front desk who demanded I sign-in as a walk in client before I could tell her I was the new volunteer.<br /><br />“Have a seat, she is in class.” She pulled her coat over her shoulders.<br /><br />I could hear Ms. Wilson speaking to a man with a heavy accent whose origin I could not distinguish behind a cubicle.<br /><br />“That is enough for today. We will resume next week.” The man walked from behind the cubicle. She followed<br /><br />“Oh you made it”.<br /><br />She hugged me. I was feeling the love already. She took me on a tour of the center which was a room filled with computers. I followed her and listened.<br /><br />“I need teachers for GED, arts and technology. I need someone to develop jobs and place people. I need an administrative assistant. I don’t have a budget. I need volunteers.”<br /><br />I was overwhelmed by the laundry list. What didn’t she need?<br /><br />That question was answered when she toured me around the community center and introduced me to the jolly Latino man sitting at a computer.<br /><br />“This is Julio”<br /><br />“Hello.” Julio said standing up to shake my hand.<br /><br />“He is going to teach the computer class.”<br /><br />Of all of the things she needed, there was one I felt most passionate about, Jobs! Disappointed to see the lack of programming but not discouraged, I returned the next week with my Rolodex determined to at least get the jobs program off the ground. Over next few weeks, I set up meetings with my contacts.<br /><br />After one such meeting Sister Johnson called me into her office.<br /><br />“I need you to look for a new computer teacher.” I noticed the word need coming from her<br />often. What she really needed were employees. I was a volunteer. I wanted to help out, but I couldn’t do it all.<br /><br />“There have been complaints on the instructor. It’s the way he speaks to people.”<br /><br />He always seemed like a kind man. Sure, he talked too much. He was always interrupting me when I came into the center to make calls, forcing me to bring my volunteer work home. I didn’t see it until the week before the program was scheduled to launch.<br /><br />Sister Johnson, as usual had a list of things she needed, but I was surprised to see an older woman who was a new volunteer. Great, I thought. I will have some help.<br /><br />“I need you to make calls to tell people to come to class.” She said.<br /><br />“What time is class?” That was the logical response.”<br /><br />“Oh” She paused flipping back her weaved in shoulder length hair. “Let’s have a meeting.<br /><br />Did she really expect me to make calls inviting people to a class with no scheduled times? I guess so!<br /><br />The three of us walked over to Julio who was at his usual computer. He dragged his chair to the center of room. We each took a seat surrounding him. That was when I noticed something was different. His wide smile was gone.<br /><br />He crossed his arms. “No! I don’t know what time to have the class. You need to call them.”<br /><br />“We have to give them a time, when we call.” She said.<br /><br />“How can I give a time, when I don’t know when they can come?”<br /><br />I thought back to my entire lifetime of taking classes in elementary, high school, after-school dance class, University, writers workshops. Never had I been asked what time I could come. Maybe given a course option or two, but if I couldn’t make it, I couldn’t take the class. I looked down at my folder with the names of over twenty potential students and imagined them each giving me a different time.<br /><br />One person would say “I can come at 1 O’clock.” Another would say “I’ll be there at 2.”Then someone would ask, “Is 6PM OK?”<br /><br />Nearly an hour passed and he wouldn’t budge. The discussion between Sister Johnson continued to escalate and frustrated she called him by his first name.<br /><br />“I think you are trying to diminish my position. I am a Reverend.” He asserted. His cheeks were turning red.<br /><br />The room was silent. Was he serious?<br /><br />“You should refer to me as Reverend”, he barked.<br /><br />Yes he was. That's when I realized. He had an ego. I knew how to handle that.<br /><br />“Reverend Julio, I have an Idea that can solve our problem.” I said with excitement.<br /><br />“Well you are the only one who can teach computer. I can’t teach computer.” He nodded. I had him.<br /><br />“Can you teach computer Sister Johnson?”<br /><br />“Well I can but I don’t have time!” I couldn’t believe she said that. Come on work with me. I had to do something to keep him on track.<br /><br />“Well I can’t. When it comes to this class you like the King. We can’t do it with out you.” Ok maybe I went too far, but it worked.<br /><br />He stood up a little taller and agreed to everything we asked him earlier. We set times for the classes and I agreed to come in the next day to call the students.<br /><br />That next morning, I arrived at 10am and the door was locked. I called Sister Johnson to open the door. She came down to the center and began telling me more about the things she needed. As she opened the door I noticed the Reverend sitting at his computer.<br /><br />“Oh Reverend Julio is here.” I announced making sure to include his title.<br /><br />He didn’t turn to acknowledge us.<br /><br />I didn’t have time to defuse another tantrum. Since getting laid off I had gotten out of the habit of getting up early. It was 10am and I was tired. I wanted to make my calls and go home.<br /><br />Sister Johnson asked. “Do you think we can print manuals?”<br /><br />I didn’t know anything about the manuals.<br /><br />She turned to Julio to ask and that's when it started.<br /><br />“You could have said hello!”, he cried.<br /><br />I didn’t have the patience for it. I resolved to simply remain on my task and ignore him.<br /><br />“You don’t have to call me King like she did!” He pointed his finger in my direction.<br /><br />“Did something I said offend you?”<br /><br />“No, it offended me when you didn’t say hello.”<br /><br />This was unbelievable. Was I back in high school? That was the last time anyone wanted to argue over something that trivial.<br /><br />“You are a supposed to be a Reverend, I should be learning from you?”<br />That is when he started.<br /><br />“THOSE BLACK WOMAN! She probably speaks to every man like that!” <br /><br />I acknowledge that any woman who asserts herself is perceived negatively, however black women are placed in a unique position of combating racist stereotypes. I expect this the world, but never in the safety of my place of worship. No pace was sacred not even church! With that realization all I could say was...<br /><br />“I can’t believe this is happening in my church.”<br /><br />I felt betrayed. If this was a test I was failing miserably. I felt tears come to my eyes and that was when I remembered. I was a volunteer. I didn’t need to be there. The best thing to do was to remove myself from the situation.