Sunday, June 19, 2016
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sempervivum: On Father's Day
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sempervivum: On Father's Day: As the story goes, when my father was born, his grandmother wanted him to be named Stephen after her father. Though he'd already been n...
Sempervivum: On Father's Day
As the story goes, when my father was born, his grandmother wanted him to be named Stephen after her father. Though he'd already been named Jesse, he was called Steve or Stevie by everyone growing up. I know a childhood friend by whether they call him Steve or Jesse. I am called Stephanie after his secret name, a tiny, little seed planted at his roots in an alternative, dream landscape. He is a hearty and strong succulent perennial, only an occasional flower, low growing, sometimes called the liveforever or sempervivum. I am the flower.
We are so alike, my father and I. There is depth, order, control. We are protective, strong, and quick to anger. I love him. I always have. I respect the man he became and all that he has accomplished in this life. I know that if I am in danger he will come. If I am hurt he will come. If I need he will give. But in order to protect himself from the slings and arrows, knives in the back and punches to the gut, he has had to encase his heart in thorns and booby traps.
I woke up this morning at 5:30. That's too early for me. Though I tried to go back to sleep, as soon as my eyes are opened I find that nearly impossible. My racing mind started tracing lines to all the people I know who were probably awake. Many living abroad where the day was already in full swing, friends on the West Coast who may be having a bout of insomnia or a late night of excess, and my dad. Now that he is in his seventies, 5:30 is pretty early for him too, but the early mornings are a space where I always see my father. Walking the house in quiet, breathing in life in a space where no people means no mask, rising with the sun as he did as a boy when he had work to do. You can take the boy out of the country, but not the country out of the boy. My dad is still a country boy.
A country boy whose parents told him and his four siblings how to survive, and gave them everything they had, which was not much materially but was full to bursting with love, guidance, and support. They told those beautiful, black children how to get out of the poverty they'd been born into and to keep marching forward despite the expectation of the America that they were born into, that they were 'less than.' Education, character, drive, ambition, and familial love and support would help each lift the others. Racism and segregation shaped my father's sense of himself and no matter his successes, he has remained haunted. I can only imagine how he endured the assaults on his character, his intelligence, and his basic rights. Like me, he is sensitive, easily wounded, and anxious. Like me, he hides and protects his heart. Unlike me, he has not found too many to share it with. And that includes me.
The love was tough, survivalist. It wasn't precious or adorable. It wasn't indulgent or demonstrative. There were few hugs and smothers of kisses and compliments and praise. There were high expectations. When one fears failure, when failure in a system set up for you to fail means life or death, there is little time for pleasantries. The hurt of his youth nourished ours and our blooms were sprinkled with his pain. But mine is a fragile bloom. My roots are strong, but the flower is so desperate for the light, desperate for the watering and the nutrients, seeking warmth from real and artificial light sources. I cannot always tell the difference.
My father is the first man for whom I was ever too much. I could tell by the way he looked at me since the beginning of time and shook his head. I wasn't easy because I'm not. I'm all of the things one has to work on, work towards. Work. I was compared to other girls who achieved better and far more than I. Girls who were poised and demure and knew the code and followed it. They were good girls. They weren't wild and didn't talk back or fight or question or practice magic. They were practical and organized and good. There is a part of me that is like that too. Remnants of my attempts to please.
My father is the first man whose love I could feel dangling in front of me but could never reach. My father loves me, but it sparks like an electrical short and cannot sustain itself long enough to provide light. I chase the falling embers, hope it will help me find my way through the tunnel but I I do a lot of feeling around in the dark.
My father is the first man I tried to impress by dancing all around him, literally dancing all around him, who was distracted and saw only a flash and felt a slight breeze from all my efforts, and wondered to himself, 'What was that?' as I whirled past. I still don't think he has ever seen me.
But I am not done with him. I am nothing if not persistent. I am the flower. And I continue to bloom in his face. I remind him that without our roots neither of us would thrive. That it does no good for the succulent to resist its flower. The plants are so gorgeous, have always been some of my favorites, whether they have a bloom or not. But the blossom is such a sweet surprise sometimes taking years to finally bloom. It is more. It is the hand to God, the reaching, the longing, the magic expressed. It is working through the fear and the shame of wanting and needing to be loved. It just is. And we both need it, the light and the love.
