The Inside-Place.

So it is April 4th, a Memphis sky...Free at Last...The memory of  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.,  and his assassination, is one of the "defining moments" in my own personal history. On my next day of school, after the shooting,  that I learned what the word prejudice meant. I learned how when people are hurt, they become angry, as did the folks I witnessed, pelting our car with bricks and rocks, as my young sister and I were told by our beloved mother, to "Get down girls; lie down on the floor of the backseat; we are going to play the quiet game. Whoever stays the quietest until we get home, wins."
I wasn't afraid; I just didn't understand.
"Mommy, why are the black people throwing rocks at us?"
"I'm going to explain when we get home, but I need you girls to behave, okay?"
So we dutifully lay down on the floor of the backseat, as mom revved the engine of our old Chevrolet, and pulled away quickly from the corner of the expensive parochial school we attended. Our Lady of Perpetual Help Academy was predominantly white, and also, Cuban. Situated in the heart of Tampa's "Ybor (pronounced eee-bohr) City", many new immigrants (escaping the fall of Batista, and the takeover by Fidel Castro) were enrolled at O.L.P H., many with scholarship assistance. Ybor City then, was little more than a slum. The school and the huge cathedral of Our Lady dominated the surroundings with ornate carvings, palm trees, and wealthy benefactors. Those who lived within walking distance of the school, were very poor, and black.
Once we arrived home, Mom carefully explained that "Someone great has died. He was a leader for peace, for all people."
"Like Jesus?" I asked.
"Yes, just like that," Mom said, while dabbing her by-now-red eyes.
The people throwing bricks and rocks, were angry, because he was killed by someone, and, well, it felt to them, like we had something to do with it."
"Well, Mom, tell them we didn't!", I offered with much frustration.
"Tell them that we are sad, too", I said earnestly.
"It's not that easy", said Mom with a sigh. "There's this thing called prejudice..."
"Prejuudee...?"
"Prejudice", she repeated.
She went on to explain it was about judging someone based on whether their skin was lighter or darker, which was very puzzling to me. I pointed out she had darker skin, and black curly hair, while Daddy had blond hair, blue eyes, and lighter skin.
"Yes, and some people don't like that."
We put the tv on, and when I saw the police confronting black people sitting quietly with signs, I asked Mom
"Why are the police spraying the black people with water, Mommy?"
"Because sometimes, the police are wrong..." her voice trailed off, as I quickly asked,
 "The police can be wrong?Then how do you know what's right?"
"In here. You know what's right, in here," she said, circling her chest. I knew that was where my heart--and likely--my soul--lived.
I suddenly understood that if everyone would listen to that inside-place, then the prejudice would not matter. It would not mater what anyone on the outside said, the prejudice would go away.

I'm still waiting for that day.
The day when we can all say,
"Free at Last, Thank God Almighty, I'm Free At Last."
Thank you, Dr. King.
And Thank You, Mom.
Peace, kids.

Running for Mom.

I survived October 12th. The one-year-anniversary of my beloved mother's death, came and went. It was day of tears, of relentlessly texting my sister (were we afraid, both of us, to actually speak to one another? were we afraid the tears might overwhelm us? were we simply, afraid?).
It was a day of trying to distract myself with mindless tasks--searching for new hairstyles on the internet, sorting through monologues to use in auditions (I'd already accomplished that task, but found myself, repeating myself), watching horror-tv (thank you, "The Walking Dead", for the engagement).
I was disappointed when the Chaplain for the Hospice who helped Mom in last weeks of her life, called--literally at the last minute--to say she could not make it to Golden Living in Dunwoody to commemorate my Mom's passing.
I had called and asked her to meet me, as I planned to visit, and to bring goodies to--in honor of my Mom-- the old folks who have no one to visit or comfort them, and she had suggested that we could "...plant a butterfly bush in honor of your Mom." Which I readily agreed to.
So, in her voice-message, she re-scheduled this celebration of Mom's life, for this coming Wednesday...October the 14th.
Which is also a date imbued with tragedy: Five years ago, on October 14th, my beautiful sister-in-law died painfully, just two weeks after giving birth to our sweet niece, Morgan Catherine. Although Morgan Catherine was not due until November 4th (which happens to be my birthday), she arrived on September 21st, because Toni Harris Kwon was in great pain, and doctors induced labor, and delivered our healthy, albeit tiny, niece, to her adoring parents. But what was discovered in this new mother--only three days later (on my own sister's birthday--September 24th)-- was "Stage 4 gastrointestinal cancer, of unknown origin". Although doctors tried mightily to do physical therapy to keep new-mom Toni strong,  Toni was quickly moved from the hospital in Charlotte where she had successfully birthed her daughter--who was now being kept in intensive care for premature newborns.
Toni was moved to Duke University Hospital, where it was hoped some kind of remedy to prolong her life, could be found. But Toni Harris Kwon passed away--and from what my husband told me--it was a hard, violent death. She was trying to breathe, helped by a respirator who forced air through her lungs, in an attempt to keep her alive, and cognizant. She and her husband talked about the baby--the baby she could no longer see, or hold. The baby who was faraway, in a hospital where nurses cried after learning the red-haired mother of this dark-haired, almond-eyed child,  was dying, and there was no hope for that mother. My husband told me, in a phone call at 3:00 am, as I returned from a late-night film shoot in Monticello, Georgia, that Toni was gone.
Shortly after Toni died, I remember being at their home in Charlotte, and while my brother-in-law was downstairs, displaying the purple-cloaked urn with the cremains of Toni, I spoke with Toni's mom, a kind, quiet, petite package of dignity named Cathy, and I asked how she dealt with this, with her daughter, being gone. She said "I run." Cathy looks like a professional athlete, her tiny frame deceiving one into believing she might be fragile....until you notice the sinewy arms and her gymnast-like legs, which course with strength.
I wandered into the nursery--the room we would eventually bring Morgan Catherine to--and I found a package of "Love" brand knitting yarn. Their slogan is "All you need is Love, and time."
Time. The one thing that beautiful Toni, would be denied. The plans to knit baby booties, left at just that--plans.
Four years later, in the midst of a second round of treatments at Cancer Treatment Centers, I remember asking my own Mom, how she dealt with losing her Mom, and she told me, "That was when I started walking, and then, running, on the beach." I asked her if she thought that would help me, when I eventually lost her. "I don't know, but it might."
I responded that I'd write about it, but that I would begin to run, too.
I've begun to run my way, through grief. Through these words.
On Wednesday, I will commemorate Mom. And Toni, we'll be thinking of you too, sweetheart.
Peace, kids.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MOM!

