MAY DAY AND BLUE HYDRANGEA BLOSSOMS

 

A series of essays....

CEREMONIES, RITUALS, AND MEMORIES SHARED WITH LOVE
HELP US APPRECIATE THE DEEP FOUNDATIONS THAT 
STABILIZE US THROUGHOUT OUR LIFETIME

....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Walking with my head held high and pure joy in my heart, my black Buster Brown ‘Mary Jane’ shoes tapped a rhythm down the long, tiled hallway. Obediently, I made my way to Sister Rose Marie’s small office at the back of the school. The little, round package of tin foil gently rested in my small hands. It’s wrapping, done up very neatly by my mother minutes before, was to be delivered to Sister and opened prior to the actual ceremony that was scheduled for ten o’clock that morning.

I hadn’t been in this new school for more than a few months, considering my dad’s employment sent us packing to a different town at least once a year. Fortunately, my older brother and I seemed to be adjusting quite well to this current environment and range of new faces and personalities that designated yet another change in our young lives. At least I was always making new friends each stop along my ‘skipping stones’ journey through parochial elementary school and life in general!

MEMORIES: BUSTER BROWN ‘MARY JANE’ SHOES

St. Peter’s Parish in Fort Wayne, Indiana celebrated Mary, Jesus’ mother, throughout the month of May as most Catholic Churches and families do. This celebration serves as a reminder of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s importance in the life of the Church and in our own lives, as well. Usually, a May Altar is erected along with a statue of Mary and a colorful array of flowers and lit candles and may stand throughout the month of May. A May Crowning is often held presenting Mary with a crown made of fresh blossoms in her honor while denoting the beginning of spring with all of its colorful bounty.

Finally arriving at my destination, Sister Rose Marie greeted me with a genuine smile and gently released me from the precious cargo I’d been carrying since my father dropped me off at the front of the school on his way to work. St. Peter’s was only a few city blocks from our home and my older brother and I would normally walk to class together each day in the rain, sunshine, or snowfall. But, this was the first day of May. This was a very special day in so many ways. This was a ride to school kind of day!

Upon settling into our rental home on Lafayette Street near the Ivan Lebamoff Reservoir Park two months earlier, we found St. Peter’s Parish to be very welcoming and it was easy for me to settle into a happy routine of school life, as well as home life. Maybe it was the juxtaposition of springtime and another long-distance move that helped to ease any doubts I may have had about being able to fit in with the kids in my new class. With the love and guidance of Sister Rose Marie as my teacher, I was able to seamlessly acquire ‘acceptance status’ within my new second grade class in only a few weeks.

By the time my class began discussing our May Day plans of where the altar was to be set-up, the songs we would sing together in honor of the Blessed Virgin, and who would be chosen to crown Mary on this special day, I expected that this newbie would be forgotten among the shadows cast by the brooms and mops located in the classroom’s back closet.

FRIENDSHIP HAS NO COLOR, GENDER
OR HIDDEN AGENDA

When Sister Rose Marie announced that we would all be voting that afternoon for the girl or boy who would crown Mary on May Day, my enthusiasm reached out to Josephine, Cathy, Linda, and Elizabeth. These girls were beautiful, so friendly, and fast becoming my partners in recess activities and future sleepovers at my house. It was exceedingly difficult for me to decide for whom I should cast my vote because many of the boys generously reached out for my friendship, too, helping to teach all of us that friendship has no color, gender, or hidden agenda.

Around a half an hour before the final bell was to ring out our departure for the day, we were asked to jot a name down on a small slip of paper, fold it in half, and place it in a well worn, felt hat being passed down each aisle. To give our suspense even more potency, we were told we would find out the results after mass in the morning. 

The following afternoon, I can’t even remember feeling the pavement beneath my feet or the slight drizzle that misted my entire body on the walk home from school. I scrambled through the backdoor shedding coat and book bag while desperately calling out for my mother. After all—she truly had the most important job of all in the next few days. My mother was to make the small, circular crown of fresh and colorful blossoms that I was to place on the top of the statue of the Blessed Virgin for the May Crowning celebration in my classroom!

I, the new kid, was selected by her new friends to take on one of the most celebrated honors I could have ever imagined in the eyes of the Church at that particular time of my life. 

