A taste of Thanksgiving with my family

Uncle Rod gets down from Errin M on Vimeo.

Last week I got an email from my friend Karen. She and I have been friends for ages; we went to high school together. What are you doing for Thanksgiving? she wrote me. Karen lives near my father, and last Christmas we visited with her and her husband Dave when we went down to see Dad.

Turns out we were planning to be in her 'hood again this year, so we talked about getting together. Then I did her one better and invited her and Dave to spend the holiday with my family.

I didn't think they'd say yes.

When her reply came back an enthusiastic affirmative, I wondered how best to prepare them for Thanksgiving with my family. It was bound to be different from anything they'd experienced with their own relatives.

I've got a big family on both sides and holidays are wonderfully chaotic. But there's a distinct delineation between celebrations with my mom's family and celebrations with my dad's family.

In short, there's a white people party and a black people party.

I'd just invited 2 white folks to a Black Family Thanksgiving.

I tried to find the words to explain what they were about to experience, but there was no effective way to do it, so I decided to let the day unfold in its own due course.

Karen and Dave arrived at 1:30, right on time - and several hours too early. I met them at the door.

"Hi guys!" I said, giving them hugs and relieving them of their Thanksgiving offerings. "It turns out dinner's at 4:00, not 2:00. Everyone's still in their pajamas. But come on in."

I led them into my cousin Glenda's kitchen, where 5 of Glenda's 8 kids were up to their elbows in food. "Hey y'all, these are my friends, Karen and Dave!" I called to the kitchen at large. "And this is Erica, Anna, NeNe, Brenda and Tierra." The girls waved their hellos.

"We're sorry to be early," Karen began, but our hosts didn't bat an eye. They're so used to having people turn up at their house, it didn't faze them to find two strangers in their kitchen two hours too early.

"Errin Marie!" came a voice from the hallway. I knew it was my cousin Glenda; she's the only one who calls me by both names. "Errin Marie," repeated Glenda, bustling into the kitchen, "I need you to wash this for me and put a candle in it." She handed me a huge hurricane lamp.

"Wow," I said. "Um, how do you want me wash this thing?" It sure wasn't going to fit in the sink. "And where would you like me to put it?"

"You'll figure it out," Glenda said sweetly.

I had to chuckle. If Glenda's mastered anything with 8 kids, it's the art of delegation. "These are my friends Karen and Dave," I introduced them. Karen held out her hand and Glenda regarded it curiously.

"Thank you so much for having us," Karen said. Glenda ignored the proffered hand and folded Karen into big hug, then did the same to Dave. I laughed.

"You're part of the family now," Glenda said, reaching past Anna and plunging her hands into the sink to retrieve a baking dish. When she withdrew she was soapy to the elbows and dripping dishwater. She took both of Karen's hands in her own wet ones.

"I need you to call Grandmother and tell her to bring some more ice. Okay?"

Then she hurried away.

I hadn't been listening; I was too busy trying to figure out how to wash the hurricane lamp. When I glanced at Karen she was standing at the counter looking uncertain. "What's up?" I asked.

"I think I'm supposed to call your grandmother?" Karen said.

I frowned. This was a bad idea. My grandma has Alzheimer's and doesn't do so well on the phone.

"Let's not do that..." I said to Karen. I went after Glenda to straighten things out but bumped into my father first.

"Hey Jackie," he said, addressing me by his sister's name. Both of my parents do this whenever we're surrounded by family. They have 6 sisters between them and they're always calling me by the wrong name. "Uh, sorry, Errin."

"Hey Dad," I said. "Glenda wants Karen to call Grandma, but I don't think that's a great idea."

"What?" he asked. "Why?"

"To bring ice," Glenda explained, appearing at his elbow. "I need somebody to call Grandmother and tell her to bring ice."

Then it became clear. Glenda was referring to her own mother - her kids' grandmother, my Aunt Barbara. I laughed.

"I thought you wanted her to call Big Mama," I said. "I couldn't figure out why." My grandmother lives in Wisconsin. She wasn't coming for dinner.

Just then the back door opened and the girls squealed in chorus. "Papa!"

"Uncle Rod's here," I said unnecessarily.

"Is Barbara with him? No? I'll call her about the ice," said Dad.

Uncle Rod unloaded his dishes on the counter, then spotted Karen and Dave, who'd now been set to the task of making pies.

"Hello," said Karen, sticking out her hand. "I'm Karen and this is my husband Dave." Dave put out his hand too. Uncle Rod raised an eyebrow and shook both their hands, then grabbed them each in a bear hug. I laughed again.