<br /><br />I went to church to share my love with community. I wanted was the satisfaction of a job well done, instead I suffered one the worst heartbreaks of my life.<br /><br />That Sunday I took a trip across the water to a new church. A friend and fellow poet, who I know as Freedom, was preaching. Until that week I did not know she was a minister, but she arrived just in time to give me the something that my distressed heart needed. As I stumbled in late making my way to the front pew, I was carried by her voice. I looked up to see her short locks framing her brown face. She was singing us into her sermon. It was then that I realized in the year past three years I had been attending church, I had never seen a woman preach in either my home church or any of the churches I frequent in Harlem. At that moment that was what I needed to restore my faith.<br /><br />She read from Isaiah 49:16a “Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands” , She said.<br /><br />“Inscribed!” She reiterated, putting extra emphasis on the word.<br /><br />God had not forgotten and I, like everyone was inscribed in the palm of his hand. What did my inscription read? Something told me that I would have a lot more trials before I would know the answer. One thing was for sure, it was time to get back to work. Art would always be my career, but social services was my ministry. Maybe it wasn’t time to give it away. I needed an equal exchange. That Monday I began the job search.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-47675165436047229062011-02-02T08:09:00.000-08:002020-04-06T19:22:55.677-07:00Love... RevisedI could hear the sounds of laughter and anticipation. I understood why. A quick scan of my list of ticket buyers revealed the names of my audience. Many who have not seen me on stage in years and others like my 8th-grade teacher, who had never seen me on stage. Then there were those I didn’t know. Those who took interest from postings or a flyer. Julia pulled back the curtain and entered the backstage. Wearing her slacks and shirt, she looked every bit the part of the publicist. <br />
<br />
“You got a full house out there.” We had done our job.<br />
<br />
“Do you want to start now or wait five more minutes?” she asked. It had been 5 years since I was on stage alone. That was the opening night of my solo show and also the last time I performed it. I revised and updated the piece now, and it was twice as long. After rushing franticly, the wife applied my make-up and held my hand in prayer. I expected to be hysterical. I usually get stage fright, but that moment I felt at peace.<br />
<br />
“I am ready,” I told her.<br />
<br />
I was ready. This was one year of preparation, two months of planning and excruciating rehearsals, and one week of pure insanity that made me question why I was doing this in the first place.<br />
<br />
I knew why once I stepped on that stage, the moment I heard that first laugh, the applause at the curtain. Oh yeah. It was what I was born to do. It was the joy that only someone who has ever given everything they had could feel. It was love.<br />
<br />
Love… I searched for love for two years. I don’t think romantic love can be replaced by other forms, but all love, whether it’s the unconditional love you receive from a parent, the love you earn by being a friend, or doing something you love is unique and needs acknowledgment.<br />
<br />
Love, for me, is the friends who listen to the same story and giving the same advice over and over. It was staying up late and helping me to learn my lines. The critique from someone who wanted me to do better, an email from across the country wishing me luck, a prayer before showtime, believing in me when I doubted myself.<br />
<br />
Love… it was everywhere. I had to learn to recognize it. The show was over, and I would have to begin again. I would have new challenges to conquer. Thank God I had love on my side. That night, I got into my bed alone, marveled at all the love in my life, and braced myself for the winter ahead.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-62766040200157253592011-01-15T00:38:00.000-08:002011-01-14T21:40:43.502-08:00Showtime!“Lets do a show”, it was my only logical response.<br /><br />There was nothing left to do. I thought I lost everything except art. I was slowly beginning to realize I had not lost my ability to create. Yes, there was nothing left to do. I asked Celeste to help me do a show.<br /><br />“I am going to book a theater this week.” We talked about it for a year. I had not finished the script, but I was not worried. It needed to happen now. A show date was what I needed to push me along. There was no more job or relationship in the way. It was ironic, the things I thought were holding me back were what I desired most today. This was what rock bottom felt like and the only thing that was holding me together was art. I needed to validate this experiment I turned my life into two years prior. A show was the only thing that made sense. <br /><br />I selected my date. It was going to be January 15, 2011. The date was symbolic on many levels. This the 60th anniversary of Pop’s Birth. He left us days shy of his 58th, but this night would be about life. Pop shared a birthday with Dr. Martin Luther King. Pop always said “I had it first.” That was not entirely true, Dr. King was about 30 years older, but I understood his reservations about sharing his birthday with a national holiday. It was the only holiday we both truly cared about. Pop instilled a love for all things historical, particularly black leaders. <br /><br />Two years prior I said goodbye to Pop and in a frenzy of grief and panic I walked away from the only relationship I knew as an adult. I threw myself into a world I knew nothing about and did not understand. My thirst for life gave me some remarkable experiences and some risky ones I would rather take back. The risky ones make me question whether it was life I was really seeking. Nevertheless I survived. Though most days I want to retreat to the days before Pop was gone, when I could go to the house where I grew up and see Pop there watching his favorite sports show or outside on the porch. I could read him a poem or story I wrote, tell him about my latest accomplishment or plan. I go back home often, but he is gone. <br /><br />Perhaps a show could make things right and be a new beginning. Sort of a rebirth. My re- birthday. One more thing I could share with Pop besides a last name and 23 chromosomes. Today I hear him saying “That’s my baby girl! She is producing a show”. <br /><br />Tonight I am taking two years worth of mistakes, regrets, disappointment, frustrations and tears and I am leaving them on that stage. It’s SHOWTIME!Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-91897731089239458262011-01-11T01:06:00.000-08:002011-01-11T01:07:16.129-08:00The Opposite SideShe is young, beautiful, educated and ambitious with a thing for bad boys. We met at work a year ago when she was hired by The Organization. We were equally impressed by one another’s professionalism and flair for fashion. Needless to say, we hit it off. In a short period of time, Theresa and I became the best of lunch buddies and happy hour pals. Though we agreed on everything work related, I was content being the office prude, while she went out of her way to shock everyone in the break room by uttering the most inappropriate sexual references. I find uptight conservative men stimulating, while she enjoys the excitement of a ruff neck. <br /><br />When Theresa invited me to her 27th birthday party of course I said yes. I wouldn’t miss her party, but I had to assess the situation. This is a love search, I have to know my odds. Number 1: The birthday girl. I know Theresa and I have different tastes in men, its highly likely she won’t pick a bougie club to hang on her birthday. Number 2: The location. The club was on the upper east side. That must be a good sign, its one of the wealthiest areas in New York City. Number 3: The occasion. Its her birthday, so who cares, I was going anyway!<br /><br />I strutted down the 72nd Street in my signature stiletto knee high boots. Great boots are the only reason to love winter in my book. As a got closer to the club, I saw men walking inside wearing Tim’s, jeans, and hoodies. A girl was standing out front yelling at someone on the telephone. I reverted to point number 3 and got on line.<br /><br />Theresa appeared with her entourage as any fabulous birthday girl would. She had on a pink mini dress gold accessories and the perfect lace front wig on her head.<br /><br />“Ebby! Ebby!” Theresa pulled me by the arm and swept me into the club.<br />It was a dimly lit room filled with men in jeans and scantily clad women drinking out of a plastic cups. I had lost Theresa and her crew somewhere between paying my cover and coat check. <br /><br />“Pardon me. Pardon” I repeated. I slide past couples grinding on one another to reach Theresa lounging at VIP table surrounded by bottles. <br /><br />I knew immediately that my potential mate was not in the club that night, but it was alright. I needed a break from the pressures of having to meet someone. I grabbed a plastic cup, reverted back to point number 3 once again and resolved to let loose. I swayed to music I would not listen to under normal circumstances. I cheered for Theresa as all the R & B and Hip Hop songs contain the word birthday were played back to back.<br /><br />“Go shorty! It’s your birthday”<br /><br />I was resting from you dancing sitting on the stage by Theresa’s table. There were more VIP tables on the stage. I was just about to fill my cup with more Grey Goose and cranberry juice when I felt something wet spilling down my arm. I jumped up and someone pulled me. <br /><br />“Get over here!” He said. <br /><br />It was a fight and it was spreading! I kept moving back. Then I jumped on a table on the other side. A woman grabbed my arm that was still soaked from the spill. <br /><br />“Stand on the couch the table is wobbly.” I followed her direction. <br />“My name is Alexis this is my friend Tasha.”<br />“I am Ebony.”<br />“It times like this when women have to look out for one another.” She was right. <br /><br />The DJ started to play “Take it slow” by John Legend after announcing he needed to calm things down. Men with orange security vests appeared. The fighters were removed. The music changed to something more up tempo. I shook it off thinking at least I was wearing black. The party continued until 4AM. <br /><br />Walking home from the subway I realized that night that I had a great time. I had a better time than I had at the Council party just days prior. I had not had that much fun in a long time. It was nice to take a break and to be in a space where I just didn’t care. Would I go back? Probably not! Well at least not until Theresa’s next birthday!Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-57286592864533853362010-12-31T08:31:00.000-08:002010-12-31T08:39:44.158-08:00The Real G“I can wear this to get my new Boo”, Grandma said looking at the picture of the model on the leggings package. The leggings were the Christmas gift I bought along with a sweater. It was as inappropriate as the slang term she used to describe her future mate. It’s in style, but not exactly what you expect an 83 year old to wear or say. I take responsibility for both the phrase and the attire. Each year buying grandma her hoochie clothes and telling her of my dating adventures. Last year I took to calling everyone Boo.<br /><br />“I am going to bend over just like that!” she said leaning forward over mimicking the model on the package. “I am going to get my husband.” She sat there looking festive with her red sweater and Santa hat on, and she was serious. Sweet Lou, her last husband passed away shortly after Pop. She completed the respectable grieving period and it was on!<br /><br />Grandma was married five times. There were her early husbands; Watson was her first and my biological grand father, Binns and Jenkins. Then Grandma married Knight, Who I considered my Grandfather. They were together for over 30 years until his death in the 90’s. We thought he would be grandma’s last husband, but at 70 years old she married Louis Williams. <br /><br />I thought it was ridiculous at the time, a 70 year old woman getting married. It was the first wedding party I was a part of as an adult. I laughed with my brothers all the way down the aisle. The same way we laughed today.<br /><br />“Oh I can get a husband tomorrow! If I want!” She corrected us. <br /><br />Sometimes I find it hard to believe I am one of Grandma’s offspring. I am 50 years her junior and I am not as self-assured. I got consumed by the news specials on the single black women and the is a shortage of men; black men in particular are an endangered species according the media. It’s the rhetoric best selling books are written on, but not what a woman needs to hear to feel empowered. What about Grandma’s dating pool? She is in her 80’s, how many 80 year old men are still alive. Even if she dates younger, she’s looking at a man in his 70’s. If she’s really a cougar, 60’s. That doesn’t inhibit her confidence.<br /><br />I have to channel the Grandma spirit. The tenacity of a woman who at my age left a husband and everything she knew in Louisiana to build a better life for her children in New York City. The seductive ways she used to attract five husbands. The spunk that corrected her grand children when they laughed at her declaration of her abilities to get another. Most importantly her confidence. I have to be more like Grandma!<br /><br />I have to remember Grandma next time I doubt myself. I know that she will walk down the aisle once more to meet some blushing groom. I better not let Grandma beat me there!!Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-59668244663574908482010-12-26T18:39:00.001-08:002010-12-31T08:44:44.555-08:00The GiftMy brother buys the best worst Christmas gifts. What began as a frantic last minute trip to Duane Reade, is now a family tradition. <br /><br />“Richie, where are the gifts?” <br /><br />“Oh boy, Richie got gifts?”