My mother’s talents rose to this immensely important occasion. After constructing a small circle of thin wire with several lengths twisted together for stability, she wove absorbent material throughout the twisted wire frame. Carefully pulling apart strands of blue hydrangea, her favorite flower, she used silver tweezers to arrange the delicate blooms in and around the petite structure until the wire and paper were completely camouflaged in a soft blue haze of tiny blossoms. And for the pièce de résistance, she finished the project by inserting three, long strands of narrow satin ribbon, the colors of cotton candy, at the back of the crown. These were to flow down the back of Mary’s veiled head and soften the blue folds of her immovable clothing. This crown was perfect. My mother was perfect.

Presenting Mary with a handmade crown of blossoms at the May Crowning was an honor and a privilege for me. My heart told me not to feel such joy because of the pride I’d felt at placing my own mother’s crown on Mary’s head, but because Mary is a Mother—your mother, my mother, and everyone’s mother and she cares for us day in and day out without fail.

Happy May Day. Happy Mother’s Day. Happy time of growth, rebirth, and springtime in all its glory!

Copyright © 2021 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

CONFRONTING THE BRUTAL REALITY...

 

A series of essays....

THE CRUELTY OF YESTERDAY BLEEDS 
INTO THE PRESENT DAY

                             Courtesy of History.com

....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

A System of Western Imperialism From the Genocide of Indigenous American Peoples To African Slavery To the Present Day

The man, a college graduate, currently serving his country in active duty is afraid to get out of his car. Because of his combat training, he realizes he could be under attack by a hostile enemy. He seeks bright lights to stop his vehicle under, rolls down his window, and is reluctant (refuses) to exit his recently purchased SUV—for fear of his life. He is gravely harassed and, as he looks down  the barrel of the gun pointed between his eyes, he knows that one false move could be his last move in this lifetime. Suddenly, he is wiping the dripping pepper spray from his face. Later, we can see it dripping down his chin onto the fatigues that identify his military status. Even under fear for his life and while having none of his questions taken seriously or answered, he had the wherewithal to record the life threatening incident using his own cell phone planted on the dash of his vehicle prior to his assault.

A young father drives through a residential area with the mother of his two-year-old child in the passenger seat of the white Buick. With flashing lights strobing within the rearview mirror and sirens pounding in their ears, he stops the vehicle along the side of the road and exits it as he is told to do. Whom he perceives as the enemy has them surrounded by now. With physical pat downs and verbal threats, the fear ebbs and flows throughout the young man’s body with the final blow of being shackled with his hands behind his back. All of the horrors he had been told about, all of the reprehensible indignities his Momma and Daddy trained him to handle and endure in his lifetime, floods his brain in those few moments. The genuine possibility of becoming a statistic becomes more pronounced with each deep breath he takes. The adrenaline rush overpowers his perception of time and fear as he launches himself back into the veiled safety of the car, his frightened partner at his side. For this one human emotion, the fear for the safety of your own life, the man is shot. As he sets the car in motion and attempts to rid himself of the pain, history, and his own anxieties, his last breath comes several blocks away and the white Buick becomes is final retreat.

A shiver runs down his spine. Fear of not being obeyed comes in rivulets of sweat along the length of his body and his greasy hold on the leather handle of the bullwhip slips and slides as his body shakes out of his own frustration and genuine feelings of superiority. He yells and shouts his orders and finds it incomprehensible that they are not readily adhered to by his property who stare at him with their own eyes of deep wonderment and fear. He will make them understand. He will make them obey even if it takes a few examples of showing them who’s boss by the process of beating them—. Mustn’t eliminate them. They are expensive property he knows he can’t afford to lose.

                              *****************************

Survival Rules If Stopped By Police Taught To All Black Children

Keep your mouth closed; Be respectful; Do not argue; Keep your hands in plain sight at all times; No sudden movements; Do not run, even if you are afraid; Do not resist arrest; Stay calm and remain in control; Watch your words, body language, and emotions.

Before you can escape injustice, you have to survive injustice.

                             ******************************

Usually, and in the case of the victims in the three true stories narrated above, their darker skin color dictates how they are treated and/or abused.

The feeling of power, the belief that certain people are better than others even though they breathe, bleed, and burn the same as everyone else, is heightened by the legal weapons and laws that people choose to hide behind; how some people choose to lord their organized power over others. An adrenaline rush of power has infected the very institution that was created to serve and protect all who walk the streets of this country we call home. 

Even the ‘good’ cops are subjected to the misguided and uninformed abuse of those who care nothing about right or wrong, fiction or reality. The storming of the Capitol Building this past January is proof that the respect for fellow human beings can be completely disregarded when the frenzy of a deluded crowd loses control and attacks the authority of the law.

