The other evening I was innocently walking along when I looked up and stopped right where I stood, transfixed by the sundowning sky. It was brilliant! Storm clouds closed ranks overhead, dark and billowy, shot through with flashes of white and light gray. Steel-wool balls and bubbles. They parted at the horizon just enough for the vanishing sun to fling splashes of brilliant color this way and that as a parting gift. The yellows, golds, and grays were not subdued but they could only serve as background noise to the shouts of the reds and oranges. And even they paled before the shrieking fuchsia that wove in and out as the light moved. God, it was beautiful.

I stood and soaked in the vision – then sighed, and reluctantly pulled down my rose-colored glasses. It was just as I feared. A lovely, though fuzzy, sunset, to be sure, but someone had brushed a pale white glaze over it, blurring and subduing the entire scene. The steel wool overhead softened into dirty soapsuds. The golds and grays refused to give prominence to the oranges and reds, instead insisting on sharing equal space and saturation. And the fuchsia, far from shrieking, did not seem to exist at all.

I replaced the lenses and thrilled again by the vision, I strove to keep it in my mind so that it could overlay the real thing. I wanted both pictures – the real and the not-so-real. I had my camera phone but what I did not want was a photo, because the camera would record what was there — not what I saw. Not one passerby looked at me strangely, by the way, as I stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring into – as far as they knew – nowhere as I flipped my glasses up and down over my eyes. I suppose that says something about… well, something.

I like my dual vision of the world; my lying eyes show me hidden wonders in the dreary and the mundane. The dull bark of a tree suddenly acquires shadows and depth, as if I can reach out my hand and pull earth from the deep brown valleys that wove between rich burgundy hills. I call up a memory, years old, and still marvel at the bright, shimmering green of the palm fronds as they spread themselves wide, a perfect contrast to the small, autumn-colored leaves of its neighbor tree. So California, this combination. The two together made each stand out more than they ever would by themselves, I reasoned.

It was when I was gazing at that particular scene, in fact, that I happened to look over the top of my rosy glasses and got my first shock of realization. What I was seeing was not what was actually there. Or, rather, it was there – just not exactly how I saw it. The two trees still stood next to each other, and fronds of the palm still waved gently in front of its neighbor – but gone were the deep hues, the brilliant colors. The shimmer! They, together or separate, were just … trees. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

So, yeah, I see the world through rose-colored glasses sometimes. I bask in it, even. But I always remember that underneath that world lies another that is not quite as brilliant, or soft, or beautiful as I imagine. Yet.

After all, the brilliant colors I saw may not exist in my sunset – but I think they do exist somewhere. Don’t ever give up looking.

[sunset photo from here, where they also have many more lovely pictures]

And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

by Emily Dickinson

[photo of this intrepid little bird via Gulf Recovery Fund]

As far as I can tell she doesn’t speak a word of English, though she understands some, and her Spanish is way too fast for me to follow, but somehow we communicate. In fact, the language barrier didn’t stop her from talking me into buying a bag of cactus one time. I’m sure cactus is lovely in meals, but as I haven’t a clue how to cook it my one foray into adventurous cooking was not all that successful. Still, I’ll probably buy another bag if she brings it again, but my favorites are the fruits and, of course, the tamales.

She’s probably in her 50s or 60s and, come to think of it, she may not actually be Mexican. I say this because, for one thing I really don’t know, and for another … well, when she first started bringing around the tamales they were pretty awful – bland and the masa falling apart and all kinds of stuff. Not, of course, that all Mexicans or all Latin@s are born knowing how to make tamales, or anything – she may have been an office worker or a doctor or something in her home country and is just selling tamales here as a way to make a little extra income - but if one is going to sell them, I think they should at least taste good, no?

Anyway, she kept bringing them and I kept buying them and over time they got better and better, until now they are very tasty, the masa is firm and they are well-wrapped. Yum. I look forward to her ringing the doorbell even if she does keep her finger on the button so that it goes ding!ding!ding!ding! – I can live with that.

Except when she showed up at my door yesterday, I wasn’t so happy to see her because I didn’t have any money for tamales or anything else. Feeding six people is a lot different from feeding two, and we tend to run out of money and food long before we run out of month, as they say. So when she rang – ding!ding!ding!ding! -and said somethingsomething tamales! I opened the door and said, “No, sorry. I don’t have any money!”