<br /><br />We all gathered together watching as he pulled out three boxes wrapped recklessly in disheveled red gift tissue paper.<br /><br />“Awe, he wrapped it too”. I said sarcastically. Richie had one on me. I hadn’t bothered to wrap the Uggs I bought for my mom and aunt. Mom still pretended to be surprised even though she picked them out and was their when I made the purchase. <br /><br />“I got the one for you Grandma.” he said handing her the box surrounded by tissue. Grandma carefully pulled back the paper trying not to rip it. Grandma doesn’t throw anything out not even wrapping paper. She tries to reuse everything. That use to be called being crazy, now it’s being green!<br /><br />Grandma’s gift was bird house with a toy bird.<br /><br />“Oh a bird and it sings!” Mom exclaimed.<br /><br />“Turn it on Grandma.” Everyone wanted to hear. A few years back Richie bought her a rapping Santa. Maybe this one sang Mary J. Blige. Grandma flipped the switch. My Uncle John took the cage from Grandma who was puzzled. He opened the bottom.<br /><br />“You didn’t buy batteries?”, Uncle John asked. We were all disappointed, but moved on to the next gift.<br /><br />“This one is for you Aunt Twiggy.”<br /><br />We waited for the punch line on the edge of our seats. She reveled a box with the words solar power and a picture of a cat. <br /><br />“Oh, is it a calculator?” She pulled the cat out searching for the buttons.<br />“It’s not a calculator. What is it? It just a cat. Why is it solar powered?” she asked confused.<br /><br />“Hey Aunt, push the arm.” I noticed one of the arms was adjustable.<br /><br />“Oh”. She lifted the cat up to the light coming from the window. The arm started to move up and down. At this point I was in tears.<br /><br />“Princess, I was going to get Aunt Twiggy something really off the wall, but I decided to hold back.” <br /><br />The irony was this began as a thoughtless run to the nearest convenient store on Christmas eve, now required more thought than any of the other gifts doweled out that day. We lost Pop five days into 2009. He was bed ridden that entire holiday season. My family would be reminded of those last days, while the world put up their trees and sang carols. Richie’s gifts gave us some temporary relief. We craved it. We needed it. <br /><br />“Richie, you can’t hold back. Next time bring it!” <br /><br />“And you Mom.”<br /><br />Mom pulled a wind chime out of her box. <br /><br />“Oh Richie, I could use this.”<br /><br />“Hey, That’s a good gift old boy.” Danny, the oldest brother patted him on the back. <br /><br />“Yeah not bad.” I sank into the chair next to grandma who was still admiring her birds. The tears continued to flow. <br /><br />“Princess. What did you get.” Danny pointed his iPhone in my direction. He was recording.<br /><br />“Richie didn’t get Princess one.”, Mom said.<br /><br />She was wrong. He did give me a gift. I could not remember the last time I laughed that hard. I felt relief. I felt peace. I felt love surrounded by my family. That gift was worth more than any novelty, I would certainly bury in back of my closet.<br /><br />“Sorry Princess, I got you for your birthday.”<br /><br />My birthday was coming soon and I had one more thing to look forward to besides getting older.<br /><br />“Richie, I cant wait!”Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-71092264929661435192010-12-21T18:30:00.001-08:002010-12-21T18:30:52.891-08:00Holiday Party On!It’s the holiday season so you know what that means party, party, party! I had my university alumni party, my sorority holiday party, my condominium association party, a political activists party, a friends birthday party all scheduled for one week. My party was schedule was full for the entire week, then the Super Sistah invited me to what promised to be the party with the most dating potential, the Council's holiday party. I heard about this organization. The Politician told me to join months earlier for my future career in public service. The Politician is a friend of mine who holds a local office and he is hot. He is well dressed, in good shape, smart with a career and ambition and he was a member of the Council. In my world this is a combination that is hard to find. Perhaps at the party there would be others. I had one problem. My sorority party planned for the same day, but that would be mostly women. I couldn’t miss the Council<br /><br />“What time does the Council party end?”<br /><br />“Midnight”<br /><br />The sorority event ended at 9pm. <br /><br />“Super, I am there!” <br /><br />I am infamous for going to parties and not speaking to anyone (correction to any men). I have no problem talking to women. If I was a lesbian, I would be hot stuff, plus I am a great date. Men... that’s the problem (correction attractive men that’s the problem). In general I usually don’t have a problem talking to anyone I don’t find attractive. When I am at a party, I usually wait to see who is going to approach. My game has always been dress nice, look cute, do a two step, drink wine and they will come. They do come. The trouble is when they come they are usually not the ones I want to talk to or date. <br /><br />The Wife (formerly the Bride you remember her for the wedding day post) as usual lectured me on my problem. “They don’t come to you anymore. The good looking men are use to women approaching them and they are afraid.” <br /><br />“Afraid? How could they be afraid? They are hot and they are men. It’s their role to hunt. It’s their job to seek out what they want. What happened to the natural order of things?”, I usually quip back. <br /><br />Before she got married the Bride was a professional dater. She went on many dates usually with decent men. Maybe she was right. <br /><br />Either way it didn’t matter this was the Council's holiday party. It only happened once a year. I couldn’t let this pass me by without taking full advantage. I couldn’t go empty handed I needed something to break the ice. I needed a line. Not a corny line. Something simple something sophisticated; one that didn‘t make me seem like I was trying too hard. I knew just who to ask, Celeste the Thespian Lesbian. You probably think its odd for me to ask a lesbian how to pick up men, but I have seen this girl in action. <br /><br />“I got gay bashed when I was in the 5th grade.” Celeste said. “After that, I always made sure I had a boy around, a cute one, because I had to have a boy toy.” She has since embraced her sexual preference and feels no need to date men, but retained her skills nevertheless. <br /><br />“Men like to feel needed. Just ask them questions. Didn’t you say you wanted to join the Council? ”<br /><br />I was considering joining the Council. I had it. I could start off with “Are you a member of this organization?” <br /><br />“If they are then you can ask questions about how membership has benefited him. Get him talking about himself.” <br /><br />It was perfect. On that bitter cold night. I met The Super Sistah at the chic lounge in the meatpacking district dressed perfectly in my form fitting a gray dress that was just too short to actually wear to work. The Super was the epitome of elegance in her purple sleek dress. Corporate sexy we were, pulling it off like pros and don't forget, I had my killer line “Are member of this organization”. Now it was time.