Slow Your Roll

I am on a self-anointed sabbatical this summer. I taught two intense, four-week summer school classes during the month of June, and I have been off the month of July. I'm 26 days into the month and I am just beginning to get a handle on this business of rest and relaxation. Basically, I have been working at relaxing.

And you know there is something out of balance when you've got to work at it, as opposed to, let's say, flow into it.             

My cats, Mookie and FuBu, look at me in amazement. "What!? You don't know how to stop, relax, chill? Fall prostrate, go limp, zone out? What kind of cat are you?"

"Nope," I confess. "There's always a voice in my head that constantly rattles off a list of chores and catastrophes that she is just barely keeping at abeyance until I get my rear in gear.  Her name: Vicious Voice. She's as thin as a straight black pencil line, wears oversize red-framed glasses, and holds a To-Do list that scrolls from here into eternity. She wears a black and white horizontal striped outfit, kind of like the gear the chain gangs wore in old movies. She's a young Pat Benatar...on steroids,  and she screeches at me through a megaphone. She makes me nervous. I guess I'm just a 'scaredy cat.'"

The Mooks and Foobs are asleep before I finish my story. At the first whisper of stress, they pass out. A protective measure, I'm sure. This ability explains why lions rule. They do not stress. They know how to slow their roll. They expend energy only when it's necessary; and, when it is, they act with laser-like focus, speed, efficiency, and accuracy.  And once they have taken care of business, they eat, play, and nap! Domestic cats, like Mookie-Cola and FuBu-Booboos, sleep about 16 hours a day, over twice as long as their stressed out human-companions.

The next morning, I found this note taped to the cats' food bowl:
YaYa: You need to get your life back from that crazy Vicious Voice! Here's what you've got to do:

                             Tell her: "You are not the boss of me!"

                                                          Then...

                                        Stre-e-e-tch out that tension.

                                         Next...

 

    Put your hands in the air and wave 'em like you just don't care. 

        Then...

                                           Hang Loose, Baby!

                                           And, finally, remember:

  

Relaxation means 
releasing all concern and tension 
and letting the natural order of life flow through one's being.--Donald Curtis 

Thank goodness, I still have the month of August to practice!
Write and tell me what you do to relax.


                                                      

Words to the Wise

I am a lover of words.
A pithy phrase can nail me to the page.
Alliterations delight me.
Metaphors enlighten me.
Oxymorons slay me.
Imagery ignites my imagination.

And a good thought provoking quote sends me running for my personal Food for Thought notebook.

As a writer, communication instructor, and public speaker, words to me are like paints and paint brushes to Synthia St. James; lips, fingers, and trumpet to Miles; wood and chisel to sculptor Elizabeth Catlett. They are the tools of my trade.

Quotes have grabbed me ever since I read this sign in my Uncle John’s bathhouse at the age of five: “We don’t swim in your toilet, so please don’t pee in our pool.” Now that’s a keeper. Ever since, I have maintained a notebook of quotes. A good one can come in handy.

This summer, I have been updating my Food for Thought quote book to include some favorite oldies.

Here are a few:

Meadisms (my Dad)

* You can please some of the people some of the time;
    none of the people none of the time.
    But you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

* You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.

* You can’t take it with you. (He’s and undertaker. Believe him.)


Marionisms (my Mom)

* Beauty is as beauty does.

* You can lead a horse to the water but you can’t make him drink.

* Where there’s a will, there’s a way.


YaYaisms (Me)

* You can’t afford the luxury of a cotton-candy brain.

* Hand it over to Goddess. She recycles.

* There’s no excuse for self-abuse.

* Don’t hand me no half-a$$ed paper and I won’t give you a half-a$$ed grade. (Advice my students have yet to heed.)


How about you? What are your favorite quotes? What are your favorite sayings from family members? Send them to me and I will include them in my blog.

In the meantime, if any one can figure out how to reword the bathouse quote into something I can use in the classroom, let me know.

What Would Whoopi Do?

    I straighten up from stuffing my foot into an uncooperative sneaker. I tumble my way through the security check point at the Mineta San Jose International Airport. I am wrestling with my shoes, struggling to reclaim the correct ubiquitous black rolling bag, and waiting for my laptop and other belongings to flow through the mouth of the conveyor tunnel, when, it happens. “Hey, Whoopi, Whoopi! They checked your bags, too?”

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    This occurs often when I travel; its frequency increases when I step foot into an airport. People mistake me for Whoopi Goldberg. I, for one, don’t see it. Whoopi has no eyebrows, folks. Look at me closely, I do.

.

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Any Airport, USA

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    So, I am in the airport—Any Airport USA. I will be stopped, two or three times, before I reach my gate. “Yo, Whoopi.” “Excuse me, you look just like that actress, what’s her name? Whoopi Goldberg. You know, she’s my favorite actress. She was so wonderful in “The Color Purple.’ Did you see that movie? Are you her? May I have your autograph?” Sure you can. But I’m not Whoopi Goldberg.

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Let Us Pause for a Moment of Multicultural Diplomacy

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    A year ago, on my way to visit my sister and her family in Los Angeles, a small Vietnamese woman walked up me in the airport with a big smile on her face. “You Whoopi?” I smile. She waves vigorously to her family.

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    Seven more people crowded around me. I am beginning to feel like an exotic animal in a zoo. I can feel someone behind me tugging on one of my locks. My internal siren goes off. “Warning, warning. Step away from the hair.” I am feeling the faint beginnings of a panic attack. Oh my God, I have walked into a petting zoo, and I have become the main attraction.

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    I’m sure any woman who has been pregnant can relate. Don’t you just hate when people approach you and rub your belly—like you are a good luck charm? Don’t you just want to spray them with mace? Wouldn’t you appreciate it if they would ask permission to touch and pat on you? I feel the same way. Don’t touch my locks.

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    What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do?

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    The teen-age son of the Vietnamese family, sporting tattoos and piercings, begins to circle me. He is carefully inspecting my hair as his elders continue to point at me and whisper, “Whoopi. Whoopi.”

 .

Young pierced guy is shaking his head in approval and in appreciation of my locks. I can see the lightbulb over his head. “Maybe, I’ll get me some of those. Yeah, Dude, that will really freak out my parents.”

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    “Where’d you get your locks,” he asks. “Where’d you buy your locks?” Buy?! He thinks my hair is fake! He thinks my locks are a weave.

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    I do not have time to explain to him that my locks are symbolic of my self-avowed emancipation from European standards of beauty. I do not have enough time to tell him that my locks are an integral part of my spiritual life. I would like to tell him that when I meditate, I envision some of my locks entering the ground and spreading out like the roots of a tree, while the other locks stretch up and out into the sky like branches.

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    I want to tell him my locks are my antennae to my Higher Power. Please don’t touch them because I do not want the energy of others to interfere with my divine connection. I almost regret that there is not enough time to engage.

 .

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There's Always One in the Crowd 

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    As I am trying to figure out which line to get in next, a standard issue white bald businessman behind me peers at my hair and says: “You look just like Whoopi Goldberg. I loved her on Hollywood Squares. Gee, I wish I had enough hair to wear mine like that!”

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    My ears begin to burn. I hear the siren. “Beep. Beep. WWWD? WWWD? What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do?”

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    I bite my tongue. A retort is pressing against my pursed lips. “Sure,” I want to say. “I bet back-in-the-day, you wanted to sing “Mr. Bojangles” and dance like Sammy Davis Jr., too. Huh?”

Instead, I say: “I love Whoopi, too. She’s my idol. I want to be just like her when I grow up.” As I am walking away, I hear him ask: “Can we take a picture together? ” I act like I do not hear him.

Almost on the Plane

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    The waiting area of a commuter flight is small with few seats. When I arrive, there is little girl wearing shoes with winking neon lights. She is entertaining herself by twirling around and falling. Every time she takes a step, the running lights circle the soles of her psychedelic shoes, flash orange and blue. I think they made a tinkling sound, too. 

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She was twirling and running around in circles, falling down, and gleefully screaming: “Whoopi! Whoopi!” Clearly, she is having big fun, and I am delighted to watch her.

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    I am smiling, at no one in particular, and thinking: This little kid is going to be dropping acid and taking Quaaludes in 10 years. She is enjoying that dizzy feeling way too much. I’m thinking shall I warn her mother, when the mommy actually approaches me. Her face is turning shades of pink. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

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    I’m confused. I’m so confused. Why is she apologizing to me?

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    “I’m sorry. My daughter thinks you’re Whoopi Goldberg. Her favorite video is a Sesame Street show with Whoopi and and the Muppets."

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     WWWD? What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do? Unlike me, I can’t imagine Whoopi walking anywhere with an impenetrable shield around her. Whoopi exudes openness. I smile, a genuine grin. I laugh. I am amused. “Well, that’s a relief,” I say. “At least she didn’t mistake me for Big Bird.”

.”

    Even as I am settling in my seat on the plane, I am contemplating the WWWD question. What would Whoopi do if people invaded her privacy in an airport and said: “You look just like that writer in Santa Cruz. What’s her name? You know, the one with the hair like yours: YaYa Bowmann,”

Whoopi would say: “I am. D’ya want to take my picture.”

Hail to Pippi

On this Independence Day, I salute Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraimsdaughter Longstocking, my childhood hero. Pippi Longstocking, the adventurous, assertive, free-spirited creation of Swedish author Astrid Lindgren in the mid-1940s, was the source of many of my 1950’s girlhood dreams. Pippi was living my fantasy life while I sat home coloring between the lines.

The first movie adaptation of the Pippi Longstocking story was filmed in 1949. I saw my first Pippi movie in the mid-1950s, before I entered grammar school. Pippi wore long red braids that poked straight out, parallel to the ground; I had long black braids that snaked down my neck to my bony shoulders. She had red freckles all over her face; I was chocolate brown from head to toe. Pippi lived by herself, unfettered by parental constraints. Her closest companions were her monkey, Mr. Nelson, and her horse, Alfonso. I lived with a mother and father who maintain close supervision over their children. I had a black cat named Lightning.

Pippi could say anything, do anything, and defend herself against anybody. I had to spend my energy avoiding getting dirty; being careful never to say an unkind word about or to anybody; and making sure my face didn’t get stuck in that ugly, contorted expression my father teased me about when I cried.

Pippi cleaned the floor of her house by skating around on scrub brushes; she baked huge batches of cookies all by herself; and she could make messes without getting yelled at. She was strong enough to pick up her horse and carry him around, and she could beat up pirates. She was a little, crafty, carrot-top truant who could outsmart grown-ups and amaze little kids.

Adults could not suppress her; the educational system could not tame her; and terrorists could not scare her. Hail to Pippi, my earliest feminist beacon.