"Welcome," he said, then shuffled back out to the car for a second load.

Monte brushed past him on the way in with my cousin Eric.

"...think we tripped a switch or something?" he was saying anxiously. "It's just that it's the Seattle Seahawks game."

"That your team?" asked Eric.

"You know it," replied Monte.

"Hey babe, look who's here," I diverted him. Monte exclaimed over Karen and Dave, gave each a quick hug and then darted away.

"He's a little distracted," I explained. "The TV went out."

"Ahh," said Dave.

"Brenda!" hollered Eric from the living room. "Run and fetch me an extension cord." He hoisted himself up from his knees and ambled into the kitchen. "Who are y'all?" he addressed Karen and Dave.

Karen put her hand out. "I'm Karen," she began, but Eric pushed her hand away and pulled her into a fierce, one-armed hug. Karen emerged slightly rumpled and Dave submitted to being squashed.

"You're not going to learn, are you?" I said to them.

"What are y'all making?" Eric asked.

"I think we're making yam pies," said Dave, stirring a giant vat of orange batter.

"Damn," I exclaimed. "How many pies are you making?"

"I don't know," said Karen apprehensively, poking dough into a pie tin. "She just said to make them until the ingredients ran out."


NeNe sauntered past. "You said 'damn'," she accused me.

"No I didn't," I bluffed, stealing a piece of fruitcake from the tray she was arranging so laboriously. She swatted my hand, giggling.

There was a burst of sound from the TV and Monte let out a roar of approval. "All right!" he shouted, slapping Brenda a high-five. I heard the front door open and new voices in the hallway added to the cacophony.

Essence skipped into the kitchen. "Where've you been?" I asked, giving her a hug. "Getting cute?"

"Cleaning my room," she replied, world weary. "But I didn't clean your side, Erica, because it's a mess."

Erica had her head in the oven, checking on the macaroni and cheese. "What? You better be kidding, Essence," she called over her shoulder. "You better go back and clean it cause that's your job!" Essence flounced away and Erica shut the oven door and trotted after her.

Anna placed a serving plate in the dish rack and dried her hands on a towel. "Dishes are done!" she announced.

"Good," said Tierra, turning up behind her. "Then you can get started on these cookies."

"What are you doing?" protested Anna.

"I'm overseeing," her sister replied.

"Errin Marie!" came Glenda's voice. "You didn't light the candles in the living room!"

The doorbell rang again.

When I returned from lighting candles Karen and Dave were finishing their fourth pie. My cousin Punky had arrived and was admiring their work.

"Ooh, y'all make some nice sweet potato pie!" she exclaimed.

"Well, we hope so," said Dave. "These are the first we've ever made. Actually, I don't think I've ever had sweet potato pie."

"Me either," said Karen.

"Well, you're going to love it," assured Punky. "Aren't they, Errin? Come here Cousin, give me a hug." She gave me a squeeze.

"You know, I don't like sweet potato pie," I confessed. Punky wrinkled her brow. "I've never been a fan of sweet potatoes. I used to cut a sliver of pie and bury it under a mountain of Cool Whip, then eat the whipped cream and leave the pie behind. One year my mother caught me and forced me to eat the pie and I threw up. That was the last time I had sweet potato pie."

"Here Punky," said her husband Karys, coming through the back door. He handed her a covered dish.

"Collard greens," identified Punky. "You like collards, right?" she asked me.

"Actually, no," I said ruefully. "I've just never had a taste for them."

Punky shook her head at me and walked away.

"I think they forget I'm only half black," I whispered to Karen. She laughed.

The house began to fill with people and the good smells of a Thanksgiving feast. The counter was piled high with food: turkey, ham, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, stuffing, yams, collard greens, green beans, quinoa with eggplant (that was my contribution; the family eyed it warily), ambrosia, sweet potato pie, apple pie, peach cobbler, peanut butter cookies, chocolate-covered strawberries, lemon cake, pound cake, fruitcake, rolls, cranberry sauce and gravy. The crowd pressed into the kitchen, drawn by the aromas, and the noise level rose dramatically. Monte kept his ear cocked toward the football game.

Cousin Eric clamored for attention.

"Y'all listen up!" he bellowed. "It's food on the table and I'm ready to eat! Gather round so we can say this blessing."

Everyone fanned out in a circle and clasped hands. Heads bowed.

"Lord," began Eric in earnest, "Look around this room. Look at all these people who've come together here today."

