Until recently I never wondered why other cultures appeal to me more than my own. I had to stop and think what might have been the origin of it. Why had a married someone black (aside from having thought I fell in love and having gotten pregnant)? Why does the Latina culture have the allure for me that it does? Why does everything different from the white culture I was raised in hold such fascination for me?
I have racked my brain, going back as far as I can to come up with its origin. In doing so, I have a distinct memories which I think may have been the catalyst that produced in me a yearning to know more about people whose backgrounds were/are so different from mine.
When I was very small and just first going to school, I had in my class and riding on my school bus, a little girl who was black. It was the very first time I recall having seen anyone who looked so different from me, to the point that I remember I was in awe. I don't recall her name and I do not remember her seeing her after that first year in school. I believe it to have been in kindergarten because I also have the recollection that it was also my first time riding a school bus. I distinctly remember having returned home after school and promptly telling my mom and siblings that I had met a "chocolate" girl at school. Of course one of my sisters (Leslie, I believe) immediately told me I could not call her that and that she was black. I remember asking why. How innocent at five years old! Naturally, I was given some answer that to my five-year-old intellect was satisfactory and went about my five-year-old business. I remember having played with the girl at school a couple of times but aside from that I remember nothing further about her. The one lasting impression that stayed with me, although I was not in possession of the ability to realize it at that tender young age or for years to come, was the discovery that if there was this one person so different from me, what else and who else did I not know about?
Given that my father was very strict and very prejudiced my forays into diversity were as closely guarded as they could have been. It didn't help when he would utter all the derogatory terms imaginable that might come out of a bigoted mind while watching some sports event on t.v. Yet, later on I recall my sisters having had friends over who were black and he made a point to say to them that "We aren't prejudice in this house. We treat everyone the same." Even then, I knew that to be false. That contradiction fed the fire of my interest to make me wonder what could possibly be so wrong with people who are different from my family that my dad would act one way and speak the opposite?
My mother, although never verbally contradiction my father in my presence as I recall, interacted with diverse people with much more ease and, now that I look back, much more open-mindedness. Thankfully, due to her influence, I believe I escaped having my mind molded completely by the rigid beliefs of my father. When we lived in Malton, Ontario, I met many more people from different backgrounds and from the entire spectrum of skin tone. I recall there was a boy from Pakistan (whose name I don't recall either; so odd I don't) that lived down the street from us. We became friends (and probably had a puppy love now that I look back). I remember my mother let me go outside to play with him once when my father was home. It was not long after that, that my father made me tell the boy that I could not play with him anymore. I never knew if it was more because of the color of his skin or because we seemed to take a shine to each other. And of course I didn't dare ask why or I probably would have been hit by my dad for having questioned his authority.
I've wondered at times if I didn't marry my ex simply because in my subconscious mind I wanted to get back at my father. That thought made me question if in fact my interest in people whose skin was the "wrong color" (yes, he had used those words too), was solely out of spite. But, looking back, I have had some experiences that make me realize that was not the case.
One was my ex-mother-in-law, whom I grew to love like a mother. She became the driving maternal force in my life, since my mother died when I was a young adult and I never got to know her as grown women get to know each other. I feel ashamed to say it, but I miss her even more sometimes than my own mom. I loved her and love her still and miss her like crazy.
Another was an instance from work in which a hiker who was lost in the Adirondacks had called 911 (at that point in time the State Police was the primary answering point for all 911 calls). His name was Aditya Darah, and he was from Pakistan. He had hurt his ankle while hiking off the mountains with friends. He couldn't keep up with them. They left him to go get help. It was November and he was injured, cold and frightened that he would die in the woods. At one point he was crying because he was so scared. I had him call me back every 15 to 20 minutes so that we wouldn't use up his battery on his cell phone by staying on the line constantly with him. The friends then called me and had also become lost. I did not tell Aditya that! Fortunately, I got enough information from both parties about which trails they were on that the NY State Forest Rangers found the friends first, then found Aditya. A few days later, Aditya called me back and thanked me for saving him.
to be continued...
Monday, August 10, 2015
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Purple on my Mind
It has been months since I wrote a post on this blog, but with the house and working overtime, I'm usually feeling rushed and not relaxed enough to feel too creative. My creative outlet of late has consisted of things of quick result: a hanging of a decorative something or other on a wall, a quick craft found on Pinterest and few other small non-time-consuming forays into the artsy realm.
But in order to write, I need to feel relaxed, something I have only managed to feel on this last vacation, which ends today. When I feel hurried, my mind is overcrowded with things that need to be done and I cannot seem to concentrate sufficiently. Well, perhaps concentrate is not the right word. I need time to let my mind wander and then bring those bits of imagination together in a concentrated something. I also no longer have the motivating factor of getting a failing grade should I not produce, which can be a formidable motivator at times.
However, on this vacation I was able to finally feel a sense of peace and relaxation. So, I took up a book that I have had for years but hadn't read. Oh, I've seen the movie, more than once, but not read the book. I had mentioned The Color Purple to a friend of mind who had labeled several things in her house with bits of notecard on which the name of the labeled item was written. It reminded me of the movie scene in which Nettie labels everything in Celie's house in order to teach her how to read. I believed my copy of the book was up in the attic where several of my books still are packed in boxes. But luckily I had kept it, for some reason (things happen for a reason), on my bookshelf in my bedroom.
Years ago, a wonderful friend had given me a this copy (along with several other books) and still the marks and notes in the margin are there from him having read it. It even smells like it did when I was first given it. (I know...I'm weird...I smell old books. It makes me imagine whose hands they have passed through and the paths they have followed to end up in my hands.)