As the story goes, I was born so prematurely that I was so tiny you could hold me in one hand. There was a fear that I might not survive, that the cold winter and early arrival might be too much for my tiny body. But my roots dug in deep and I called on everything I knew. The sempervivum, I was going to live and he knew it. So he gave me his name, the one he should have had. I fulfilled the promise of this family name and we are tied. Liveforever.
Happy Father's Day to my dad.
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Back to the Suburban Grind: This moment: RIP, Prince
Back to the Suburban Grind: This moment: RIP, Prince: I stand outside myself when I remember the moment. I see myself, just out of the shower, hair wet, towel draped loosely around me, when my ...
This moment: RIP, Prince
I stand outside myself when I remember the moment. I see myself, just out of the shower, hair wet, towel draped loosely around me, when my phone pings the "illuminate" ringtone which tells me my sister needs me or wants to make me laugh. I don't rush to it, know it will be there until I check it, and put on some underwear first. The rest of my clothes are on the bed but I don't grab them just yet, instead I pick up the phone to read the message.
Prince is dead. Devastated. Mess.
And I am naked except for the underwear I just put on and need more clothes because I feel so naked but also need to call her. I want to be dressed. Because I will remember this moment and want to be dressed. I don't want to be crying in my room, which I am now doing near hysterically, as I fumble for the TV remote and the phone. I reach my sister and the news channel at the same time and she is saying yes but I don't see it on TV so maybe it is not true. Because why would it be true. Because it can't be. And I keep putting on my clothes but also a blanket over my still wet head to wait for the news on TV.
It's there. A still of Prince from Purple Rain and that 1958-2016 at the end. The marker of time. I think, "I'll die in your arms under the cherry moon." I think, "Until the end of time, I'll be there for you. You own my heart and mind, I truly adore you." I think, "Baby, baby, baby...what's it gonna be tonight...." The first songs that coming from my subconscious to my head. He's gone.
The moments, hours, days, and now weeks that follow I move in a slow jam of molasses. I am going through life's motions but the pull at my throat and the corner of my eyes and my solar plexus and my chest don't let me forget that I feel profound loss for someone I don't know but who helped me discover myself. The journey he led me on at various stages of my life by sharing his cannot be overstated. I've heard it said that when one is, say, tripping on psychedelic mushrooms or acid, a good guide, someone who has already experienced the effects and visuals, can help navigate the emotional roller coaster, the drama of the alternate universes, and the mind-blowing imagery of that sojourn. My life with Prince's music has been such a trip.
Some nights I react to his passing in the lower chakras. I actually drop to my knees with ache and longing. I feel untethered and disconnected, empty and ungrounded. Prince gave me license to be in possession of myself and to connect to the energies, physical and psychic around me. I felt the hair stand up on my arm, my heart beat faster, my head spin, my legs go weak in the landscape he created. I dared not be ashamed of my otherness, my sexuality, the magnetic pull and attraction between souls.
"They feel the heat, the heat between me and you."
There are no words for what the 15 year old me felt when she first heard those lyrics. I felt like I'd been told a secret, that something lurking inside would be impossible to hide when I discovered my soul's mate. I don't think I'd ever stood face to face with a boy at that time, let alone felt his heat, but I knew something wicked and delicious and terrifying would happen when I did. Songs of love and longing had not been so visceral for me until that moment. So much of Prince's music took me through the full range of emotions, love, sex, heartbreak, pleasure and pain. The sacred and the profane. The spiritual longing, the seeking, and the command he took on stage, in the studio, on the screen made him both pilgrim and guide.