I raised my head slightly to survey the room. There were 30-some-odd people holding hands.

"We are family and friends," Eric continued. "And we're here today to give thanks for the blessings you've showered upon us."

"Amen," confirmed a few in the crowd.

"It hasn't been an easy year, Lord. It hasn't been without its trials. Some of us have lost our jobs" (here I gave a fervent nod), "some of us have struggled with our health. But we know that the blessings are far greater than the burdens. And if it weren't for the burdens we wouldn't recognize the blessings, hallelujah!"

"Hallelujah!" came the response.

"So today we want to say thank you. Thank you for this good food, thank you for this good life. Thank you for sending Your Son to save us. In Jesus' name we pray: Amen."

"Amen!" chorused the room.

Glenda called out, "Now everybody, since you're family, act like you're family and dig in!"

We needed no prompting. Hands reached for plates immediately and a line formed around the perimeter of the table.


I made my way over to Karen and Dave. Monte was taking their pulse.

"I remember my first time, a couple of years ago," he was saying. "It took a little getting used to."

"Welcome to the family prayer," I laughed. "Honestly, I was expecting a little more Jesus."

"Jesus is all right with me," quipped Karen.

"Me too, " said Monte. "I thought that was a lovely prayer."

I linked my arm through his. "So did I."

And then we ate. Oh, how we ate. We worked our way steadily through second and third helpings and still there was barely a dent made in the feast. In particular, there was a lot of my eggplant quinoa left over. I campaigned for my dish, but it didn't do much good.

"Hey Dad, have you tried my eggplant?"

"Um, not yet, Barbara," he said, addressing me by his other sister's name.

"What's that black stuff?" asked 8-year-old Miracle, pointing at my plate.

"It's eggplant," I said. "Want to try some?"

"No," she said quickly, clamping her hand over her mouth.

"I mean, it's stuffing," I tried, but it was too late.

Dave wanted to help me out. "It's delicious!" he enthused. "And I don't even like eggplant!" But Miracle wasn't having it. Neither was Karys. He took one bite and scraped his portion into the garbage.

After the feast there was a small period of quiet while people lolled around and digested. But it didn't last long. The girls wanted to play a game.

"You finished?" asked Brenda, indicating my plate. "We're gonna clear the table so we can play Spoons."

Spoons is a particularly violent game similar to musical chairs, but apt to make your own grandmother stab you with rounded cutlery. The dealer passes cards around the table and the first person to get 4 of a kind withdraws a spoon from a pile in the center. Then it's no-holds-barred as everybody grabs for a spoon. There aren't enough spoons to go around and the person who comes up empty-handed has to step out of the game.

You would not believe how dangerous this game can get. I've seen people emerge bleeding.

I had to laugh at the look on Karen's face as the spoons went flying for the first time. There was an outburst of screaming and the table runner was yanked to the floor. Outside the dogs started barking hysterically, distressed by the noise in the kitchen.

"They think you're in trouble," said Punky.

I revel in the fact that there are no noise limitations at Glenda's house. With 8 kids ranging from tweens to twenties, and 7 of them girls, the shriek factor is high. It's pretty fantastic.

And the girls like to sing. Loudly. After a few rounds they abandoned Spoons in favor of the stereo. I walked away nursing my wounded hand; NeNe had nearly broken my finger in a particularly vicious battle over the same spoon.

Tierra was helming the CD player. Moments later all of the girls were singing along with Beyoncé: "If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it! If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it! Oh oh oh!" They started dancing around the living room, calling for people to join them.

And folks got up and started to dance. Pretty soon the floor was crowded; everybody was up in the thick of it. They started doing the Cupid Shuffle and the Cha-Cha Slide. (How do they know how to do that? I wondered.) They shuffled to the left. They shuffled to the right. I'll be the first to tell you: it was Dy-no-mite!

Black Family Thanksgiving, y'all.

Miracle grabbed Dave's arm and pulled him out onto the floor. I thought he might demur, but he dove right into the crowd, flinging himself around with the best of 'em. Even Uncle Rod jumped into the fray. "Come on, Papa!" the girls cried and he stepped up and boogied down with his grandkids. It was a sight to see.

I watched it all through the lens of my camera, laughing with delight at my wonderful family. Out of 30-some-odd folks, I am related by blood to only 9 of them. But they are all my people, and they're only a part; I am blessed with a huge family, black and white, friends and kin. I don't have to look far to find home. And when I bow my head in thanks, I am grateful to have so many people to love.