She didn’t quite understand at first and for the life of me I couldn’t remember the word “dinero”, so I rubbed my fingers together (I think that is the international sign language for money?) and shook my head, saying I don’t have any money, no cash. She nods as if she understands and then reaches into her basket and starts picking up tamales and putting them in the foil wrapper anyway!

So here I am out there saying, no no, and here she is saying who knows what (she really is the fastest talker I have met in any language) and calmly counting out a bunch of tamales and putting them into the foil – and then all of a sudden I catch the word “Sabado”.

Sabado? I say. I can pay you on Saturday? She smiles, nods decisively, puts the package of tamales in my hands, says a bunch of stuff and repeats Sabado and starts to walk off again with her basket almost before I can thank her.

Tamales are a treat anyway but that night they tasted especially good – not only because they made a change from the simple, spare meals we’d been having, but because they were flavored with… what? The milk of human kindness? The graciousness of one woman who saw more than just a customer, and more than what her customer told her?

I don’t know, but sometimes someone shows up at just the perfect time to remind me that although all may not be right with the world, some people make the world worth living in.

[tamale photo is from here]

what am i?

 via

STOP WHAT YOU”RE DOING AND APPLY FOR —>PBS Diversity & Innovation Fund

Didn’t I tell you to stop what you are doing? I meant it. Stop what you’re doing and sit down and get to writing. In fact, we might just shut down this blog from August 15th through September so that each and every one of my readers or group of readers will have time to submit their proposals to the PBS Diversity & Innovation Fund. They are handing out $375,000 an episode to develop a new prime time series for PBS and I want Black women all up under and THROUGH these proposals. Every time they open a new proposal I want a Black woman’s name attached.

So quit yer yapping about how crappy Debra Lee’s content is over there at Black Exploitation Television and get ta drafting you application. I’ll be submitting at least a half dozen ideas. Did I mention they are going to hand out over a QUARTER OF A MILLION DOLLARS PER EPISODE? So no more bootstrapping. No more being camera operator, lighting crew audio crew, editor, craft services et al. I could actually HIRE PEOPLE! HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!!!!

Sounds exciting! There is more there, including offers to help find partners to work with and such. Are you going to try for it? Am I?

Tumblr! I’ve discovered that a lot of people I know but who haven’t been updating their sites have apparently moved over to Tumblr. I have a page there, too… but since the service is not intuitive for me there is nothing on it. Plus, I am shy. Anyway, though… some stuff friends have found.

When I first started reading/chatting with feminists online, I noticed that some would often use book titles and authors as shorthand for a set of beliefs or theory or whatever – mention Suzie Bright and right away those in-the-know have an idea of where you stand on this or that; a mention of Gloria Anzuldua leaves a completely different impression. Anyway, all of that, of course, leaves non Women’s Studies people (like me) scrambling to figure out what folks are talking about.

Well, no excuses now not to become familiar with this famous text, at least, as it is available for download, woo hoo! Via Donna, from The Silence of Our Friends :
Book: This Bridge Called My Back

First published in 1981, This Bridge Called My Back has been out of print since the expiration of its contract with Third Woman Press in 2008. Hopefully the digital copy will find its way to those who will circulate it and possibly build up pressure to have it printed again.

URL Set:

Introduction: http://www.mediafire.com/?e2taou2lzzl

Children Passing In the Streets: http://www.mediafire.com/?metyjnzwmji

Entering the Lives of Others: http://www.mediafire.com/?immkmkzzyzz

And When You Leave, Take Your Pictures With You: http://www.mediafire.com/?hn4fuom1q1b

Between The Lines: http://www.mediafire.com/?wn3x3zl4zau

Speaking In Tongues: http://www.mediafire.com/?zgtlrycmjyn

El Mundo Zurdo: http://www.mediafire.com/?mwdd2wz2oyh

Biographies: http://www.mediafire.com/?j5mymwunezy

Front/Back Cover: http://www.mediafire.com/?zumnmytgkgt

enjoy,

chris

I have more cool stuff but they’ll have to wait for another post. I need time to write thoughts about them and I have none now. No time, that is, not no thoughts – got too many of those.

–I. F. Stone