<br /><br />We looked out over the balcony and there was a sea of men all in suits. A beautiful well tailored suit is my weakness. I personally believe a suit makes everything look good. <br /><br />“Hey Super. Do your people dance?”<br /><br />No one was dancing. Everyone was just standing around talking, but the music was to loud for anyone to really have a conversation. <br /><br />“Why do they have to be my people?” She always says that. The Super is Canadian and very proper. I get a kick out of calling her bougie. <br /><br />We step out into the party and all around us people were kissing one another on the cheeks. The Super Sistah and I are both writers, bloggers and wall flowers. This is an awful combination if you intend on networking, but I had a mission. I had to speak to someone. I knew exactly what would take the edge off.<br /><br />“Lets get the wine!” That was the best idea I had all night. Then I saw someone I knew. <br /><br />“You look really familiar.”<br /><br />“Poetry reading a few weeks back in Harlem.” She said. (I know, I know a She.) <br /><br />I remembered the sister well. She did the poem about going to grad school. It was her. She had the same short afro but the blue cocktail dress was quite different from the leggings she wore to the poetry show. <br /><br />“Are you member?” I asked (I know I wasn’t supposed to use the line on a woman, but if she was maybe she could introduce us to some men. Then the Super and I could get some cheek kissing action going.)<br /><br />“No, I'm here to see if I could find a date.”<br /><br />“You too.” I laughed hysterically. <br /><br />“Good luck, I made eye contact with five guys and none of them spoke.” <br /><br />She made eye contact. I never do that. There is was no hope for me. I aborted the mission and opted to instead to indulge in a glass of pinot noir and enjoy the rest of the evening as much as you can enjoy a party where no one dances or speaks. <br /><br />As the party wound down, the Super Sistah and I retired to the balcony to beat the crowed to coat check. We looked down swaying to the latest R& B song and sipping the last of our wine. <br /><br />“One day. We are going to be at a party like this and everyone is going to be there to see us”, I said.<br /><br />“I already visualized it”<br /><br />At tap of glass between two friends who bonded over a lousy job, broken hearts and love for writing. I looked over and imagined. We were two queens observing our admires.<br /><br />“Hello.” It was the end of the night and someone was speaking to me and it was a man! He was dressed well, spoke well, but he was a little to old. He wasn’t dating material but a little conversation never hurt anyone. <br /><br />“Are you a member of the organization?” He asked. <br /><br />Wait a minute! That was my line. The one I was supposed to use to meet men, but only spoke to girl from the poetry reading. Here this guy was using it get my attention. Guess what? It works! He probably used it all night.<br /><br />It was too late now. The party was almost over and people were making their way to coat check.<br /><br />I responded the way any lady in my position would, “No, but I am thinking about joining”.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-10972045834469368622010-11-30T19:34:00.000-08:002020-04-06T18:27:30.831-07:00What’s in a Name?“You should have seen how fat you were.” Pop said, recalling the day of my birth to explain why at times he called me, a thin a little girl who grew up to become a slender woman, fat. I listened, sitting next to him on my couch during a commercial break for America’s top-rated reality show. Soon the parade of bad singers would return and I would lose interest in this story I heard many times before. I, the daughter of Daniel, was named Ebony Danielle Washington. As my middle name suggests I am a daddy’s girl. Daniel was already a father of two boys when he laid eyes on his baby girl. All he could say was a baby girl and Baby Girl would become the name he called me most often.<br />
<br />
To the rest of the family, I was Princess. It was more of an identity than a name. That is exactly who I was a small coffee-colored child with a big smile in a bigger ruffled dress with bows adorning my hair. I completed my Bronx royal family. “A princess that’s what we need”, Mom must have said. Princess, the name that defined my early childhood and the weekdays I spent at my Grandma’s house in Queens indulging in as much sweet decadence as possible. It was easier for me to stay there while my brothers were in school; my mother went back to school for her bachelor’s degree and Pop worked long hours. I was with Grandma and I accepted a call each day from my mother, but hearing Pop’s voice was always special.<br />
<br />
“Every time my Pop calls me, my heart flutters,” I told my grandma at four years old.<br />
On Friday nights, I would wait for his Buick to approach Grandma’s house. Pop had an affinity for American cars and candy. I would get a hand full in the back seat snuggled between my brothers and ride off for another weekend home and would fall asleep before reaching our destination. Pop would carefully pull me out of the car and carry me to our door. I later admitted I was only pretending to be asleep. He told me he knew. “Baby girl, you talked the whole ride home and fell asleep right before I parked.” I had not yet developed my acting abilities, but I knew Pop would make sure I got to my destination. <br />
<br />
“Princess,” I told my kindergarten teacher Ms. Angram when she asked me my name on the first day. She was confused as she looked through her rolls. She asked my mother’s name and I pointed across the room to her. She says, “Oh your name is Ebony.” That was the first time I remembered being called by my actual name.<br />
<br />
“Fool you knew your name.” My mother said as I recounted the story as an adult.<br />
Perhaps I did. Ebony seemed so natural even as Ms. Angram inserted it into the princess story she read that afternoon. I would get used to hearing my real name outdoors even though I would not appreciate it until I began to perform. Ebony, a black revolutionary first name coupled with Washington a colonial last name. It is much of a contradiction as I am. I was once confronted by a poet who wanted to know why I chose to use my sir name with its oppressive implications. I told him I got it from Pop. <br />
<br />