"Come on Errin!" someone shouted, breaking into my reverie. And I put down my camera and joined in the dancing.

* * *

In case you didn't get enough of Uncle Rod:

Uncle Rod gets down some more from Errin M on Vimeo.

Epilogue:

"We had a wonderful time," said Dave to Glenda, as he and Karen gathered their things to leave. Karen was struggling to balance the plates of leftovers Glenda kept handing her; she voiced her agreement.

"Wonderful time," she said. "Um, I don't think we need a whole pie."

"We will never, ever forget this Thanksgiving," Dave said. And disdaining the handshake completely, he threw his arms around Glenda in a hearty hug.

Like family.

Letter to a neighbor

Hi there,

We're your neighbors from across the way, Errin and Monte. Just wanted to say hi and congratulate you on getting that new motion sensor light for your front porch. Wow, it's bright.

We can understand how it probably makes you feel a little more secure in this neighborhood, having recently been robbed ourselves. But the thing is, that light shines right into our bedroom window. And the other thing is, ha, it seems to be going a little haywire.

Haven't you noticed? We're not quite sure how you haven't noticed, because it's been going ON-OFF ON-OFF ON-OFF ON-OFF all night long. And did we mention that it's bright? Yes, that is one bright light you've got there! Shine-right-through-your-bedroom-blinds-and-your-closed-eyelids bright.

And that motion sensor is pretty clever, isn't it? If it senses so much as a squirrel, it's LIGHTS ON! And then after a moment the lights go off. What an energy saver! LIGHTS ON! Lights off. That's fantastic, it truly is. We've all gotta do our part, you know, for the planet. Ha.

Ever notice how blinking lights make you feel a little crazy after awhile? A little, idunno, insane-o? That's funny, right?

We're sure you're aware that we share some pretty close quarters. And we've got no problem with your sometimes-yappy dog or your penchant for late night gardening. After all, dogs will bark. And a garden needs attention, even after dar--

LIGHTS ON! Wow! That light is piercing my brain! Are you signaling ships with that thing? Have the neighborhood squirrels figured out how to create an impromptu disco? Don't tell me you don't see it. Unless you sleep with your head in a burlap sack, you've got to be aware that your porch light is communicating in Morse Code. Lights off.

LIGHTS ON! Oh, this is just great. Now Monte, the lightest of sleepers at the best of times, is having strobe-induced nightmares. "Don't you punch my head!" he's shouting, flinging the covers on the floor. And oh, super, I have spilled my bedside glass of water directly in my lap. That's just awesome. That's just - Lights off.

We are wide awake, dripping wet, and angry at you.

You need to fix that porch light. Or we could come by and fix it for you. With a baseball bat.

Your Neighbors,
Errin and Monte

Dance dance revolution

There's a man at church who stands in the corner of the balcony and does interpretive dance while we sing. He lifts his arms to the heavens and waves them around, as though conducting a large-scale spiritual orchestra.

The first time I saw him he cracked me up. "Do you see this guy?" I murmured to the people around me onstage. He was so conspicuous with his huge, sweeping gestures, I couldn't help but giggle. And the remarkable thing was that he was so un-self-conscious. He narrated every song with a new interpretation of movement, waging rhythmic battle during the fast tunes and painting languid pictures during the slow ones. I had to give him credit for endurance; it was like watching a ninety minute aerobics class. Church-ercise, if you will.

Week after week this man turns up to dance his praise, and I've come to realize something: He's awesome. Once I got past my own self-consciousness, my own knee-jerk reaction to giggle at something a little bit different, I realized how much joy this man is putting into his dance. He hears the music and transforms it into something to see. The man dances with abandon. And as I watch him, I feel a little bubble of happiness swelling in my chest. His joy is feeding my own.

So go on, interpretive dancer guy! Do your thing.

Actually, I think his name is Carl.

Go on, Carl!

Sometimes you gotta look behind you to see how far you've come

Today was a good day. The Glide Ensemble had an afternoon gig at The Gap headquarters, where we kicked off the company's Holiday Sing-Along. This was news to most of us, and I think we surprised them by singing absolutely no holiday tunes.

Afterward we all went out to dinner to celebrate a bunch of November birthdays. And then we had a short rehearsal, which was probably for the best, since we were all overstuffed with Indian food and giving off waves of curry.

Leah gave me a ride home. She seemed rather down and I asked her what was wrong.

"Oh, I'm just having a bad day," she said. "Well, I guess I'm kind of having a bad month."