Reading this book, immediately reminded me of my ex-mother-in-law, Myrtle Maddix. I could hear her voice as I read the characters' communication within their own minds or with each other. She was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Her upbringing seems like from a novel. When she was quite young (10 or 11, I think she told me), her mother left her and her brother with their father and took off with a few of the older children. Myrtle's father died when she was still young, as a result of a head injury sustained from a fall from a vehicle during a parade and Myrtle saw it happen. When she was grown, her first son Thomas (nicknamed Bubba) had been burned in a fire. He later succumbed to the injuries. Then she met John Maddix, and many years later I became their daughter-in-law. Myrtle had not made it through high school, but John had and later he completed college. His speech was more refined than hers, but hers retained some of the southern drawl, locution and idiomatic expressions that correlated so closely with the book's characters' speech. She later went on to get her high school diploma at age 72. So proud was I of her! What an accomplishment at such an age and after all she had lived through until then. Sadly, though, she passed away from cancer in 2008.
Several passages in The Color Purple speak to me. The ones about Celie's progress through her faith in God, and ones that were just beautiful in their delivery, like this passage in which Nettie explains her feeling of love for Samuel. The way in which Alice Walker writes makes the character seem so real, so human. It is that sort of delivery which makes the reader think that he/she is reading about real people and not imagined characters:
"You may have guessed that I loved him all along; but I did not know it. Oh, I loved him as a brother and respected him as a friend, but Celie, I love him bodily, as a man! I love his walk, his size, his shape, his smell, the kinkiness of his hair. I love the very texture of his palms. The pink of his upper lip. I love his big nose. I love his brows. I love his feet. And I love his dear eyes in which the vulnerability and beauty of his soul can be plainly read." (Nettie, pg 211, Washington Square Press, 1982)
When I am missing Myrtle, as frequently still I do, I will pick up this book to hear her voice and see her in the characters: strong, vibrant, resourseful women, who know little of their immense worth until they overcome whatever challenge they meet to finally look back on themselves and realized the treasures they are and the regal quality of their persons. Perhaps this is why Ms Walker chose to name the book as she did, for the color has in the past denoted royalty, even that of our Sovereign Lord and why she writes through Shug's character: "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." She wants people to take notice that no matter where you look, God is there and He wants you to look, with your heart. That is why "[He] is always making little surprises and springing them on us when us least expect."
But in order to write, I need to feel relaxed, something I have only managed to feel on this last vacation, which ends today. When I feel hurried, my mind is overcrowded with things that need to be done and I cannot seem to concentrate sufficiently. Well, perhaps concentrate is not the right word. I need time to let my mind wander and then bring those bits of imagination together in a concentrated something. I also no longer have the motivating factor of getting a failing grade should I not produce, which can be a formidable motivator at times.
However, on this vacation I was able to finally feel a sense of peace and relaxation. So, I took up a book that I have had for years but hadn't read. Oh, I've seen the movie, more than once, but not read the book. I had mentioned The Color Purple to a friend of mind who had labeled several things in her house with bits of notecard on which the name of the labeled item was written. It reminded me of the movie scene in which Nettie labels everything in Celie's house in order to teach her how to read. I believed my copy of the book was up in the attic where several of my books still are packed in boxes. But luckily I had kept it, for some reason (things happen for a reason), on my bookshelf in my bedroom.
Years ago, a wonderful friend had given me a this copy (along with several other books) and still the marks and notes in the margin are there from him having read it. It even smells like it did when I was first given it. (I know...I'm weird...I smell old books. It makes me imagine whose hands they have passed through and the paths they have followed to end up in my hands.)
Reading this book, immediately reminded me of my ex-mother-in-law, Myrtle Maddix. I could hear her voice as I read the characters' communication within their own minds or with each other. She was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Her upbringing seems like from a novel. When she was quite young (10 or 11, I think she told me), her mother left her and her brother with their father and took off with a few of the older children. Myrtle's father died when she was still young, as a result of a head injury sustained from a fall from a vehicle during a parade and Myrtle saw it happen. When she was grown, her first son Thomas (nicknamed Bubba) had been burned in a fire. He later succumbed to the injuries. Then she met John Maddix, and many years later I became their daughter-in-law. Myrtle had not made it through high school, but John had and later he completed college. His speech was more refined than hers, but hers retained some of the southern drawl, locution and idiomatic expressions that correlated so closely with the book's characters' speech. She later went on to get her high school diploma at age 72. So proud was I of her! What an accomplishment at such an age and after all she had lived through until then. Sadly, though, she passed away from cancer in 2008.
Several passages in The Color Purple speak to me. The ones about Celie's progress through her faith in God, and ones that were just beautiful in their delivery, like this passage in which Nettie explains her feeling of love for Samuel. The way in which Alice Walker writes makes the character seem so real, so human. It is that sort of delivery which makes the reader think that he/she is reading about real people and not imagined characters:
"You may have guessed that I loved him all along; but I did not know it. Oh, I loved him as a brother and respected him as a friend, but Celie, I love him bodily, as a man! I love his walk, his size, his shape, his smell, the kinkiness of his hair. I love the very texture of his palms. The pink of his upper lip. I love his big nose. I love his brows. I love his feet. And I love his dear eyes in which the vulnerability and beauty of his soul can be plainly read." (Nettie, pg 211, Washington Square Press, 1982)
When I am missing Myrtle, as frequently still I do, I will pick up this book to hear her voice and see her in the characters: strong, vibrant, resourseful women, who know little of their immense worth until they overcome whatever challenge they meet to finally look back on themselves and realized the treasures they are and the regal quality of their persons. Perhaps this is why Ms Walker chose to name the book as she did, for the color has in the past denoted royalty, even that of our Sovereign Lord and why she writes through Shug's character: "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." She wants people to take notice that no matter where you look, God is there and He wants you to look, with your heart. That is why "[He] is always making little surprises and springing them on us when us least expect."
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