“Baby girl, I am coming to see American Idol.” I was an adult now, finally on my own. I had my heart broken once I was in a relationship, but Pop was the one man that I could depend on. Just like he carried me through the streets, Pop continued to carry me throughout life and he would always be there, I thought. I was living in my first apartment Pop had moved me into a year earlier. Then Pop called me on a random Wednesday night to watch American Idol. It was odd. Pop hated American Idol along with all the other reality television shows I forced him to watch when I was home. It was our tradition, me wanting to watch some absurd show, Pop complaining but turning the channel to it anyway. It began with Punky Brewster in kindergarten. We had one television back then. Pop missed 60 Minutes for a year before Punky Brewster was finally canceled.<br />
<br />
When Pop came that night and everything seemed normal except for a consistent cough and the fact he wanted to watch American Idol. “Next week you have to come to the house and watch. I didn’t know it, but he began Chemotherapy that winter. David Cook won Idol and that was the last season I watched.<br />
<br />
Pop would call me Baby Girl until he his voice became a whisper. I would no longer be Baby Girl. Now I listen to those words in the wind and I wait for the patter in my heart that a four-year-old girl once felt.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-55333529385479640362010-11-04T08:27:00.000-07:002020-04-04T18:23:05.950-07:00She Walks“Get up! It’s time to walk!” Her voice was clear through the receiver.<br />
<br />
“Mom, It’s 8 AM,” I said rolling over. For the first time in four years, I had no job to return to, no rush hour traffic to push through, no clients to meet, nowhere to go. I lost part of my identity! <br />
<br />
“You said you were going to get up every day like you were going to work.”<br />
<br />
She was right. I did say that. Didn‘t I? This was what I wanted, time to write that novel, produce the play, get my master's degree. Today I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t want to acknowledge the dawn. I covered my face with the sheet, shielding the rising sun from my eyes. <br />
<br />
“Get up!” She said. “Its time to walk!”<br />
It was four years since she first felt weak, had soreness in her joints and paleness covering her face. First, they told her it was stress, then it was Lupus. And when Pop got sick, she put her own pain aside to care for him. When he was gone, she mourned like the rest of us. <br />
<br />
When everyone thought she would sink into depression, she said: “I think I am going to walk today“. When everyone told her to stop, sit down you are sick, she said I am not, and she walked on.<br />
<br />
She began her day with a prayer. She knew she was asking for a miracle from God. Then a juice made of greens to nourish her body and mind. She crossed the street into a park she had not visited in years. At first, her stride was slow, her joints weak, but as the flowers blossomed, so did she. When she returned six months later for her regular appointment, the Lupus was gone.<br />
<br />
She walked through loneliness, through sorrow, through illness, through doubt to wellness.<br />
<br />
She taught me how to walk once, and now she would teach me again. <br />
<br />
“Get up!” She said. “It’s time to walk!”<br />
<br />
And I did.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-61972619453028782462010-10-25T17:54:00.000-07:002010-10-26T12:07:54.043-07:00SeveranceIf you find yourself in my position, where a company tells you to return to the office a few days after terminating you to pick up your severance, you have to look good. We were let go on a Wednesday. By Monday rumors were circulating. It’s expected. Everyone wants to know if you took it well or if there were some fireworks. The last thing you want is for your former coworkers to think you are down and out. That was going to be easy. After the wedding, I felt great and made sure my attire matched my mood.<br /><br />You don’t want to look to professional. You don’t work for them and you don’t need to impress anyone. What says, “I don’t give a darn”? Denim! That’s right. Now not just any jeans would work. I slipped on those skinny jeans I purchased on a rainy day in Paris last year. You have to let them know you are still a professional; my Benetton blazer please. (I am far from a label whore, but this was a special occasion). You want to show just a little bit of sexy. Something you would never wear to work. I stepped into my leopard stilettos. <br /><br />Of course I needed my war paint. I pulled out my arsenal of cosmetics. This event required my favorite lip color Cranberry Kiss. I was glad I bought four tubes when Carol’s Daughter discontinued the line this summer. My hair was still freshly done in an up do from the wedding. I was ready. <br /><br />Almost any way! I needed my business cards. The ones I printed years a few years ago with my company and title, but rarely gave out. That’s right I still had a company. Before I started working for the Organization I made money on my own. I would do that again only better this time.<br />***<br />The elevator door opened. I was greeted by the cold air that always filled the office. It matched the cold blue institutional walls that made it hard to work some days. I kept a small heater by my leg to keep me warm, but there was a slight side effect. I got a tan on the right side of my leg. It took me a week to figure out why I had a dark spotted patch on my brown leg. That’s another reason to be grateful. I don’t have to cook myself! The heater was passed down from a former colleague after her position was eliminated a year ago. She was a ghost of the organization's past, as I called them, and now so was I.<br /><br />I was disappointed to see the receptionist desk empty, though I was not surprised. This was Cynthia’s lunch time. I was fashionably late for my noon appointment. My comrades and I were scheduled for separate severance appointments 10, 12 and 2. The Organization hoped we didn’t meet talk, or discuss our separate packages. We planned otherwise. I wanted to pass my coveted heater down to Cynthia. She was one of the few people I cared about in left at the Organization. Seeing her warm smile each day was comforting during the most difficult days.<br /><br />“I’ll be down stairs.” A voice cried out. It was Jonathan. I looked at him and nodded. He disappeared as soon as I acknowledged him. Like everyone working on the executive side, He was on pins and needles. He worked closely with the executives and could not be seen away from his desk chatting away with a former coworker. I would meet him down stairs away from the prying eyes. <br /><br />The doors to the executive suit opened. Kareem the new program director walked into the lobby. <br /><br />“Hello”, that was one of three words he said to me since he took over a month earlier. His lack of interest in his staff should have been the first indication something wrong. At the Organization, it is typical for a new director to terminate staff and build a new team. <br /><br />“How are you? I am here to see HR.” I shook his hand diffusing any fear. <br />“I’ll get her.” He said. As his short round physique disappeared behind the double doors, another appeared in low hanging jeans with slightly matted lock.