"What's going on?" I asked.

She sighed. "I'm just going through one of those phases where I feel like I have no business being a singer. Everything sounds like crap. November is such a weird month, gigs are slow. I don't know what I'm doing." She merged onto the highway. "I should just go work at the animal shelter."

Now, this is Leah. Leah who was awarded the Best R&B Blues Song of 2007 by the Billboard World Song Contest. Leah who's working on her second album. Leah who headlines her own band and gigs with several others. Leah, the inspiration for me to follow my own dream of becoming a singer.

Leah, who was now saying, "I suck."

I gave a disbelieving laugh. "You do not suck," I told her.

"I do," she insisted. "I listen to my tracks in the studio and I think: 'This sucks'." She paused. "I guess we all have days like that though."

Huh. Do we ever. I spent the last two days sorting through audio and video clips for my upcoming website. I can't find any that I like. Every time I hear my own voice I wince - all I hear are my mistakes. My vibrato is out of control. My performance is inconsistent. As a matter of fact, just last night I was comparing one of my songs to one of Leah's and marveling at her vocal composure. She always delivers a strong, solid performance. But my voice is sort of all over the place. And it had me feeling kind of down. I wondered: Am I really good enough to sing for a living?

I said, "Leah, don't you know that you're the person I'm trying to be?"

"You don't want to be me!" she said. "You want to be you!"

"All right," I conceded, "I want to be my version of you. I mean, you're doing it. You're working on your second album. You gig all the time. You're making a living. Didn't you tell me not too long ago that you're the happiest you've ever been?"

"Well, yeah," she said. "My life is pretty good."

"See?" I said. "You're a happy, working musician. That's success in my book. That's the place I'm trying to get to."

What I was trying to impress upon her, and I fear I didn't quite get my point across, is that to me, she is the embodiment of a dream made attainable. Since I was a kid I've had visions of being a singer. They were big dreams, stadium dreams, and they scared me away because I didn't think I could possibly fulfill them. But then I met Leah, and other people like Vernon, Zoe, Martin and Emma Jean, real people - my friends! - who are actually making a living with their voices. And suddenly the dream didn't seem so out of reach. They gave me the courage to pursue it.

We probably do all have days when we feel like we suck. I'm glad I'm not alone in that feeling, to be honest. But what always surprises me is that even on my lousiest day, I find somebody to be my champion. I can have a dismal performance and somebody will tell me with shining eyes, "That was beautiful."

And though I may secretly be thinking, 'This person is tone deaf,' I will smile and thank them. Because what I'm learning is that I can't always be trusted to gauge my own progress. And what I bring to the song is only half of the experience - the other half is what the listener brings.

Listening to my friend Leah makes me feel inspired. Even on an off day she blows me away.

Now go buy her album.

I'm a grown-ass woman and I'll come to bed when I feel like it

Monte is annoyed with me. He woke up at 1:30 this morning to find that I still hadn't come to bed. I was hunched over my computer, surfing for Harry Potter trivia.

The telltale squeak of the floorboards alerted me that he'd woken. I froze with my hand on the mouse, caught in the act.

Monte appeared in his jammies, looking all cute and disheveled. His hair stuck up at the back and his face was impressed with sleep lines. "You're still on the computer? What are you looking at?" he asked. I thought fast for something that would be deemed appropriate.

"Porn," I said.

"Oh," he mumbled. "Okay." Then he shuffled off to the bathroom.

But I knew he knew better. I shut down my computer and hurried to the bedroom. When Monte came back to bed I tucked him in and smoothed his hair.

"Must be nice," he murmured pointedly, "not to have to get up in the morning."

Ouch.

Of course, this morning he has no memory of having said that. But I was a little miffed, so I told him that his new cowboy boots look silly with his favorite blue pants.

They do. It was sound sartorial advice. But I took a little pleasure in the telling.

This blog needs more photos

There. Isn't that pretty? I took that in Venice. This one too:


I had a good time with my camera in Venice. Forget being a city for lovers; Venice is a city for photographers.

It is not a city for those with a tendency toward motion sickness. Everywhere you look there's water, water, water, slapping, lolling, waving, moving. By the third day I was declaring, "I feel like I'm on a boat!" By the fourth day I was wishing I was on a boat, just so the rocking feeling would make sense. And that night my poor mother sicked up her dinner due to the constant motion in her head. Yarf.

But still, a lovely city.

