Sundown

My home town in Southern California was named for John Greenleaf Whittier, a New England poet, Quaker and avid abolitionist. My parents moved us there in 1949 before my first grade year.

We’d moved to California from the Boston area. Mom liked Whittier because of the old homes and large trees in the uptown area and because of Whittier College. And I think she felt at home in a town named for a New Englander. I’m pretty sure neither she nor Dad realized it was a Sundown Town.

Whittier is east of Los Angeles proper. Mom used to take us to East Los Angeles – a predominately black neighborhood – to shop for clothes. We were often the only white people in the store. I don’t remember being bothered by it. But in downtown L.A. the fancier department stores had separate colored and white dressing rooms.

Whittier itself was very white. Even the Mexicans (yes, we called them Mexicans) didn’t come to the older sections of town, a fact no one in my family commented on.

But in 1949, the Whittier School District was already bussing Mexican kids, scattering them through the district. The elementary school closest to where most of them lived hadn’t prepared them well. They’d spoken Spanish at recess and often in class. Those who went on to middle and high school couldn’t compete.

So I shared classrooms and lunch tables with Mary Ortiz, Carlotta Chacón, Julie Perez and Nettie Aguilera. I thought of them as friends, though we parted when the school day ended – they on one bus, me on another. They lived in an area we called Jim Town. I don’t know whether it was within the city limits, but it was clearly within the school district boundary.

Then, in 1957, a black family came to Whittier. The father had been hired as director of a juvenile detention center. He wanted to live where he could walk to work so his wife could use their car during the day.

The detention center was inside the city limits. So was the house they wanted to buy. That’s when we learned about the Sundown Law. They couldn’t buy that house, at least not until the law was repealed. Thankfully, the city saw wisdom - perhaps with some outside encouragement - in doing just that. The three children from that family became the first black kids to attend Whittier High School.

Hidden Figures, Twisted Facts

The movie Hidden Figures brought back memories of the IBM ‘uniform’ of the early 70s: white shirt, skinny tie, black pants. All male.

Except not always.

In 1970, I was hired as a computer programmer in a place with many other women programmers. In the mid-70s, a co-worker and I were puzzled at our invitation to a meeting for “older and non-traditional workers.” We were certainly not older! We were surprised to be considered female in a male-dominated profession.

No surprise, then, that I was enthralled by the movie Hidden Figures. I bought the book.

I know, always a bad idea. Or, in this case, a good one. The movie got the message across, that women and especially black women are rarely acknowledged.

But Hollywood once again twisted the story to make it more . . . more engaging? More outrageous? More macho-heroic?

The three women – Katherine Johnson, Mary Jackson and Dorothy Vaughn – initially worked in West Computing but for far less time than the movie portrayed. Katherine was reassigned by Dorothy after two weeks, Mary after a couple of days.

Katherine never ran back and forth for restroom breaks. She simply used the available facility and no one objected. And she was not the only woman in the Flight Research Division. While her seatmate got up and left when she first sat at the desk, they quickly became good friends – unlike the adversarial relationship shown in the movie.

Mary Jackson integrated the evening classes at Hampton High School with permission from the City of Hampton, not with that little speech to the judge. And her reaction to getting inside that coveted building? Surprise that it was not as imagined, just a musty old school building.

I began to doubt the whole movie and was relieved to read that John Glenn did in fact ask to “have the girl check the figures.” The girl he had in mind was Katherine Johnson.

These women were accepted because they were brilliant and devoted to their work. I don’t claim to the same level of brilliance, but my female co-workers and I were also accepted for our skills and dedication.

So, Hollywood, even with the exaggerations, you delivered the message. These women not only broke barriers for black women, they made sure to bring many of their sisters with them.

Hooray – for them, for the story now told, for a message of hope.

AN OPEN LETTER TO DONALD TRUMP

January 22, 2017

No, we are not sore losers. Nor are we fired apprentices – belittled and shamed because we failed to please you. We will not slink away.

With the exception of Native Americans, we are the children of immigrants, whether our American journey began in colonial days or the 21st century. The descendants of slaves helped us win WWII, smash the sound barrier, and send a man to the moon, though they could only dent the barriers to their own civil rights.

No, we are not sore losers. We are the ones with memories longer than your most recent tweet – memories that include fighting for women’s rights to work, to be treated as equals and to choose when and with whom to bear children. We marched to end wars. We marched to garner civil rights for all.

We boycotted, we protested, we marched again. And we brought down presidents who ignored our power.

We are a force, re-awakened, ready to stand together. We are on the march again, not as sore losers, but as guardians of our country.

PAC

My heart stutters and skips,
puts a choke-hold on my breath
as though seeking escape.

Should I ignore this irregular tempo
pulsing in my chest?

It refuses to be tamed by
ape-like chest thumping,
pays no heed to scold,
is neither soothed by soup
nor calmed by tea.

I learned the name
for this worrying condition
from a nurse.

PAC, she said.
Pre-atrial contraction.
These things happen
as we age.

I wanted to object.
I am not old!
But she knows
I am.

Still, I bet she’s never
spent a day
with skittering, crazy,
unsynchronized cadence.

I’ve been free of it
for months now.
I'm puzzled.
Why is it back?
What have I changed?

Memory blips:
Another bump in the road
to old age.

Through a New Lens

November 2016

Election day passes
drop by drop
at the eye surgery center.

My right eye
is stripped of clouds,
the lens replaced.

I watch vote counts,
plastic taped across my eye,
vision obscured, outcome uncertain.

The morning after, no flash of light.
I fight the urge to rub an itch,
to blink away peripheral discomfort.

I wear dark goggles in bright sun
and drive without my glasses,
signs and stoplights clear and bright.

At follow-up, pressure reading: 22.
Is that good? The doc evades,
confuses by adding one more drop.

Three times a day
I stop everything,
follow instructions and treat my eye:
drop #1, three minutes, eyes closed;
drop #2, breathe in, breathe out;
drop #3, inhale, exhale, relax.

I rise lightheaded yet must continue,
must use all drops
and drain each bottle.

I marvel at brightness,
rediscover color,
delight in detail.

Even so, I dare not look
beyond today, cannot envision
two-thousand-seventeen.

Meeting Mr. Wonderful

On my hike Saturday, I met Mr. Wonderful. Tall, dark and very handsome, he stood in the shade with two female companions.

I hurried to catch up before they moved on. I couldn’t help myself, drawn by his black curls and gentle demeanor. His companions greeted me. He nodded my direction and gently touched my outstretched hand.

Embarrassed, I proceeded up the hill. They followed close behind, then passed me at the bench where I wrote a haiku to August. (Hillside by the trail/covered with blonde bedhead grass – /Northwest in August)

I tracked them to the top, eager to see him again. His companions explained that he didn’t like the downhill. We fell in together, the four of us, pausing whenever he did.

When they stopped halfway down, I decided to continue alone.

That’s when I learned his name.

Noodle, the black Labradoodle. What a guy!

Learning to be late

No magazines to spread germs.
No music to soothe or annoy.
No cell phone use allowed.
No clock to track the time.

Nothing to keep anxiety at bay.

The water cooler breaks the quiet, then silences itself.

I breathe, close my eyes, concentrate on calm, resist impulse to check my phone for the time.

I watch those who arrived before and after me disappear then reemerge.

I wait for a tardy friend just fifteen minutes.

How long do I wait for the doctor?

Conversations between patients and receptionists fill the silence, then drain away.

Doors open, others are called.
Doors open, others exit.

I fidget. The urge to pee grows.
But do I dare lock myself behind that solid door far across the room?

Surely I must be next.

A woman in wheel chair checks in, fills her paperwork, rolls off to see the doctor.

Almost thirty minutes since I checked in.
Did I get the time wrong?

I pace, carrying the sheet of paper from check-in.
Then I notice the appointment time:
Twenty minutes after what I’d written down six months ago.

And at that point I am called.
In their view, right on time.

But now my blood pressure is up.
I ask the reason for 20 minute difference between arrival and appointment.
We need you here early.

Well, yes, I’m always early.
But I didn’t hear suggested arrival time,
I heard this is your appointment time.

Next time, I’ll show up five minutes after that suggested arrival time.

Someone can wait for me for a change. I need to learn how to be late.