<br /><br />“Miss I heard what happened” It was a former client. The one I would see on 125th Street selling water and other items on the weekends.<br />“Why? What?“ He asked. Others joined him. There was outrage. There were more questions.<br /> <br />“All three of you?”<br /><br />“Miss you want me to do something to them. Because I‘ll…”<br /><br />“No! No! That is not necessary!” I said. It sounded like a joke, but I wouldn’t put anything past some of my clients. I smiled and in my most comforting voice. “It happens. It’s ok.”<br /><br />“Come on Miss. There are some people who want to see you.” He said practically dragging me to the doors.<br /><br />“I can’t.” I started explaining to him.<br /><br />“She’s ready to see you.” Kareem said breaking up the commotion.<br />I walked back. My escorts didn’t leave my side. <br />“I’ll be right back. I told them.”<br /><br />This was it. They told us our severance would be based on years of service. It was time to find out what the long hours, the money I brought into the Organization when I lead the company in placements. However, for some reason I wasn’t expecting much.<br /><br />I looked into the remorseful eyes of the human resources director. <br />“Here we are again a year later.” It was an inside joke referencing the last time my position was eliminated. I took a pay cut. I had to. I just bought my condominium and I returned after traveling Europe. I was broke.<br /><br />“Yeah!” She remembered the incident. I didn’t budge when she told me “you will receive two weeks pay.” I predicted it. It was standard. <br /><br />I cleared my desk and said my goodbyes sliding my business card into the hands of a select few. “Did you find a new gig already?” My former manager asked looking down at my glossy card. I was going for that effect.<br />“It’s for my business. I always had a business.” He just lent me his copy of What color is your Parachute. (I know that was a sign.) He’s not getting it back now. I need it more. He still has a job.<br /><br />As I took my final walk through the lobby I heard. “Miss, Miss!”<br />I turned to see the same client. “What about my resume?” he said with panic in his voice. “You have to ask management. I can’t do it now.”<br />“Miss! You were the best” I gave him a thumbs up. It was a small gesture in exchange for what he gave me, confirmation of a job well done. With a little more pep in my step. I exited and walked into my new life. <br /><br />In the days that followed, I received calls from my former coworkers. Each called with concerns about my general well being. I assured them I would be fine. Then the most interesting call came from Carol a fellow ghost of the Organization’s past. She was experiencing a particularly difficult time, having been terminated. The organization said she was unprofessional. She never received a warning or a write up. Her unemployment issuance was denied. It was another example of an employee being discarded. It was always our fault when there was a problem at the organization and the solution was always to get rid of them. <br /><br />“Did you hear?” She asked. <br />“Who?” It was early in the quarter. I assumed there were more layoffs or terminations. “The organization lost the Center. <br />“What?” There are times when reality is better than fiction. This was one of them. The Center was the Organization’s biggest contract. <br /><br />In December, 30 employees of the Organization would join me on the same unemployment lines we once ran. I will pray for each one of them. I know they will all find better opportunities, but as for the Organization, I have to say, had it coming. <br /><br />“God don’t like ugly” Carol said. I agreed. <br /> <br />We lost a job and now they would lose something that would jeopardize the well being of the entire organization. I considered how the conditions would worsen in the months that would follow. The Organization would have to make up for the loss in revenue. There would be salary cuts, less staff, longer hours. I couldn't help but think some how I was spared.<br /><br />Was it God protecting me and pushing me forward? Was it Karma coming back to the Organization? I believe it’s both, but for our purposes let’s call it… severance!Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-43702959823497502172010-10-03T15:04:00.000-07:002010-10-18T21:38:00.049-07:00Wedding DayThe wedding was beautiful and so was the bride. Despite my anxiety, I enjoyed every moment. The last thing I wanted to do days after losing my job was attend a social event. I knew inevitably someone would ask about my profession. It is one of the most common questions asked at gatherings, and I had no clue of how I would answer.<br /><br />Though I am hopeful (no, certain), I will find love eventually. I do have another 60 (no 70 years on this planet), I have to accept the fact that I will never walk down the aisle with Pop. I will never have a father daughter dance. It was all I wanted when I proposed to The K-Man after Pop was diagnosed with cancer. It wasn't much of a proposal. There was no ring or romance, just a question. After 7 years who needed the formality. Desperate to create a memory and to bring some happiness in a time of pain and uncertainty, I asked him certain he would accept. He told me no. Not in those words exactly more like not yet, we have a lot to work out or some thing like that. I told him I would not forgive him if Pop died. He did. That's how The K- Man became the ex (the abridged version). I promise to give you all of the excruciating details later, but this is not about my day that never happened. This is about my best friend's special day. I was grateful and honored she asked me to be her maid of honor. I know now just how much she loves me and that is a blessing.<br /><br />I was trying to process my emotions and then I got laid off two days before the big day. What else was I to do? I packed up my bags and baggage hopped on a metro north train bound for Connecticut. I rode off preparing for the question I was certain would come. What do you? What line of work are you in? It's my favorite question to ask? Now it is haunting me. These days its common for someone to answer "I am between jobs right now". I never thought about how that person on the receiving end of my question felt. I have to think of new conversation starters. (If you have any out there let me know.) God is testing me. There is no other explanation for this torture.