Look folks, it's Day 4 of Unemployment and I'm at a bit of a loose end. It's not that I have nothing to do. I have plenty to do. I have a list as long as my arm of things to do, and my arms are fairly long. I'm just having some trouble getting things done.

I start out in the morning with the best of intentions. I get up. I drink a green smoothie. I plan to go for a run. Sometimes I actually do go for a run. Sometimes I stay in my pajamas and think really hard about going for a run, which is probably just as effective. I sit down at my computer. I check my email. I wait 10 minutes, then I check it again. I am amazed when nothing has changed.

I try to clean one small area of my house. I might do the dishes or clear off the coffee table. Nothing too strenuous. Don't want to freak myself out, you know?

I email my friends at work: Hey, how's it going? What are you guys doing? Is it weird that I'm not there? It's weird, right?

I eat lunch.

Then I tool around on my computer, pretending I'm working, actually feeling like I'm working (blogging is working, right?), until the sun goes down (blessedly early). Then I dust off my hands, call it a day well done and flick on the tube. If I've changed out of my pajamas, I put them back on.

I should probably wash those soon.

I know this will get easier. I know I will figure out how to be the productive superhero that I always knew I could be if I just had the time. I probably just need a week to blunder around in my PJs and, you know, find myself.

I guess I'm a little lost.

Students Run Oakland

A few months back some friends and I attended a screening of the film Runners High, a documentary that follows 4 Oakland teens as they train to run a marathon. The kids were involved with a group called Students Run Oakland, a non-profit organization that trains Oakland youth to run the marathon with the broader ambition of teaching these kids that there is nothing beyond their reach.

The film inspired me, and in a pique of magnanimity I decided to volunteer with SRO. "I can make a difference in these kids' lives," I said tremulously to Monte, the day I signed up. "You should have seen this movie. These kids show up to run in their street shoes, their blue jeans. Some of them have never run 2 blocks. First they don't think they can do it - and sometimes their parents don't think they can do it! - but by the end, when they finish the marathon, they know they can do anything they set their minds to!"

Monte regarded me carefully. "You're going to run a marathon?" he asked me.

"It'll be hard, I'm sure. But if these kids can do it, I can do it," I said confidently.

I am not a runner. Matter of fact, I was that kid in gym class who walked the 16 minute mile and still had to struggle not to throw up. I've been afraid of sports my whole life; they didn't come naturally to me and as a shy kid I was wary of team activities. The result was that I missed out on a lot. My fear held me back from trying new things and making new friends. That realization has been dawning on me over the last few years, and I've decided not to let my past dictate my future. I was something of a fearful kid, but that's not the kind of woman I want to be.

So I'm going to run this marathon.

I went to my first session of SRO some weeks ago and found myself keeping pace with a student named Sara on our first 2 mile run. I was prepared to administer guidance and support. But Sara schooled me quickly.

"Everybody in my family is heavy," she told me, "and they've all got diabetes. I don't want to get diabetes too. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm running."

"Wow," I said.

"The doctor told me I weigh a little too much, but I'm strong, you know? I don't eat junk food, I don't eat fast food. I used to have asthma, but I just kept on exercising and it went away."

"That's great," I encouraged.

"I was doing this with my friends," she continued. "And one my friends, he was like, 'I'm only here because of you.' And I said, 'Don't do it for me, do it for yourself.' Cause in the end we're all going to have to do it for ourselves, you know?"

I looked at Sara, running steadily toward the finish, and wondered just how I was supposed to be her mentor. I felt like asking her to give me some life advice.

The following week I met Yesica. She told me about her family's upcoming trip to Mexico.

"It's so, so fun!" she enthused. "We go once a year - no, once every other year. And we go for two weeks and it's just like a giant party. All of my family is there and we just eat and hang out and have a great time. I love it; it's my favorite thing!"

"That sounds incredible," I said.

"But this year I don't want to go."

"How come?" I asked her.

"Because I don't want to fall behind in school! Last year I was in the program and I did the whole thing - like, the whole thing, all the way up till the last run. But then my grades dropped and I wasn't allowed to do the marathon."

"Wow, that must have been hard," I said.

"It was," she agreed. "But this year my grades are pretty good and I don't want to mess up again. I want to keep doing good so that I can graduate and run the marathon."

OK. Another teen who apparently needs no guidance from me. I told her to keep up the good work and went looking for a less fortunate kid.

The trouble is, I can't seem to find one. All these kids are well-adjusted and smart and fast runners. I realized just how fast upon my return from vacation - and three weeks behind in my own training.