I loved that Prince did not apologize for his blood, sugar, sex, magic (to quote the Red Hot Chili Peppers). He was all those wicked things and a vulnerable man cub. He was music's Mowgli walking through the jungle of the human psyche in all its dank, dark, delicious earthiness. He was sexy and naked and sweating and sweet and looked at us all with those wet eyes and everyone fell. He was so real as to be surreal. So truly enigmatic that no matter how often he was asked to define himself, he believed in not doing so, he was. That he is gone in a blink takes away a pocket of that magic.
I'm haunted by his passing as much because I loved him and his music at a time when I was flowering into my own being as that I, and so many others, had no idea how he was suffering. I am haunted by the man alone, by the tunnels I imagine him passing through to get from studio to studio, the corridors and chambers of his secret spaces. I feel stunned by all the work amassed, the work never heard, the work, the work, the art, the music that he kept making even when his fans still connected to the tried and true, the music that we knew. I imagine him alone, in the quiet, with his god and his muse, creating and hurting, and being distinctly human on a quest for the divine. I consider my own pain, my own loneliness, my own torment and compare it though I know I shouldn't. I think of an artist in physical pain and addiction and imagine the sorrow. And then the lyrics flood me and everyone in my life really for infinity because we have to listen to his music until I say stop and I have not yet.
And in this moment in my life, waiting at a stop light, mindlessly folding laundry, sending a message, reading, or dreaming, the songs come back, pop into my head like mile markers. You've come by here before, they say. Remember when you ached, longed for that boy, fought your own demons, wanted, needed. Do you remember when you were alone? When it was another time? Another place? And it was quiet and you were naked and out of the shower and had no idea which way the day would go?
I feel guilty for taking so long to let go. My mood is revealed by what's playing. One is warned whether or not to ask the question, show me the Beanie Boo, or ask for another something by my dancing or my silence. After the call, I slowly, silently finished getting dressed. I'd turned off the TV at some point probably to hear my sister better as we talked. The house was still.
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Prince is dead. Devastated. Mess.
And I am naked except for the underwear I just put on and need more clothes because I feel so naked but also need to call her. I want to be dressed. Because I will remember this moment and want to be dressed. I don't want to be crying in my room, which I am now doing near hysterically, as I fumble for the TV remote and the phone. I reach my sister and the news channel at the same time and she is saying yes but I don't see it on TV so maybe it is not true. Because why would it be true. Because it can't be. And I keep putting on my clothes but also a blanket over my still wet head to wait for the news on TV.
It's there. A still of Prince from Purple Rain and that 1958-2016 at the end. The marker of time. I think, "I'll die in your arms under the cherry moon." I think, "Until the end of time, I'll be there for you. You own my heart and mind, I truly adore you." I think, "Baby, baby, baby...what's it gonna be tonight...." The first songs that coming from my subconscious to my head. He's gone.
The moments, hours, days, and now weeks that follow I move in a slow jam of molasses. I am going through life's motions but the pull at my throat and the corner of my eyes and my solar plexus and my chest don't let me forget that I feel profound loss for someone I don't know but who helped me discover myself. The journey he led me on at various stages of my life by sharing his cannot be overstated. I've heard it said that when one is, say, tripping on psychedelic mushrooms or acid, a good guide, someone who has already experienced the effects and visuals, can help navigate the emotional roller coaster, the drama of the alternate universes, and the mind-blowing imagery of that sojourn. My life with Prince's music has been such a trip.
Some nights I react to his passing in the lower chakras. I actually drop to my knees with ache and longing. I feel untethered and disconnected, empty and ungrounded. Prince gave me license to be in possession of myself and to connect to the energies, physical and psychic around me. I felt the hair stand up on my arm, my heart beat faster, my head spin, my legs go weak in the landscape he created. I dared not be ashamed of my otherness, my sexuality, the magnetic pull and attraction between souls.
"They feel the heat, the heat between me and you."
There are no words for what the 15 year old me felt when she first heard those lyrics. I felt like I'd been told a secret, that something lurking inside would be impossible to hide when I discovered my soul's mate. I don't think I'd ever stood face to face with a boy at that time, let alone felt his heat, but I knew something wicked and delicious and terrifying would happen when I did. Songs of love and longing had not been so visceral for me until that moment. So much of Prince's music took me through the full range of emotions, love, sex, heartbreak, pleasure and pain. The sacred and the profane. The spiritual longing, the seeking, and the command he took on stage, in the studio, on the screen made him both pilgrim and guide.