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY,TO MY MOM, DEMETRA ALLENDER!!!
It's easy to say you have a great Mom, if you're fortunate enough to have a great Mom.
What's often not-so-easy, is getting her to believe you.
My Mom, Demetra, is humble. Raised by a kind Greek lady(my maternal grandmother, my "Yia-Yia"--Georgia Chiboucas-Comati)who had not only my Mom, but three other children, and her alcoholic husband to worry about, she persevered, and I feel certain my Yia-Yia's patience and belief in the decency of each individual, helped inform my own Mom's absolute faith (some would say my Mom's naivete'--- in the inherent goodness of everyone)in the world.
It seems my Mom doubts her own contributions.I know she wishes she'd had college, and a "career", but the women of my Mom's generation took seriously their most important(if it's done well, it's the hardest job on the planet)job:
that of being a good Mother.
From my Mom, I learned to cook carrots. Fry fish. Bake pies.I learned the "value of a dollar", because if I wanted "extra" money, I earned it by doing "extra" chores:(cleaning up after the dogs(we had a kennel);seasonal household duties, like cleaning a refrigerator or oven, etc.).
I saw her tenderness in caring for the numerous doggies we had.
I learned to respect my elders.
I never learned to sew, but she certainly tried to show and teach me.I was probably a bit spoiled, what with her sewing such cuuuuute dresses, skirts, and jumpers(remember those?) for me. So cute, that I even got nominated for Best-Dressed in high-school.
High School:
when Mom was the ultimate in chaffeur, and supporter: attending plays I acted in, cheering me on when I performed as a "Dancerette" at East Bay High School in Riverview, Florida, and letting me ramble on(and on) about "....you know, that cute boy at C.Y.O...."(Catholic Youth Organization).
The most important thing she taught me, was to respect, and value-- myself.
"If you don't respect you, who's going to?" she asked, and she meant it.
"If you don't believe in you, who's going to?"
This Mother's Day, I'm asking you, Mom, to do what you asked me to do...
to BELIEVE IN YOU.
You really ARE that kind, caring Mother that companies like Hallmark keep writing about.
I'm one lucky woman, and so is my sister, Tina. And so is your grand-daughter, Breaz.
Peace, kids.

Once upon a time, there was a young Greek girl, named Georgia.Her parents named her Georgia, because they were headed to Savannah to start their business(a Greek bakery), and it was considered good luck to have a child named for where you lived... Her parents were old-school, prudent, hard-working immigrants from Thessalonika(northern Greece--an area filled with mountains)and Athens, where several relatives still live today. Georgia was a cheerleader in school, an actress who I recently learned, wrote poems. She married a bright, charming handsome man who unfortunately drank too much, but who loved her as best he could. Fathered four children with her. One of them was Demetra, a raven-haired petite woman with large eyes and cheekbones that remind one of Gina Lollobrigida . Demetra married a blond man named J. R. and they had two children--Lisa, and Tina. Demetra passed along the wisdom of her mother, Georgia,
"Never marry a man who drinks."
"Never feel bad about yourself, or about your body. Feel beautiful, and you ARE!"
"If someone does a kindness for you, say thank you. Better still, write them a thank you note. If they worked for you, performed a service, or gave you great service, write a note to their boss."
And our Yia-Yia did this, consistently.
Many people wrote her to say how her letter had gotten them a raise, a promotion, or a better job. Her words of praise for other peoples' kindness touched many people's lives, as did her own kindness.Yia-Yia(Greek for Grandmother) was adviser, and mother to ALL Of us.
Demetra has been without her mother, and Tina and I, without our beloved Yia-Yia, for over twenty years now.
The other day, in line at Target, I saw several young men and women, their hands full of cards--one for their Mom, of course, and two others--one for each grandmother. I felt jealous of them. And then, ashamed that I was jealous.
Although I haven't had a grandmother in many years, I was very fortunate to have one for thirty years, and another for even longer.
My parents' character was formed by these women--my mother's stick-to-it-iveness; her edg-y sense of humor, her quick wit; my father's dogged persistence; his ability to hop from one subject to the next with great ease; his curiosity. My Yia-Yia, and Grandma Dorothy, My Theya Helen(my Great Aunt, Yia-Yia's sister, who died only last year--a dynamo of energy, political/philosophical thinking, and supporter of all arts), you are the Mothers I salute.Rest in Peace, dear Mothers.
To all of you, who still have your Mom--revere what you have.
Cherish.