The slave owner, as does the ‘bad’ cop of today’s world, share this in common: The most important point being the feeling that with either whip or gun in hand, they can emotionally reign over the weaker, far less superior masses they deem unequal to their own all mighty status in life. Projecting fear instead of displaying compassion for those who must abide by the law, our world continues to spin like an uncontrollable top poised between peace and war—for eternity.

Does a bullwhip or a gun and badge alone create this feeling of superiority? Does the sanctity of the institution of slave owners and law enforcement officers elevate the God given rights of one group of people over another? History concludes that this behavior of superiority has been an integral layer of most societies since recorded time. Sadly, that realization alone should serve as a reminder that changing this statistic will be deeply challenging. 

Please don’t misunderstand me as I reflect upon our current law enforcement system. In general, I believe that most of the outstanding, motivated men and women enter this profession with good intentions. And, unlike the slave owner who purchases labor in order to run his plantation and create profit without regard to the common necessities of those who labor for him, I feel our police officers generally hold the best interests of the people they serve in mind. Like most groups, politicians included, some officers have been tainted by the power vested in them.

This adverse pattern of policing in this country must be stopped and then—it must be changed.

A definite shift in priorities happens when a person who has been schooled by generations before him to believe that the color of his skin dictates how much power he has over a person with skin different (darker) than his own. That person may grow-up to become the leader of the free world and taunt, display, or give rise to others who harbor identical feelings and now feel free to openly assert their claims in life. 

The general push to eradicate any positive influences brought about by people of color within our society by the last administration, served to strengthen the belief that Blacks, all immigrants, Indigenous American peoples (in depth story for another time), and all who consciously choose to, finally, flip history around, will always be inferior to people with white skin. Period. 

                            ******************************

John Howard Griffin was a white journalist from Texas who was incessantly curious about what it would be like to be a Black man. He wrote about racial inequality in the Deep South of 1959 in order to see life from the other side of the color line. Darkening his skin through a course of drugs, skin creams, and sunlamp treatments, he shaved his head and spent weeks traveling as a Black man in order to experience the plight of African Americans in the South.

His 1961 publication of his experiences appeared in his best selling novel entitled Black Like Me where he described in detail the problems an African American encountered in the segregated Deep South. Traveling by bus and/or hitchhiking, he describes meeting the needs for food, shelter, toilet, and other sanitary facilities. The hatred he often felt from white Southerners haunted his daily life. However, he was pleased to point out anecdotes about white Southerners who were friendly and helpful.

After the publication of his book, he and his family received death threats, his likeness was hung in effigy, and they moved to Mexico for several months before returning to reside in Texas, once again. Despite lecturing and writing on race relations and social justice, he continued to contribute to racial understanding. In 1975, Griffin was severely beaten by the Ku Klux Klan. He survived.

John Howard Griffin allowed himself, a white man, to experience a version of what it would be like to be Black. However, no one knows better, firsthand, about the fears, loss of hope, and emotional toll of being Black than a person who is born Black. 

                            ******************************

Several years ago, I recall how the perception of adopting Black children into a predominately White home was deemed unacceptable by Black Society. I couldn’t understand their reasoning at the time. When dealing with there own lives, Black people’s lives are precarious in the first place. Disallowing their right to grow-up within the basics of their own culture, history, and familiar sense of being grounded may deprive them of even more.

This reaction to Whites adopting Black children stems from the belief that these children will never be able to fully comprehend who they are or where they come from. Their adoptive White parents, even with extensive research and good intentions, will only be able to offer them a skewed look at life and may not be able to completely prepare them for the world’s reaction to their own skin color as they are growing-up or when they eventually leave their protective nests. 

Left in a state of limbo and inappropriately trained to cope with life’s realities, these adopted Black children may not be introduced to the applicable survival rules and prominent lessons while they remain young and vulnerable. 

                           ******************************

Under cross-examination, Dr. Martin J. Tobin, a pulmonologist and critical care physician, said, “Mr. (George) Floyd died from a low level of oxygen, and this caused the damage to his brain that we see. The low level of oxygen was caused by ‘shallow breathing’ and Mr. Floyd’s prone position and his being handcuffed, and Mr. Chauvin’s knee on his neck and back contributed to the shallow breathing.”

As the trial of ex-police officer, Dereck Chauvin, continues on the death of a Black man, George Floyd, my hands immediately folded into fists of rage and disgust when Dr. Tobin uttered these words to the court, “This tells you he (George Floyd) has used up his resources and is literally trying to breathe with his fingers and knuckles.” This was in reference to Mr. Floyd pushing in on the back tire of the squad car he was pinned up against during the final moments of his life. 

