Red Balloon: An independent bookstore for the child in all of us (TCDP)

Excerpt:  It’s 10:15 on Tuesday morning. More than sixty moms, dads, grandparents and nannies have brought their infants to the Red Balloon Book Shop—one of the few remaining independent bookstores in Saint Paul. Adults and babies sit on the floor, eyes transfixed on storyteller Sara Walker as she energetically moves across the room, weaving stories, music and games together. Tuesday morning is story time for infants and the audience is mesmerized.

Read more at http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/11403

Citizen Kane and Jane

Today, the Minneapolis Star Tribune published an article about citizen journalism.  The reporter prominently featured me in the article here is a link to the story.

http://www.startribune.com/lifestyle/18463194.html

Archbishop Desmond Tutu applauds PeaceJammers (TCDP)

Excerpt:  “Aren’t they just fantastic?”

Nobel Peace Prize laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu may have been this weekend’s headliner; however, the real stars were the 350 teens, mentors and advisors attending the April 12-13 PeaceJam conference—the PeaceJammers.

Read more at http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/11001

Crayons (Revised)

 

I have a set of crayons I purchased for my son.
They’re People Color Crayons, with more choices than just one. 

When he draws with these crayons, I can’t help but imagine how
our country would be so much better, with more choices than we have now. 

The term black, which is often used, simply does not apply.
Instead, I’d rather call myself fawn, while I look you in the eye. 

My husband who is told he’s white can freely declare to you
he’s actually the color melon.  Something not many people knew. 

Our handsome and intelligent son could then stand up and boast
he’s proud his skin color looks more like a slice of toast. 

Our creative way of thinking quickly extends beyond us three
to every man, woman and child longing to be free.   

Some might say they’re peach or maize, others sable, spice or taupe.
With so many colors, we quickly learn our titles are too narrow in scope. 

Then our government leaders, forced to listen to our cry,
would finally admit to everyone that race was just a lie. 

Created by our forefathers, to justify their greed.
It plagues our nation to this day, oppressing those in need. 

Our nationwide protest means we no longer follow the norm
of being lumped in obsolete categories on a census form. 

No longer trapped in boxes, we see each other as peers.
Instead of letting a thin layer of pigment dictate all our fears. 

Can a simple pack of crayons help create a better country?
I believe a change can happen, and I’ll have it begin with me.

              © 2007

I wrote this poem after working as an exhibit volunteer in The Science Museum of Minnesota’s special exhibit RACE: How Different Are We?  The crayons were my favorite prop to share with museum guests who inevitably found them liberating.  At the end of the exhibit’s run, I presented an earlier version of my poem to Robert Garfinkle, one of the chief creators of the exhibit. I also recently posted it on Barack Obama’s website to show my support for him after his historical speech of race.

Privatizing St. Paul Rec Centers (TCDP)

Excerpt:  In actuality, Saint Paul is transferring management of eight of its recreation centers to community organizations. In an effort to keep the lights on at all of its recreation centers, Saint Paul devised a creative solution—partnerships.

Read more at http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/10068

Plans for Central Corridor LRT make some business owners uneasy (TCDP)

Excerpt: “As a business owner and a property owner, I’m against it.” Kathy Stransky expressed her hostility over the proposed Central Corridor LRT slated to stop outside her front door. Stransky and her husband Tom together own Midway Used and Rare Books in Saint Paul. The store has sat on the corner of Snelling and University for the past 43 years—and the Stranskys have owned it for 27 of those years.

Read more at  http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/9463.

After 33 years, Women’s Advocates Inc. is still a good neighbor (TCDP)

Excerpt:  As the first battered women’s shelter in the nation, Women’s Advocates has always strived to empower women. “Our mission is eliminating violence in the lives of women and children,” says executive director Raeone Loscalzo.

Read more at http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/9380

St. Paul mom named Science Museum’s volunteer of the month (MSR)

When I’m not writing news I’m making it.  Here’s an article about me published in the Minnesota Spokesman-Recorder newspaper.

Read the article at:

http://www.spokesman-recorder.com/news/article/article.asp?NewsID=85688&sID=13&ItemSource=L

Looking for light-rail justice (TCDP)

Excerpt:  Debbie Gibson bundles up her three small children to protect their little faces from the frigid cold as they wait to catch the #21 bus in Saint Paul. They then take the long bus ride to connect with the Hiawatha light-rail station to attend a job-training program in Minneapolis. It is a time-consuming process most people would avoid if given the opportunity. Gibson, however, doesn’t have that luxury. As a single mother of four children, three under school age, Gibson is “transit dependent.”

Read the entire article at the link below.

 http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/9246.

