A Greater Appreciation

My grandfather served in World War II. When he came home he attended Hampton Institute (still the real HU), married my grandmother (a nurse) and had three sons. My grandfather purchased a home in Hampton that he remodeled himself and provided for his family while working at Fort Monroe.

I realize now that there was so much I did not know about my grandfather who passed away in 2003. I don’t recall having conversations with him about what it was like being a black man serving in the war. I never asked him how he felt protecting a country that denied his youngest son (my father) access to the nearest bathroom because they were black. I never asked him what it was like being raised in Fort Worth, Texas and not be discouraged by the racism that was rampant. But I do know that my Granddaddy was a man of faith.

I say all of this because sometimes I regret my youthful understanding of things. Often times in the moment, appreciation takes a backseat to the trivial. One summer when I was about 12, my Grandfather took me over to Fort Monroe and showed me some of his world. The model ships, the bombs, the history lesson, the photographs of young men now old. My grandfather, a carpenter, showed me this world of war and then led me down the halls of wood that he worked to preserve with his own hands. When showing me around a man overheard my Grandfather’s voice and was left in awe at his story. The man asked me, a child who did not know better, if I was proud of my Grandfather. I said I was, but at the time, in my heart, I didn’t care. I would have rather been anywhere else then at some old fort on a hot summer day.

But look what I carry in my memory. I have no idea what else was more important than spending a summer day with Granddaddy. I have been taught to understand that time is both limited and fleeting. I have learned to appreciate the man who loved my grandmother through cancer, taught his sons to be men in a segregated South, and prayed for me when I had no idea what it took for him to be there for all of us.

This is just part of my Grandfather’s story-a veteran who served his country, community and family. As I enjoy a day off today, these are the words of a granddaughter who is grateful that she is finally able to appreciate a great man who fought. A man I am proud of. I man who I had the honor to call my Granddaddy.

I encourage ya'll to take a moment to think of those who have and currently serve in wars they may or may not believe in.

See You In Seven

pour out a little...

last night i was avoiding my father. he called and i didn't answered. i just didn't feel like it. see my dad rambles. and he mumbles. and he slurs. and he talks real fast so that i can't understand what he's saying.

he's a vietnam veteran. with post tramautic stress syndrome. and a mean off-and-on drug addiction.

this is my father.

he and my mom divorced when i was about 8 and thankfully i had a sometimes annoying but none-the-less-there stepfather who has not hesitated to do anything within his power for me and my sisters. thank God for him.

meanwhile my father was absent for much of my growing up, although we saw him every now and then through the years. just recently in the last 5 years, my contact with him has been more frequent and i've grown to understand who he is and what he couldn't be with such clarity that at times i deal with him not as my father but as a dear old man who i am fond of.

so when i was startled awake by my sister calling me at 6am this morning I was shocked at what she had to say.

her baby's father is dead.

and i cried.

those who know the back story would be a little surprised that i cried. because dude has not won any baby daddy of the year awards in the 5 years my beautiful wonderful smart funny cool-ass niece has been on this earth. he's ducked and dodged and a few years ago was laid up on a ventilator after being shot several times.

exactly!

but i cried for his soul, for my sister, for baby daddy's family, and most of all for my niece who has lost her father. who she adored despite his absences. whose height she has. whose aunt's gap she has.

and in my mind i connect her loss with my loss of my father to war and drugs.

how will this change her? some shit she aint want no parts to. she want her daddy. always.

shit sucks...

R.I.P. Young Man

Bull, Hare, Stallion... Or A Blind Man

The past couple of days have been quite enjoyable as I celebrated my birthday over the weekend. Saturday, I had dinner with Bellini & Rum Punch. Then we chilled at a local bar and some more friends joined us for drinks and a lil' two step while watching a live band perform. Yesterday, I spent the anniversary of my birth with the woman who made it possible. We attended a fundraiser for an organization that I volunteer a lot of my time with and saw a brother named Baratunde Thurston perform. You could say he's a comedian (he is funny as hell); I'd say he's more of a social humorist. The native Washingtonian is not only witty, but also insightful and revolutionary. Check him out when you get a chance. Moms enjoyed him as well. After Baratunde's performance, we stopped by a bar down the street for a lil' toast and chit chat.

