The Book of Memory
When my body grows too old to care
And I live only in my memory
It is not at a blank white wall I stare
For there’s your smile, undimmed by age, before me
And when I scan the book of memory
From burning youth to wise old age
Your lovely face smiles out at me
From every page.
This is a story I started and lost track of several months ago, but the news is still positive and I wanted to share it with you.
From a March 24th article on Huffington Post entitled, “Plato, Missouri Sits At Center of Nation’s Population”, comes this quote: “Meanwhile, more than 9 Million Americans checked two or more race categories on their 2010 census forms, up 32 percent from 2000, a sign of burgeoning multiracial growth in an increasingly minority nation.”
I remember a conversation with my son when he was quite young. We were watching something on TV and my son made a comment. When I asked him which character he meant, he said “The White lady.” I pointed to the screen and said “Who is that?” and he replied, “That’s a Black man.” “What am I,” I asked. “You’re White,” he replied. “And Daddy?” “He’s Black,” my son said. “What are you,” I asked him, to which he replied, “I’m White.” And I thought, this is it. This is the conversation you knew you were going to have someday.
So I took a deep breath and explained to him that he was neither Black nor White but biracial, the product of two racial heritages. He took it in calmly, and we talked a little about it, and things were fine.
I remember when my son went to Montessori School when he was going on four years old, and I remember the forms that came home for me to fill out. In those days, when you came to race there was very little choice. There were Caucasian, Black, Hispanic and Asian, and that was it. I checked the first two boxes and sent the form back to school. It was returned to me with a note – Please check only one box. I declined to do so, and when I was asked to fill it out their way, I refused. “Your form is what is wrong, not my son. Change your form.”
There was a similar conversation when he went into the public school system, and again I stood my ground. I checked both boxes and if there was a box for Native American I checked that too, since my son is part Cherokee on both sides of the family.
Now it’s a different story. The choices on the 2010 Census forms included the following: White, Black, Native American or Alaskan, Asian Indian, Chinese, Filipino, Other Asian, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Native Hawaiian, Guamanian or Chamorro, Samoan, Other Pacific Islander, or Some Other Race (print race). Something for everyone!
Did my actions have anything to do with these changes? I hope so. If you don’t like the way things are, remember what one of my heroes, Mahatma Gandhi, said: “Be the change you want to see.” One person really can make a difference.
Red Cross Poster
I have my own blood donor story for today. It began on a quiet weekend in early October, 2000. I had been working part-time in a bookstore at a large suburban mall for several years. Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evenings, and 10 AM to 6 PM on Saturdays.
I ate lunch Saturday in the Food Court, where I was unlucky enough to eat a meal contaminated with Salmonella, a serious form of food poisoning. I learned from good old Wikipedia that: “A recent analysis of death certificates in the United States identified a total of 1,316 Salmonella-related deaths between the years 1990 to 2006.”
I felt increasingly ill as the weekend went on. A friend came over to check on me and fixed some soup. She said later that I had seemed disoriented, but I don’t remember. The next morning, Monday, I awoke to very severe abdominal pain. I immediately took two ibuprofen, and an hour later I took two more, but the pain was intense. I called my doctor, who told me to go to the hospital. I could barely walk so a family member who lived nearby drove me.
We went to the Emergency Room and soon after I lost consciousness. My memories of Monday are confused and sketchy. There were tests and there was pain. They weren’t sure what was happening to me. They knew I was bleeding internally but not why. I kept losing consciousness, and blood, and they kept giving me more.
I spent the night in ICU and early the next morning, while the nurse was holding me up so the doctor could examine me, the dam burst. Or rather, the aneurysm in my abdomen did. They rushed me into an operating room where they worked on me for four hours, all the while replacing pint after precious pint of my blood. My doctor said later it had taken eleven pints of blood altogether. She also told me if I had not had so many people praying for me I would have died.
Over the years I have donated blood many times, and it has always been my hope that I could help someone else the way I was helped. I will also tell you that, without the love and the sacrifice of the eleven people whose blood now courses through my veins, I would not be here today to tell you my story of survival. I and my family are eternally thankful for their gift.
Wouldn’t you like to give this wonderful gift of life to another family?
In Memory of Christy, who has crossed the Rainbow Bridge
There’s one more silky head
You’ve petted gone for good
One more meow that now
Will never sound again
Your heart is aching
And your tears flow freely
But I promise that your
Heart will heal again
So let not your sorrow
Cancel out the joy you shared
And know that all the gifts
Of love you gave her
In the end will be repaid
Crimson velvet sin.
Do you see what I see? Look down, look down!
A whole drowned world at your feet.
Green become emerald, lush and shining,
Red turned to crimson velvet sin,
Everyday lights translated by rain,
And look at the pavement, a shiny black mirror,
Masking who knows what beneath.
Yet, you’re here beside me, with rain on your
Lashes, a light in your eyes,
And a new excitement grips me, before which
All my other dreams begin to fade …