I loved that Prince did not apologize for his blood, sugar, sex, magic (to quote the Red Hot Chili Peppers). He was all those wicked things and a vulnerable man cub. He was music's Mowgli walking through the jungle of the human psyche in all its dank, dark, delicious earthiness. He was sexy and naked and sweating and sweet and looked at us all with those wet eyes and everyone fell. He was so real as to be surreal. So truly enigmatic that no matter how often he was asked to define himself, he believed in not doing so, he was. That he is gone in a blink takes away a pocket of that magic.
I'm haunted by his passing as much because I loved him and his music at a time when I was flowering into my own being as that I, and so many others, had no idea how he was suffering. I am haunted by the man alone, by the tunnels I imagine him passing through to get from studio to studio, the corridors and chambers of his secret spaces. I feel stunned by all the work amassed, the work never heard, the work, the work, the art, the music that he kept making even when his fans still connected to the tried and true, the music that we knew. I imagine him alone, in the quiet, with his god and his muse, creating and hurting, and being distinctly human on a quest for the divine. I consider my own pain, my own loneliness, my own torment and compare it though I know I shouldn't. I think of an artist in physical pain and addiction and imagine the sorrow. And then the lyrics flood me and everyone in my life really for infinity because we have to listen to his music until I say stop and I have not yet.
And in this moment in my life, waiting at a stop light, mindlessly folding laundry, sending a message, reading, or dreaming, the songs come back, pop into my head like mile markers. You've come by here before, they say. Remember when you ached, longed for that boy, fought your own demons, wanted, needed. Do you remember when you were alone? When it was another time? Another place? And it was quiet and you were naked and out of the shower and had no idea which way the day would go?
I feel guilty for taking so long to let go. My mood is revealed by what's playing. One is warned whether or not to ask the question, show me the Beanie Boo, or ask for another something by my dancing or my silence. After the call, I slowly, silently finished getting dressed. I'd turned off the TV at some point probably to hear my sister better as we talked. The house was still.
If I gave you diamonds and pearls
Would you be a happy boy or a girl
If I could I would give you the world
But all I can do is just offer you my love*
Would you be a happy boy or a girl
If I could I would give you the world
But all I can do is just offer you my love*
(Prince and the New Power Generation, Diamonds and Pearls)
It hadn't been one of my favorites but there it was. And I sang it out loud to break the silence. And as I'd felt so many times before listening to his music, I wanted someone to offer their love.
RIP, Prince Rogers Nelson
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Back to the Suburban Grind: Misty-eyed
Back to the Suburban Grind: Misty-eyed: I'm up early, before my alarm, with tears still wet on my face. My eyes are fogged with sleep and the tears left over from the most hid...
Misty-eyed
I'm up early, before my alarm, with tears still wet on my face. My eyes are fogged with sleep and the tears left over from the most hideous cry I had last night. I stayed up to watch Misty Copeland on Independent Lens. I know her story and have devoured so much about her as she's made her historic rise to principle dancer with the American Ballet Theater (ABT). Like so many women, black women, with daughters and a love of dance and the arts, I have gravitated toward this tiny, elegant force, found myself spinning around her like a mama moon. I am up early, before my alarm, because I am moved in the most spiritual of ways by an artist and her work and a moment that was a long time coming.
To say that Misty Copeland is inspiring is to discover that the word has been overused and that there are hardly words to describe this woman, her talent, and her trajectory. This is the story of a prodigy, of an artist come to life, of a consgilieri and a coven (written in the best way so don't go in) of "firsts" and strong, able, successful black women who brought a baby light into the fold. I was as moved by this group as I am by Misty's absolute command of her craft, her body, and her art. That these women were called to be her guides by the incredible Susan Fales-Hill, a writer/producer/patron of the arts and education, that they met the call to protect and nurture this artist who was sure to take her place in the pantheon they'd begun creating with their life achievements, filled me with a love and pride that is indescribable.