This past Saturday we did a 7 mile run. It was supposed to be 5.5 miles - that's what I was prepared for - but due to the fact that the marathon has been pushed up by several weeks, we're now working on a condensed training schedule. So I went to last weekend's run jet-lagged, out of practice, and admittedly hungover. (Cut me some slack; Friday was my last day at work.)

Half a mile into the run I was hurting. Most of the kids had shot ahead of me and were little figurines in the distance. But that was normal; I keep a slow pace and usually do the first part of the run on my own. It's after the kids peter out that I'm able to scoop a few up and convince them to run steady and slow. Most of these kids maintain that they cannot slow down, but they exhaust themselves after a couple of minutes. I run like a little old lady, but I can go for several miles.

Usually. But Saturday was a struggle. I thought about copping out at the water stop and claiming illness (which wasn't too far from the truth, with the alcohol still sloshing through my veins). But instead I slowed my pace even more and glommed onto a couple of kids who were walking.

"Hey!" I said brightly. "Are you guys practicing the 5 minute rule?"

The 5 minute rule is supposed to keep the kids from walking the entire course. The rule is: Run 3 minutes, walk 2 minutes. Once you've got that under your belt you can progress to the 10 minute rule, which is: Run 7 minutes, walk 3 minutes. It really works. I know, because it's the same rule I use to bribe myself.

The kids looked at me warily. "I guess so," one of them said, even though none was wearing a watch.

"Great!" I said cheerfully. "I'll time you!" Seeing that I was not to be deterred, they grudgingly started to run.

And instantly I was eating their dust. "One minute!" I called out from behind them. "Two minutes! Good job guys! Three minutes!" As soon as I called 'three' they stopped dead in their tracks, determined not to run a second longer than they had to.

I caught up with them, still jogging slowly. "You guys are doing great!" I told them. "Now do you think you can run a little slower, like me? And maybe you won't need to stop so often?" They looked at me with blank faces. "No? OK, cool. Well, let's do it again. Ready, set, run!"

Again they took off and I was left in their wake. I trotted along behind them for countless 3-minute sessions, but these kids did not want to talk to me. I tried not to take it personally. I skipped along beside them during their 2-minute walks and peppered them with good-natured questions: "What school do you go to? All of you? What grade are you in? All of you?" They answered with as few words as they possibly could. Eventually I started feeling like an idiot, but I kept up my cheerful demeanor.

With about 2 miles to go, one of the kids really took off. He ran so far ahead that he didn't hear me call '5 minutes' (we'd worked our way up to 5). I was impressed but I was also dismayed. My whole body hurt. I was desperate to be done with the run, and I'll admit - I was calling time earlier and earlier just to keep up with the kids. A few times they ran right out of earshot and I had to crank it up to get back in their time zone. I was feeling light-headed and achy, and remembering every drink from the night before with acute clarity.

And then it was over. I felt like collapsing on the sidewalk, but the kids didn't look any worse for the wear. I don't even think they were sweating. I gathered my 3 students around me. "Hey you guys," I panted. "You just ran 7 miles. Can you believe it?"

They blinked at me.

"I am really proud of you," I persisted. I looked them each in the eye and tried to hold them in a meaningful gaze, but they just looked at the ground. "Really proud of you," I said again. "Shoot, I'm really proud of me!"

And there it was - a smile! From 2 out of 3 of them. How about that!

Then they turned around and walked away.

"You're going to want to stretch," I called out to their backs. "Or you'll be hurting tomorrow."

Truer words were never spoken. Wish I'd heeded my own advice.

I said NO on Proposition 8, people

Mark your calendars folks, because the fight for civil rights ain't over yet.

This Saturday, November 15th, there is a massive protest scheduled, linking cities all over America. Here in San Francisco the protest begins at 10:30 AM on the steps of City Hall. Go to www.jointheimpact.com to find out where your city is organizing.

I'm disappointed that I won't be able to attend the rally, due to marathon training, but I encourage you all to participate and make a stand for equal rights. To quote the bumper sticker: Do it for someone you know.

People get ready

I went to bed last night at 7:30 PM in a very foul mood. Losing my job had me terribly depressed. I couldn't even bear to watch the election coverage; I just wanted to go to sleep.

I woke up with a start in the middle of the night - there were firecrackers going off outside my window. And there was cheering in the streets; it sounded like the entire block was partying. Car horns were blaring, voices were shouting in celebration. I peered through my blinds but couldn't see anyone; my window faces the wrong way. I thought for a moment about throwing a coat over my pajamas and racing off to find the party, but instead I lay back down and said a fervent prayer of thanks. I let the sounds of my neighbors' cheering lull me back to sleep.

