Springtime in Philly

The layers of meaning that undercut daily living are hard to communicate with simple spoken words, sometimes. Especially when the words that are spoken are delivered to ones who don't know or don't care. Which is why I knew that my last few days would inspire some bloggable moments-I need the space to communicate the depth of the feelings I am experiencing, the span of joy, and the sheer wonder of something as simple as a business trip to Philadelphia.

The simple words are thus: I've been doing well at work lately (yay!) and as such, it has been approved by management to send me to a conference to manage my new clients who have given our company lots of money. Just so happens that I have family in Philly, so it works out that I get to visit them too. 'Good for you,' people say. 'That should be nice...' And it is. When I see the glazed looks in the eyes of colleagues, I want to tell them, imploringly, that this is family...FAMILY! that I never really got see that much. When a gal I know scoffs and sarcastically congratulates me on being sent to the worst city on earth, I proudly tell her my dad grew up in the worst part of town in Philly and that I love it for that reason, and when she back pedals her humor and unenthusiastically and quietly says 'great,' I just brush it off.

I grew up in MN, mixed race background-black, native american, and a little irish- adopted by a white mother and black father. There were five of us kids, and though I wouldn't have called us poor, we weren't trekking to disneyland for vaca every year. We rarely traveled far as a family. We drove twice a year to Chicago because my mom's family was there, but never to visit dad's family in Philadelphia. Plane tickets for 7 people plus hotel was almost always out of the question. So we were alone in MN, the seven of us, in a way that I now come to see is not necessarily that common in the US. Most people I know seemed to live near some extended family while growing up. It was just us against the world. And I was smart, so I got sent to that 'special' school where there were not a lot of children dark like me. I made friends with my classmates, who were mostly white. My mom was white. Didn't mean much to me, foster mom was white too. I was fine with it. As I got older, I realized others were not. I also realized, when I got older, what I missed by not having easy access to my black heritage and family. Poor mom didn't know how to do hair, to name just one thing, and as I began to face a racist world, an ignorant world, that tried desperately to fit me into its limited understanding of what a person with my skin shade should look like, sound like, think like and act like, I felt the ostracization that many people of color feel, without the real benefit of a strong family culture to back it up. Dad was there, but busy and did not a community make.

I made do. My family, which is very colorful and lots of shades of brown and yellow and white, is strong and in love with each other now, and we have a bond based on that deserted-island like experience we had growing up-but my sister and I have thirsted for that black feminine love that we had to create for ourselves. I love my mom with every bit of my soul and all that she does and continues to do, but I firmly believe it does take a village to raise a child, and especially with interracial families, I know I will work hard to fulfill that need of diversity in role models for my children.

Anyway, suffice it to say, when I say I am going to Philly-I am GOING to Philly, I'm finding that lost piece of my soul, the one that rarely is recognized or valued or nurtured in the way I've needed it to be. The part of me a certain Miss JW says I have a hard time seeing reflected beautifully in the world. I've been here for three days, and I have so many more bloggable stories about Aunt Bea and our journey to Jenkinville, and Aunt De and her insatiable joy and love...There is a big party tonight, too, with all the cousins that are here and Aunties that are still alive....I hope I get it down in writing, as I want to remember every last moment of this weekend. I want to soak it up, suck it out and drink it all over again when I get thirsty.

Traveling up

I have had a good few months at work. I feel hesitant to talk about it as though somehow putting it in print and celebrating it will jinx it. But Lord knows I've talked about the hard times enough, this has gotta be the thing to do. Immortalize it, right? There is not much to speak of except at this moment, I have been promoted and I have made in two months what it took me almost half a year to make last year.

It's taking a lot longer to 'get back on my feet' than I thought but I am getting close. The realization is that I was off my feet for much longer than 7 months-more like two years and seven months because I was so underpaid. Rather than go into specifics, though, let's just say things are good.