I have loved dance since I was a small girl dreaming of all the major roles in classical ballets and watching Michael Jackson and Solid Gold. Much of the latter part of my childhood was spent in the studio and I trained many days a week. My dance teacher, a ball-breaking Russian dancer, hurt by her turn as dance teacher to the suburban kids of New Jersey in her basement studio, still found a way to push and pull me and try to make me into something. She told me there were very few black dancers out there and that those were not players in the mainstream dance companies. She did not say this with callousness but matter of factly. I did not know about the Dance Theatre of Harlem and though I had enjoyed Ailey, I wanted to wear pointe shoes and perform the classical pieces I'd been spoon fed. I can't say that I even let myself dream of a chance at a career or a life in dance as I believed that there was no place for me in the arts and that though the arts were enriching, there were better things for one to do with one's future.
I was no Misty Copeland, she's an incredible talent, a force, but I was good. Good enough to dream about it and phantom dance through every song, sound, and watched performance. Good enough to hear the muse calling to me, but not quite sure what to answer back or how. This is the struggle of a young artist or performer. Feeling full of the spirit but needing commitment and guidance from a master. I gave up before even trying to find such a mentor, convinced that to dance was a pipe dream for me, that there were more "serious, important, pressing things" in my future. I have regretted this for all my life. Not because I thought I should or could be a dancer, but because I stopped speaking a mother tongue, a language I loved and understood to babble on in one I could only mimic.
I am absolutely mesmerized by the delicate balance of power and grace in this young woman. I have loved other ballerinas, followed their lines, studied their hands and their feet, seen the longing heaving in their tiny ribcages, watched their sternums expand and contract with each gesture. I have moved with them, hypnotized as they moved across the stage in a seemingly effortless dance that masked the years of training and hours and hours of work to prepare. But to share with my daughters a dancer that looks like them, that is shy and sensitive as they are, who, despite her fears and loneliness persevered is a precious gift. To be the first, the one and only, forging a path of one's own are themes that I have sought to share with the girls in literature, movies, stories, music, and art. Girl power and black girl magic has to come from me. I cannot wait for them to find it on their own or worse, never discover it or not believe it.
As a small girl, I had the great fortune to meet and even dance for Judith Jamison and the Alvin Ailey company backstage. My mother had gone to college with "Jam" and we'd gone to see them perform. I remember the sound and the fury of backstage life, seeing the dancers in street clothes but full stage make up, smoking cigarettes, laughing, flirting, smiling. I remember their beautiful bodies, their taut, black and brown bodies, and the feeling of the stage behind me and the seats of the empty theatre in front of me. For years after this wonderful moment, I carried that rarefied air in my lungs, all that hope and desire, that longing, until it slowly faded. When I watch Misty Copeland, I feel like that girl again and I am soaring behind her, carried along in her wake and pushing her forward with my hope and love for her. I have been taken in by this historic moment and feel such pride.
I don't know if my daughters will keep dancing, don't know if this is what calls to their spirits, but I am grateful that they have seen a dancer achieve what seemed impossible and hope that whatever they might believe is impossible now seems a little less so.
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
To say that Misty Copeland is inspiring is to discover that the word has been overused and that there are hardly words to describe this woman, her talent, and her trajectory. This is the story of a prodigy, of an artist come to life, of a consgilieri and a coven (written in the best way so don't go in) of "firsts" and strong, able, successful black women who brought a baby light into the fold. I was as moved by this group as I am by Misty's absolute command of her craft, her body, and her art. That these women were called to be her guides by the incredible Susan Fales-Hill, a writer/producer/patron of the arts and education, that they met the call to protect and nurture this artist who was sure to take her place in the pantheon they'd begun creating with their life achievements, filled me with a love and pride that is indescribable.