Barack Obama is president! It's a new world order, folks.

Yesterday my father wrote this email to his family:

Do you remember when we were really young, when Daddy would call Mama from the kitchen, "Lenore, come look, come look at this!" On the television would be someone like Sammy Davis, Jr., Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald -- and it was so unusual to see a black person on TV! Do you remember watching news coverage of the marchers in Alabama being hosed, or shots of snarling dogs? I do. And I remember trips to Mississippi to visit Big Mama when we had to use the "Colored" toilets at gas stops; and we couldn't drink from the "Whites" water fountain.

Once I remember Uncle Landie allowing Ronnie and me to drive to town with him. When he went into the hardware store he asked Ronnie to watch me and I didn't know why, since Ronnie was only a couple of years older than me. I wandered a few doors down the street to look at a movie poster and Ronnie grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away, saying "you can't be seen lookin' at that white woman". He was afraid and protecting me from looking at a movie poster! At that young age I was confused about how messed up things were. I was too naive to understand that a picture could have gotten me killed.

I have other memories of being the first or only black to have a certain job. Once while working at TV6 an ABC Network Correspondent, Mal Goode, visited our station from New York. He was the first black network correspondent hired by any network. When he walked into the studio he noticed me as the only black there. He came over and offered quiet encouragement, urging me to not give up. His words meant a lot to me.

Imagine how Barack Obama will encourage children in this country! I think about the image of his family getting on Marine 1 and lifting off the White House lawn and the symbolism makes me cry with happiness. This bi-racial man represents profound change and the ability to inspire all of us.

In 1988 while on a trip to Mississippi and Louisiana, I found a picture of our great-great grandparents, Louis and Sarah Watson. Aunt Minnie gave me the large framed version, having me dig it out from under a pile of stuff in her barn. After it was wrapped I talked to them and felt connected through the picture sitting on the front seat of my rental car as I drove to the airport in New Orleans for the trip home.

They had been slaves. They never dreamed this day would come. A Black President.

Since I've been researching our history it has become part of me; making me really, really think about our nation's history and how our family fits into the pages of that history. That is why I'm trying to find and restore old photos and capture the memories we each have, hoping that if Kiki, Errin or Matthew ever have children they can share it with them.

My sadness is that Mama, who was born before women had the right to vote, won't be able to vote tomorrow. The good news is that Barack's grandmother and our father have great seats so they can watch history being made.

I've studied the maps and the polls. I'll be tracking the Electoral Vote along with some key Senate races; especially North Carolina, Minnesota and Arkansas. This is shaping up to be historic on several levels.

Tomorrow we're going to make something special to celebrate Election Day and of course, pop a bit of Champagne when the time comes. I've warned Rodgner and Barb that I'm going to get teary. I'm ain't even going to pretend it won't happen.

Pray for his family and his safety.

I love you.



People get ready. There's a change coming.

Will work for food

I just got back from a two week vacation in Europe and I was going to write all about it, but today I got laid off. And now I don't feel like writing about my super-fun vacation anymore.

The kick in the pants is that I was on a company trip. The travel company that I work(ed) for has an annual Staff Ride, and this year we biked through Northeastern Italy and Slovenia. I've been complaining about my job for two and a half years, but I had such a great time on this trip that it really made me re-evaluate my situation. I went into work this morning thinking how lucky I am to work at a place that grants me such great opportunities and how much I like the people I work with. And this afternoon they let me go.

Now I hate them again.

Oh, this stupid recession. Can you believe that I actually thought I was immune to it? When the market tanked and everyone around me started to panic, I mused: Hmm. I don't own any property. I don't have any investments. I make so little money that I never even started a 401K. I've literally got nothing to lose.

Except my freaking job.

I just spent all my money, I mean all my damn money, on this trip to Europe and they lay me off the day I get back. That's cold, bro.

I should note that I'm one of 17 people who got the axe. But at the moment it feels very personal. Ten minutes after I was given the news, an email went out to the company listing the names of those who were let go. We weren't even given time to process the information before everybody learned of it.

Oh, I'm crabby. I'm jet-lagged and I'm crabby. I'm poke-a-kid-and-make-him-cry-and-then-yell-at-him-for-crying crabby. You should probably avoid me for a day or so.

Stupid company. I didn't want to work for you anyway.

Yeah I did.