As the video illustrated this last action by George Floyd, Dr. Tobin said, “He’s using his fingers and his knuckles against the tire and street to try and crank-up the right side of his chest. This is his only way to try and get air into the right lung.”

                            ******************************

May I repeat: Before you can escape injustice, you have to survive injustice.

For far too long, too many people have lived under the heavy weight of this simple but poignant statement and mantra. It is time for CHANGE to happen—NOW!

TWENTY-YEAR-OLD MAN, DAUNTE WRIGHT, WHOSE
LIFE WAS TAKEN AWAY BY MINNEAPOLIS-AREA POLICE

                          Courtesy change.org

Copyright © 2021 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

I COULD HAVE LOVED YOU MORE...

 

A series of essays....

I REGRET NOT HAVING MY OWN NOVEL INCLUDED
IN MY OWN LIBRARY AFTER ALL THIS TIME!
TO BE CONTINUED...

....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Honestly, is there a day when you wake-up without a single regret to have to think about or dissect; you loved too much or you didn’t love enough—you never loved at all?

It may be something as simple as you wish you hadn’t snatched that second cookie because now your walk or workout needs to be extended a wee bit. It could be that you’d like the opportunity to take back spoken words that may have hurt someone you love very much. Perhaps you wake-up each day with the honest belief that you could have loved someone even more then you did over one lifetime.

Regret is an intense, little word that is often responsible for robbing souls of their right to move forward by allowing them to free fall into shaded pasts and memories. The pang of regret can be as sharp as a knife thrust into the heart—the after effects pushing us down into prolonged wretchedness and misery.

The feeling of regret can cloak you within its heaviness of sorrow and distress as you feel remorse about something you fervently wish could be different, changed, or rectified. One ends up bemoaning a missed or lost opportunity in love, work, or pleasure and suffers with saline tears seeping through closed eyelids—the subtle drip, drip, drip of liquid grief.

We should not forget that it’s not only possible to learn from our regrets but that some of our proudest moments may have risen from the depths of our sorrow like some phoenix from the ashes of despair! For this reason alone, our regrets must be neatly collated, stapled, and boxed as charmingly as a loved one’s birthday present. Remembering that it is a gift from us and given back to us, we must treat it with care and believe that it is possible to make positive, long-term life decisions from distant memories and regret.

Yes, I could have loved you more in this lifetime; I could have made the days shorter, sweeter for us both. Our lives are open to interpretation making each movement and conscious decision eminently important as we follow the elegant rhythm of the life we’ve been given—this time around. And, if we have the time and wherewithal to proceed forward, to gently unwrap that gift to ourselves with the knowledge that with each regret there is time to rectify its existence and make changes. It can be done if we desire to make the effort.

“When I fall, let me fall without regret like a leaf from a tree.”  —Wendell Berry

WENDELL BERRY: POET, FARMER, WRITER, ACTIVIST, ACADEMIC.
HE COINED THE CONCEPT OF “SOLVING FOR PATTERN” WHICH IS THE 
PROCESS OF FINDING SOLUTIONS THAT SOLVE MULTIPLE
PROBLEMS, WHILE MINIMIZING THE CREATION OF NEW PROBLEMS.

We have only ourselves to rely upon in this particular lifetime. Providentially, we are surrounded by the wonders of nature that guide us down gentle paths of hopefulness and beauty. Observing nature’s bounty, we revel in the motions of a single leaf that detaches itself from a tree to randomly drift down to the moss covered ground below. Feeling free, no strings attached, its journey is unencumbered by its past, enthusiastic about its future—with no regrets to pass along to another living thing. We do envy such an honest and forthright solution to a happy, fulfilled life!

Regrets—well, I’ve have a few...

Copyright © 2021 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

ARE WE UP FOR A THOROUGH DEATH CLEANING?

 

A series of essays....

AS WE AGE, WE SHOULD CONSIDER PARTING 
WITH ANYTHING THAT DOESN’T SPARK
JOY WITHIN US WHEN WE SEE OR TOUCH IT.

....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

A young woman cries tears of guilt and regret in a courtroom telling how she spends restless nights apologizing to a black man she has seen made breathless by a policeman’s knee. She is paying a price for recording the truth. Her personal sacrifice is far beyond her few years on earth. We can’t thank her enough for her courage.