I have loved dance since I was a small girl dreaming of all the major roles in classical ballets and watching Michael Jackson and Solid Gold. Much of the latter part of my childhood was spent in the studio and I trained many days a week. My dance teacher, a ball-breaking Russian dancer, hurt by her turn as dance teacher to the suburban kids of New Jersey in her basement studio, still found a way to push and pull me and try to make me into something. She told me there were very few black dancers out there and that those were not players in the mainstream dance companies. She did not say this with callousness but matter of factly. I did not know about the Dance Theatre of Harlem and though I had enjoyed Ailey, I wanted to wear pointe shoes and perform the classical pieces I'd been spoon fed. I can't say that I even let myself dream of a chance at a career or a life in dance as I believed that there was no place for me in the arts and that though the arts were enriching, there were better things for one to do with one's future.
I was no Misty Copeland, she's an incredible talent, a force, but I was good. Good enough to dream about it and phantom dance through every song, sound, and watched performance. Good enough to hear the muse calling to me, but not quite sure what to answer back or how. This is the struggle of a young artist or performer. Feeling full of the spirit but needing commitment and guidance from a master. I gave up before even trying to find such a mentor, convinced that to dance was a pipe dream for me, that there were more "serious, important, pressing things" in my future. I have regretted this for all my life. Not because I thought I should or could be a dancer, but because I stopped speaking a mother tongue, a language I loved and understood to babble on in one I could only mimic.
I am absolutely mesmerized by the delicate balance of power and grace in this young woman. I have loved other ballerinas, followed their lines, studied their hands and their feet, seen the longing heaving in their tiny ribcages, watched their sternums expand and contract with each gesture. I have moved with them, hypnotized as they moved across the stage in a seemingly effortless dance that masked the years of training and hours and hours of work to prepare. But to share with my daughters a dancer that looks like them, that is shy and sensitive as they are, who, despite her fears and loneliness persevered is a precious gift. To be the first, the one and only, forging a path of one's own are themes that I have sought to share with the girls in literature, movies, stories, music, and art. Girl power and black girl magic has to come from me. I cannot wait for them to find it on their own or worse, never discover it or not believe it.
As a small girl, I had the great fortune to meet and even dance for Judith Jamison and the Alvin Ailey company backstage. My mother had gone to college with "Jam" and we'd gone to see them perform. I remember the sound and the fury of backstage life, seeing the dancers in street clothes but full stage make up, smoking cigarettes, laughing, flirting, smiling. I remember their beautiful bodies, their taut, black and brown bodies, and the feeling of the stage behind me and the seats of the empty theatre in front of me. For years after this wonderful moment, I carried that rarefied air in my lungs, all that hope and desire, that longing, until it slowly faded. When I watch Misty Copeland, I feel like that girl again and I am soaring behind her, carried along in her wake and pushing her forward with my hope and love for her. I have been taken in by this historic moment and feel such pride.
I don't know if my daughters will keep dancing, don't know if this is what calls to their spirits, but I am grateful that they have seen a dancer achieve what seemed impossible and hope that whatever they might believe is impossible now seems a little less so.
(c) Copyright 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Patterns and uniforms
I sent this picture to a friend this afternoon to show her the new curtain we'd put on the girls' closet. Her response was, "Nice. Too bad you can't' get a print in there." I joked back in response, "Not a single one. Beige City."
We bantered for a bit when I pointed out that my whole house actually was full of pattern. Animal prints and florals, stripes, color, polka dots, prints of all kinds. To my mind, it all comes together, linked by traces of color, texture, size, and dimension. I like this crazy world at home and am comforted by its controlled chaos. It's not haphazard or random. This madness is perfectly curated. Nothing gets in here by accident. There is a level of whimsy and sophistication and lots of energy and fun, with lots of room to lounge, move, create, eat, and live. It suits us.
When I go out into the world my spacesuit is usually grey, black, or navy, or some combination of these three. But when I am home, I want to see tiny explosions, mismatched pattern, contrasting colors, light and dark, hard lines and snuggly pillows and blankets. Our space is full of the creative life force that each of us brings. There is art made by all four of us hung and displayed. There are favorite motifs--crowns, cats, hearts, mandalas, mothers and children, flowers and trees, abstract paintings, woven tapestries, and my favorite, black and white something-or-others everywhere.