<br /><div align="center"><br />***</div>I was slouched down in the hair stylist's seat, still exhausted from the rehearsal dinner the night before. I am accompanied by the bride, her mom, Tia another college friend. The Bride had us up at 6AM for a 7AM hair appointment. It was going to be a long day, I made it through the previous nights festivities without having to answer the question. Maybe I could get through the weekend, I thought as she finished washing my hair and escorted me to her chair. It was time to twist my locks. This is usually the time for small talk. "How do you like dresses?" the petite brown woman asked . "Oh they are beautiful, they look great on everyone", the only respectable answer even though it was true. "How long have you known the bride?" "About..." I had to think about it. You never count until. Someone asks. "12 years, we met in college." (I have been out of school for 10 that make sense.) I can't believe it was that long.<br /><br />"What kind of work do you do?" the dreaded question. I knew it would come sooner or later. I thought about it should I answer,<em> "I am social worker/career advisor".</em> I always loved talking about my job. People found me interesting and caring. "Oh that's wonderful" they would all respond. "Wow it must be so rewarding helping people. I hate my job", a bit of envy in their voice. The truth is it was rewarding. I love working with people and then the hidden benefit of always being the most interesting person at the party.<br /><br />If I changed the tense to was and said, <em>"I was a social worker",</em> I would probably hear I am sorry from another well meaning person. A discussion on the recession and how everyone is affected would follow. Normally I enjoy discussing the current economic crisis and debating solutions, but not when it revolves around my personal livelihood. That was not going to work.<br /><br />Then there was... I didn't know could it possibly work. I hadn't said that in such a long time. "I am a writer. I am a performer." I said it and it felt so so good. "Really my daughter is an artist.", she said. " Is she?. I have been doing spoken word for 10 years, and I earn my living performing on college campuses". "Really", she answered. "My daughter is the president of the Black Student Union. She loves spoken word. She would love to see you perform. I am going to tell her to check out your website.<br /><br />At that moment, it occurred to me all this time I had been claiming the wrong profession. I never intended to to be a social worker. That was just a job I got to pay some bills. No different than waiting a table. I got lost because I loved the work. I am and always will be an artist. Never again will I claim another profession. I don't care if I get elected president of the United States I am going to tell everyone "I am an artist and in my spare time I run the country".<br /><br />Suddenly I was liberated. I was free. I am not unemployed. I can't be unemployed. It's impossible. Art is my life's work.<br /><br />At the wedding, I danced. I celebrated. I read my poem. Most importantly, I honored a woman who supported me through all my grief, joys and scatter brained ideas (Including this blog. Actually one of the reasons I am finally writing this is because I can't yap to her while she is on her honeymoon, and I have to tell someone.) I know she will continue to support me. The only thing that has changed is her name. I helped her to live out one of her dreams and now it is time to live mine.<br /><br />The party continued well into the morning. I danced the night away confident that Entrepreneur/ Artist E is even cooler than Social Worker E.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1302954753945144936.post-80415902714898118472010-09-30T20:14:00.000-07:002010-10-11T20:21:56.175-07:00Laid OffYesterday, I was shown the door. "We would appreciate it if you would leave", were the exact words of the two cold pale men across the table from myself and two of my colleagues. Funny this is a social service organization and that's as much compassion they could find for three long term employees. I worked there for three years which is a record for an organization with such a high turnover rate. My colleagues Mr. W put in two years of hard labor and Mr. L was released after 13 years.<br /><br />"Your position has been eliminated.", the usual refrain for those who get laid off. Someone is guaranteed to hear those words every quarter. "Your position has been eliminated" means the organization has changed the job title for the same duties. Four times a year, employees scoured through the online job postings postings to see if their job description appears. Its a life on edge I gave up a year earlier. I knew my day was coming, but admittedly I was shocked as the new Chief Operating Officer called the group in for the 4 o'clock meeting.<br /><br />" You can apply for the new positions, but we reviewed your resumes and you just aren't qualified." He said sliding a three year old resume in my direction. The one I submitted when I applied for the job. Ok up until this point I was calm but this was ridiculous. No. This was an insult. He really told us to apply for our own jobs and then told us we were unqualified to do the work we were doing for years. Surely the file he retrieved the three year old resume from contained my last three job descriptions at the organization. I wanted to scream "spare me the theatrics." We are going in a different direction would have been sufficient.<br /><br />They escorted us to our cubicles. I noticed the pile of files I was working on just before the meeting. I stopped short of putting them away. I don't work here anymore. "You can collect your personal items on Monday when you receive your severance package."They watched through the glass windows of the door as we walked into the lobby. I looked up at the photographs on the wall. It was a wall of fame of sorts. Each of the photos belonged to my former clients. I recalled their stories as I passed. The 19 year old the bad attitude. I got her her first job at a major tourist attraction. She told everyone I was her aunt afterwards. My clown of a client who got that job as a porter in a restaurant. Then there was my favorite the one who got a cooking job after spending years in prison. He looked beautiful smiling in front of the restaurant wearing a white chef's jacket. I loved them all. I was going to miss seeing their faces in print.<br /><br />I remembered our current clients. We did not have a chance to say goodbye. We each developed relationships and we were making progress. There was no closure for any of us.<br /><br />So much had changed since I lost Pop, and It was about to change again. I was once the star of the organization, now I would have to be my own star. I would have to trust my faith.<br /><br />Two happy hour drinks later, I arrived at home soaked from the rain and began to pack for my trip to Connecticut. My friends wedding was this weekend. I got laid off, and I am on my way to a social gathering when all I want to do is mope. What kind of timing is this? I guess God doesn't want me to descend into a state of depression. How can I? I am the maid of honor. I am reading a poem. My friend is depending on me. I am going to celebrate. I am going to move forward.Ebony Washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16496667878410330518noreply@blogger.com2