Gaining dignity through words (TCDP)

Excerpt:  “Once a week for the past five years, Peter Blau has stepped away from his paid job as a writing instructor to teach a creative writing class to a group of women at the Volunteers of America Residential Correction Center in Roseville. The women gather in a classroom anxiously awaiting his arrival. They want to share their stories…in their own words.” 

Read more at the link below.

http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/node/9112

Camping While Black (MMO)

Excerpt:  “However, there was nothing funny when Mike and I took our son Jaden on a family camping trip earlier this year. No, there was nothing at all funny when another camper extended a 20-foot tall flagpole that proudly displayed the Confederate flag.” 

Read the article at mothersmovement.org

Grandparents Day

A brightly colored banner draped across the entryway greeted visitors as they walked into the school.  Large bold letters read “Welcome Grandparents” on top and in slightly smaller letters “and Special Guests” underneath.  That’s me, she thought, a special guest.   With her husband’s parents deceased and hers in another state, she felt it was her responsibility to attend the celebration, for her son’s sake.

She followed the slow moving parade of walking-challenged seniors into the atrium for a nametag.  Afterwards, she wriggled her way through the crowd to her son’s classroom.   The already crowded classroom of 24 second-graders, desks and project tables soon swelled to nearly fire-safety capacity.  Grandparents sat in folding chairs near their grandchild’s desk.  She grabbed one of the few remaining chairs and placed it next to her son.  She was grateful; late arrivals would find themselves standing in the back of the room.

“Mom, look what I made.”  Her son showed her his latest project, drawings of the life cycle of a butterfly.

“Wow sweetie, you did a great job.”  Her standard response assured him that she was proud of him.

A robust, white-haired man, with callused hands sitting nearby drew her attention.  He stared at her with a radiant smile that revealed he was delighted to be there with his granddaughter.  “I drove down from Grand Rapids…where Judy Garland is from.  That’s three hours north, so I came in last night.  I have three kids and together they’ve given me have eight grand children. I come down whenever possible to see them.”  She smiled politely back at him, though inside she felt he was really passing judgment on her.

In a sea of seniors, she felt like a fish out of water until she saw a professional woman wearing a navy blue power suit walking towards her.  She recognized her from other school functions and felt less alone.  “My parents would have come but they’re on a cruise in Greece,” the other woman volunteered.  “What about yours?

“My parents couldn’t come because they live too far away.” She stroked her son’s curly hair and hoped her face didn’t reveal the truth.  Physical distance wasn’t the only reason her parents were absent.  She never bothered to invite her parents because she knew they would have seen it as trivial. 

While announcing the class had a surprise in store, the teacher motioned the students-each holding a sheet of paper-to move into a semicircle around the classroom.  Then the teacher pointed to the first child, a little girl with corkscrew curls, cueing her to read from her paper.  “My grandparents are the best because they read stories to me.”  The next was a tall, lanky boy who pushed his glasses up on his face as he read.  “My grandparents are the best because they take me fishing.”  By now, their surprise was painfully obvious.  The children had written a precious memory about their grandparents on the paper and were now sharing it with the class.  Grandparents in the room were beaming with joy while she stood petrified.  She looked toward her son near the other end and feared what was he had written.  Unlike the grandparents gathered in this room, her parents were not warm and affectionate.  Instead, they usually acted stiff, almost robotic around children.

She recalled her own childhood…growing up in a time when children were seen and not heard.  Her parents rarely sat down and played with her or her two brothers.  “The reason I had three of you was so you can play with each other,” was her mother’s typical response to their pleas.  Occasionally, she and her brothers could persuade her to play cards with them but that was because they needed a fourth.  The only game her no-nonsense father ever played was one he invented called scare.  Her father would hide in some dark corner of the house such as the laundry room or a closet, then jump out and scare whoever was walking by-usually his daughter.  He’d laugh hysterically while she stood there reduced to tears and gasping for air.  Then he would say, “Girl you’re ten years old, stop crying like a baby.  I didn’t scare you that bad.”  At least they were more nurturing than their own parents were, she thought.  As adult children of alcoholics, her parents had to look elsewhere for parenting role models.  Somehow, they successfully managed to provide their three children with a stable home and an economic future; for that, she was grateful.   

The sound of the teacher’s voice jarred her back into the present.  “Speak louder Celeste so everyone can hear you.”  A little girl wearing a purple velour dress with a white ruffled collar stood in front of the class twisting back and forth allowing her dress to float.  “My grandmother is the best because she bought me this pretty dress.”  Now it was finally her son’s turn.  She felt a sense of panic as her son began to speak.  He stood up straight and proudly said, “My mom is the best because she builds K’nex with me.”  He then gave her a smile…a smile that made her realize for the first time her fears were not her son’s because for him, her love was enough.