Medical staff and volunteers prepare themselves for another day of serving up syringe-filled hope and encouragement to end a pandemic that has taken so many loved ones from us this past year. What an honor to have received the benefit of their selfless attempt at righting a world that is spinning out of control.

Within an effort to soothe a ravaged soul, limiting the use of social media has become a necessary salve applied as often as possible. The manipulative control of the media is very unnerving. Why should we allow it to control our lives when it should only be serving to inform us of the truth? But, this is another story for another time.

Will we ever be able to presume that life is equitable when applied to ordinary, less than perfect, human behavior?

So, I’m wondering if this is a good time to talk about a concept I’ve been reading about called ‘Swedish death cleaning.’ Please be patient with me because it’s really not as morbid as it sounds. 

We may eat more healthily and exercise more frequently than ever before, but we can’t ignore the fact that many of us have logged-in close to seventy years on earth by now and that amount of time comes with lots of baggage, memories, and memorabilia. 

Two recent events changed my life forever. In a matter of a few weeks time, we sold our home in Florida and then moved to Michigan. These experiences taught me a lot about myself; opened my eyes to new and potentially emotional possibilities that have reshaped my life in many interesting ways.

Without knowing anything about this existing phenomenon called death cleaning, it seems that Dan and I encouraged it by downsizing from twenty-four hundred square feet of living space to around fifteen hundred with our move. Not only did we have over twenty years of Floridian accumulation of stuff to consider now, but there was plenty of stuff brought down to Orlando in 1998 after raising two children and celebrating twenty-three years of marriage in Michigan!

This is where I have to ask if life is fair; what pulls at the heartstrings more than years and years of memories?

On the practical side, who do you think is going to take care of all your things when you’re no longer here? This is a question proposed by the author, Margareta Magnusson, who wrote about death cleansing several years ago. She realized that with many of us clinging to so many tangible items we treasured along life’s journey, there will be a time when nobody else cares about them. Actually, we may even enjoy our mature lives much better without all of the mess and clutter to deal with.

Since minimalism seems to be the flavor of the day, is this merely a trend or a practical solution to giving us a sense of having more power and control over our lives? Magnusson, born in Sweden, says, “You could look at this type of cleaning as being a dietetic regimen for the home.”

If you happen to have children or other relatives who will be responsible for looking after your estate after you’ve gone, is it fair to them to have to deal with your things? Frankly, I believe that some people just don’t care what happens to their belongings once all is said and done and live happy, fulfilled lives among the treasures they have accumulated for years. That, of course, is their choice to make.

So, even after knowing that our life in Orlando was coming to an end, we failed to weed-out, sell, or give away so many small treasures and proceeded to pack them all up for the trip up north. It’s so easy to hide or spread things out in a larger home and quite terrifying to try and fit them into a small, yellow cottage in Kalamazoo. Trust me—we know firsthand!

JOY IS EMPTYING TWO LARGE STORAGE UNITS, 
SAVING MONEY, AND FINDING A HOME FOR
ALL OF OUR UNNECESSARY THINGS.

Two years after our move we’ve emptied two ten-by-ten storage units that had been filled with items that did not fit into our new house or lifestyle. By purging and rearranging our things we’ve been called to live with a much lighter footprint on the planet while being happy, dealing with less stress, and being able to talk about death without the strain of divesting a majority of our possessions.

Magnusson claims that, “The argument for doing something like death cleaning is that it makes you more nimble for all of the changes in your life.” I have come to realize how true this concept has become in my own life and encourage others, at any age, to try something different, create good habits, and feel in control of your own destiny.

The young lady who recorded George Floyd’s death on her cell phone will always feel that she could have done more to assist in saving his life. She will have to come to terms with the fact that what she did do was important in its own right. She took control of her life by possessing the tenacity to keep the video running over nine minutes in order to capture the faces of hatred and bigotry. 

The officer’s face should have represented the kindness within, especially while holding a position designed to protect and help everyone feel safe and secure. Instead, it showed how superior he felt his race was over a person of color as he proceeded to take that life away from us as easily as stamping out a lit cigarette tossed aside on the dirty, concrete road.

If you don’t see this skewed vision of life as a problem, it may be time to do a bit of thorough death cleaning. It may be time to decide what truly matters in your life and be prepared to throw-out the archaic representations of what others think serves and benefits the majority of us. 

Are you up for it?

It’s laborious to make good changes happen. It’s physical and cognitive work. It’s emotional work. But, as we must talk about the inevitability of our death, we must see our way to finding happiness and identifying the pleasure of positive change in our lives through hope, diversity, and love.

Copyright © 2021 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved