The morning of February has beckoned to me from the castles of the
land. Last night, January came to a close. My night ended with thoughts of the college
I once attended and the town I grew up in. Perhaps the reminiscing was due to a
lack of caffeine in my bones. Ahh, a sweet stimulation that ends a nagging
reflection of the past. This is a false sense of stimulation, and one I do not recommend
to any person. Realism is painted in color while romanticism only gives off
black and white. There is no depth to romanticism. If we prick romanticism, it
does not bleed. If we prick realism, the colors are real colors that are not
pretty. Would we expect anything else?
As I write this morning, I remember a little African American girl
from Oklahoma City that I named Baby Helen. In 2009, I met this precious, curious girl
when I visited my husband in Oklahoma City. We were on a public bus at night,
and an extremely young African American got on the bus with a group of
children. One of these children was a little girl – I would say about three or
four – who had on a pink coat and braids in her hair. This little girl’s smile
and hand melt my heart. This girl and I played with each other’s hands as we
rode around. I fell in love in a mother’s sense. This little girl made me feel
happy. The little girl had button eyes, a small nose, and a small mouth I would
to have fed baby food and crushed fruits and vegetables.
I imagined holding this little girl in my arms at night as I sang
to her. Granted, I am no Sarah Brightman, but I do try. This little baby would
become an angel in my arms. We would bring in the morning light with each other’s
quiet love. Somber, I call this. To be more exact, sweet somber. There would be
no crying inside either of our hearts. This little girl would be loved and safe
by those who love me. This little girl would have a sweet younger brother to play
with. This little girl would have to be careful and not make her brother grumpy
by pulling his tail. I love this little girl, Baby Helen. Baby Helen and I have
been through everything together in my imagination.
The grim reality of Baby Helen’s life is that she may never grow up
to experience pure, wholesome love. I saw Baby Helen’s biological mother on the
bus that night, and I was extremely disappointed. This young mother had a group
of biological children who called her “Mother.” This woman’s I-could-care-less
expression told me she was not as into the whole concept of motherhood the way I
am at age thirty-three. Motherhood was the easiest thing to produce but the
hardest responsibility to uphold. Motherhood for this mother did not seem to be
understood. I was the mother in this situation. I played with her daughter as
she sat back, exhausted. I gave this little girl love. This mother gave her
child no words of encouragement.
February has approached. Ode to this bittersweet February! This is Black History
Month. I am a young white woman celebrating Black History Month. Black history
has affected my own life. Growing up, I learned about the grim history of our
beloved African American population. I learned that an African American woman
named Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus. At the time, African
Americans were not allowed to sit at the front of the bus, drink from water
fountains white people drank from, or attend classes with white people. This brave
and bold woman was probably tired and did not care which seat she sat in. This
move led a change in America.
In modern times, racism is still alive and active in America. One prime
example is the length of time for the February 26, 2012 murder trial for Trayvon
Martin to go to trial. A year has almost and there is no sight for justice to
be sought in his case. There is really no hope for George Zimmerman to be
brought to justice. I am doubtful he will spend any time behind bars for this
brutal murder of a youth. Trayvon Martin’s family deserves to have closure and
justice. They need to be provided with peace instead of doubt and disappointment
from our judicial system.
Disappointment is a common feeling among African Americans. I was
surprised to read that Margaret Sanger once spoke to a group of female Ku Klux
Klan members. But why did this news not surprise me? Sanger did create a pill
that would decrease the African American population. The horrific lynchings of
African Americans are also grim realisms in our history. This history is a
painful picture that can never be provided with justice or closure. African Americans
have suffered greatly for their freedom and civil liberties in America. We have
not provided our brothers and sisters with the great respect and equality they
deserve. We have only provided them with disappointment, according to our
history. We have failed to provide them with launching pads frogs use to leap
from. We have stolen their lily pads and replaced them with cold water to sink
into.
I think about my Baby Helen as I close. I loved this little girl
who stole my heart. Race played no part in this decision. This little girl
loved me for the motherly woman I was. I did have a physical disability. From a
child’s perspective, this did not matter to her. What mattered was the fact
that I gave this child attention her mother could not give. Perhaps this
vicious cycle was passed down? I loved this little girl because I saw so much
hope and dreams that lay ahead of her as if she had been born from my own warm
womb. What people may have thought was of no great importance to me. What I could
offer this little girl meant more to me than a world of oppression and
suffering. For the time we spent together, I had the time to romanticize the
situation through my own eyes and not the eyes of grim realism. As far as I was
concerned, realism could take a hike. Romanticism could last forever. This girl
was a part of me and she will always be
a part of me until the final seconds of my last breath. This little girl
breathed life into my soul. She provided me with a world that had no
discrimination, stigmas, stereotypes, etc. This little girl made me feel safe
and loved the way my son does each day. If only kidnapping had been legal in my
state! If only we did not have to part ways for the night. Sometimes parting is
the sweetest sorrow for the heart, and so is being an actor on a stage that
never seems to make sense.
"All the world's a
stage,
And all the men and
women merely players;
They have their
exits and their entrances,
And one man in his
time plays many parts,
His acts being seven
ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking
in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining
schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning
face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to
school. And then the lover,
Sighing like
furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his
mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange
oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor,
sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble
reputation
Even in the cannon's
mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly
with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and
beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws
and modern instances;
And so he plays his
part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and
slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on
nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose,
well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk
shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward
childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his
sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this
strange eventful history,
Is second
childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes,
sans taste, sans everything” – William Shakespeare, All
The World’s A Stage
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| Dedicated with love to my children, Baby Helen, who I love and pray for daily, and Luigi, who came along afterwards |
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