I have read articles about the "daily uniforms" that many professional women have adopted so that they can focus on the work in front of them. A white button down and black pants. A black tank and grey yoga leggings. Black blazer. I lean more towards a sporty comfort, dance clothes with scarves and oversized everything. Long ago, before the elegant French husband and the children who have to be picked up at school and not humiliated by their mother's eccentric tastes, I would have worn my love of color and pattern and texture all over my body. No Beige City for me. There were faux fur leaning towards teddy bear coats, big shoes, colorful eye shadows, fringe, jewelry, monocles, canes, and glasses of all sorts. Bare bellies, naked shoulders, tiny skirts in plastic or leather or mesh.
I took off my earrings once the first baby arrived because it was her life goal, it seemed, to slice my earlobe with her pulling. When we returned to the States from Barbados, I cut my hair ever shorter and felt too art-teachery, Eileen Fisher in earrings. I started the lean towards a more androgynous, exaggerated proportion after a super-sexy period in Barbados where our house was not our own and the decor most definitely was not. As my uniform went back to black, our space exploded with color and personality, expression shared in our private sanctuary and not out in the world. Like our purest feelings, our life force was tucked away into the safety of our home.
When we come in and kick off our shoes, steal away to a favorite corner or spot, the place pulsates and radiates our energy. It's for us. Our space. We peel off our masks and space suits and settle into its patterned, dynamic peace. It's warm, welcoming, comfortable, and safe. And it's just as much fun as I used to be on the outside, I told my kids.
And their reply, "You are still the most fun, mommy."
(c) 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
We bantered for a bit when I pointed out that my whole house actually was full of pattern. Animal prints and florals, stripes, color, polka dots, prints of all kinds. To my mind, it all comes together, linked by traces of color, texture, size, and dimension. I like this crazy world at home and am comforted by its controlled chaos. It's not haphazard or random. This madness is perfectly curated. Nothing gets in here by accident. There is a level of whimsy and sophistication and lots of energy and fun, with lots of room to lounge, move, create, eat, and live. It suits us.
When I go out into the world my spacesuit is usually grey, black, or navy, or some combination of these three. But when I am home, I want to see tiny explosions, mismatched pattern, contrasting colors, light and dark, hard lines and snuggly pillows and blankets. Our space is full of the creative life force that each of us brings. There is art made by all four of us hung and displayed. There are favorite motifs--crowns, cats, hearts, mandalas, mothers and children, flowers and trees, abstract paintings, woven tapestries, and my favorite, black and white something-or-others everywhere.
I have read articles about the "daily uniforms" that many professional women have adopted so that they can focus on the work in front of them. A white button down and black pants. A black tank and grey yoga leggings. Black blazer. I lean more towards a sporty comfort, dance clothes with scarves and oversized everything. Long ago, before the elegant French husband and the children who have to be picked up at school and not humiliated by their mother's eccentric tastes, I would have worn my love of color and pattern and texture all over my body. No Beige City for me. There were faux fur leaning towards teddy bear coats, big shoes, colorful eye shadows, fringe, jewelry, monocles, canes, and glasses of all sorts. Bare bellies, naked shoulders, tiny skirts in plastic or leather or mesh.
I took off my earrings once the first baby arrived because it was her life goal, it seemed, to slice my earlobe with her pulling. When we returned to the States from Barbados, I cut my hair ever shorter and felt too art-teachery, Eileen Fisher in earrings. I started the lean towards a more androgynous, exaggerated proportion after a super-sexy period in Barbados where our house was not our own and the decor most definitely was not. As my uniform went back to black, our space exploded with color and personality, expression shared in our private sanctuary and not out in the world. Like our purest feelings, our life force was tucked away into the safety of our home.
When we come in and kick off our shoes, steal away to a favorite corner or spot, the place pulsates and radiates our energy. It's for us. Our space. We peel off our masks and space suits and settle into its patterned, dynamic peace. It's warm, welcoming, comfortable, and safe. And it's just as much fun as I used to be on the outside, I told my kids.
And their reply, "You are still the most fun, mommy."
(c) 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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