My parents will tell you that I wasn't born 'til a lil' after 6PM, therefore they don't officially wish me happy birthday until around that time. During the earlier hours of the day, they'll tell a version of the same story about my mother's water breaking on the day she was scheduled for a C-section (I came pushing into this world 12 days late) and her 12 hours of labor and my father getting cursed out for looking for parking instead of dropping my mom off at the emergency room door ... lol. You get the picture. So by the time mom and I sat down and were served our drinks, it was 6:15. How perfect was that?

Those who know Mama Stormy know she is an unforgettable woman. She is warm and comical. She will talk to anybody, which can be annoying at times. She gives it to you straight, with no chaser. And I swear this woman knows a little bit about everything! Any subject... she got a lil known history fact or random tidbit of information tucked into her brain. So of course, it was only a matter of minutes before she made friends with the folks sitting at the bar. Within half an hour, the bartender had become a part of her captivated audience as well.

Once mom spilled the beans about it being my birthday, it was a wrap. The bartender made me a drink- on the house. A man sitting right next to mom, who had been giving me the eye for a minute, made his way over to me. He introduced himself, told me how much he enjoyed mom's words of wisdom, and ordered us another round of drinks. Three hours later (yes really) we had discussed the presidential primaries, gentrification, the value of the Euro, gas prices, social uprising in Kenya, colonization in Africa... And sex.

As I returned from a trip to the bathroom, I heard my mom say "If you don't do anything else, be sure to make love to a blind person before you die. Or rather, before your pipes dry up, if you know what I mean." WTF??? Oh it's time to go home. Apparently, she somehow had landed on the topic of how our hangups about visual appearances can get in the way of us enjoying sex. Furthermore, a blind person's heightened sense of touch, taste, smell, and hearing increase their ability to awaken these senses within their sex partner. Her words y'all, not mine. And I did not even ask how she knew this. I simply assisted her in putting on her coat and scarf.

The guy from the bar gave me his number and expressed his interest in seeing me again. I enjoyed his company and I find him attractive, so I'm thinking about giving him a call. I do have one reservation. Our sexual compatibility.

Some would say I'm jumping the gun with such a thought. That's just how my mind works. It's not so much that I have only sex on the brain... I just like to evaluate compatibility on all levels. And sexual compatibility is very important to me. So I got up the nerve to mention it to my mom on the way home. I have a theory about the shape of a man's hands in relation to the shape of his sexual organ. The shape of his fingers, for example long and bony vs. short and stubby, give a good indication of the shape of his love below. Just my theory.

I didn't share the theory with mom, but I shared another related concern. This brother's ethnicity. I have heard that men within this particular ethnic group are not very well endowed. Though I have never witnessed it for myself. My mom started laughing and told me she has heard the same. She mentioned dating a man of the same ethnicity back in the day, whom she described as "depressingly small." She also said you can never know until you see it. There are exceptions to every rule.

Very true. In the book 'The Complete Kama Sutra', there is a breakdown of physical sexual compatibility and erotic science. It categorizes men's genitals in three types-bull, hare, and stallion; and women in three types- doe, mare, and cow-elephant. Obviously a matchup of an equal type is preferred to one that is unbalanced. Because I want to experience pleasure when making love.

My mom said to me "When you look for a potential mate/spouse, you are looking for pleasure, in addition to someone who can support you financially and with whom you can start a family with, right?" Absolutely. "In many cultures, still today, pleasure ain't part of the equation. It's about getting married, continuing a lineage, preserving a family name or legacy. There are no sexual expectations." Mmm hmm... I'm listening. "Therefore, in western cultures such as ours, women have a harder time finding suitable mates and become much more frustrated with not being able to find suitable mates, because they have higher expectations. They want it all. Not saying it's right or wrong, but the search and need for pleasure leaves most of us rarely or never satisfied."

Where the blind brother's at? I got small wrists and forearms... LOL!


Tumultuously Yours,

Dark & Stormy