The Necklace (Gather)

Read a poem I wrote as a tribute to my mother at

 http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977134455

 

The Water (Gather)

This poem was prompted by a picture my writing salon group leader gave me and asked me to create a story.  This is what I came up with.

http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977046567

Urine: The Natural Way to Clean Your Clothes (AC)

Why waste your money on those high-buck cleaners when urine works just as well.  Follow the link below and learn more.

Urine: The Natural Way to Clean Your Clothes - Associated Content

Summer Reading Programs to the Rescue (AC)

Read about a great way to keep you kids reading skills up throughout the summer.

Summer Reading Programs to the Rescue - Associated Content

Minneapolis Celebrates Juneteenth like No Place Else (AC)

See what makes Minneapolis’ festival one of the best in the nation.

Minneapolis Celebrates Juneteenth like No Place Else - Associated Content

St. Paul, MN Ushers in Summer with Annual Grand Old Day Celebration (AC)

St. Paul, MN Ushers in Summer with Annual Grand Old Day Celebration - Associated Content

The Last Temptation of Cake

Honestly, at the time it seemed like a brilliant idea. Any pint-sized kid with a hankering for cake would agree. But now I felt trapped and saw no way out.

There I stood in the kitchen washing the dinner dishes like I was told, while my brothers were in the TV room watching Love American Style. They weren’t expected to do “women’s work” simply because they were born with a Y chromosome. To me it just didn’t seem fair.

A few feet away from the sink was the remainder of tonight’s dessert; half of a yellow cake with chocolate icing-my favorite. “Don’t touch that cake while we’re gone.” That was the last thing my mother said before she and my father headed out for a neighborhood meeting. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she said not to touch it is what made it that much more irresistible. Or maybe it was because I felt I was unjustly sentenced to extra work. Whatever the reason, I found the temptation too much to bear.

As I washed the dishes, I found myself drawn to the cake as if it were seducing me. I tried to ignore my urges but that only seemed to make them grow stronger. Finally desire overcame willpower. First I ate the crumbs from the cake plate; then I nibbled around the edges of the cake; finally I sliced myself a paper thin piece of cake so no one would notice. But these things only temporarily brought satisfaction; I needed more.

That was when my brilliant idea hit me. I decided I would just lift up the top layer of the cake and eat the bottom layer. Then anyone looking at the cake would still see the fancy top layer and never realize what I had done. Yes, it was an absolutely brilliant plan in my mind; but, there was one problem I hadn’t anticipated. My mother’s beautiful two layer cake now looked more like something that came from an Easy Bake Oven. However, at this point there was no turning back so I finished the bottom layer and decided to let deal with the fallout later. Besides, there was always a chance my parents might not notice the cake was now half as tall.

Well, the first test of my plan came a few minutes later when my brothers came into the kitchen. They both stood in utter amazement at what I had done to the cake. I tried to pretend like nothing had happened but weren’t buying my act in the least. “Even a blind man could see half that cake is missing,” one exclaimed. Yes, I had gotten myself in a jam and my brothers found it quite amusing. They were now looking forward to my parents returning home so they could be the first to tell them what I had done. They each grabbed a chair and sat in the kitchen waiting, because the only thing better than watching TV was watching a sibling get in trouble.

Like I said, I felt trapped; and with each passing minute I felt more and more like there was no escape. Then the front door began to open and my heart leaped into my throat. My brothers sat there grinning and ready to rat me out; but just then I got another brilliant idea. I would beat them to the punch and confess myself.

“Mom, Dad-I’m sorry,” were the first words they heard as they walked in the door.

“What did you do?” My mother asked. I pointed toward the cake and she instantly became livid. “HOW-COULD-YOU?”"

I don’t know what came over me…I just couldn’t help myself.” Then I just stood there not sure what they would do to me. Apparently my parents were just as confused as I was because they also stood there speechless. My brothers were disappointed I beat them to the punch but a good punishment would more than make up for that.

My father, who was a very stern disciplinarian, came up with a punishment that stunned all of us. “I want you to stand here and eat the other half of that cake.”

“WHAT!” said my mother.

“WHAT!” said each of my brothers.

“REALLY!” said me!

My mother feeling like she was the injured party (and rightfully so considering she baked and cake and specifically told me not to touch it) protested because she considered the punishment was too lenient. But my father stood firm. “It will make her sick. Just watch.”

So I proceeded to follow order and eat the top layer of the cake. My mother stormed off to her room in anger at his decision. My brothers sat their in complete disgust as I gloated whenever my father wasn’t watching. And when he did watch, I’d drum up a few crocodile tears to convince him I was suffering; little did he know I had a cast iron stomach.

Finally my brothers were so fed up with me they decided they’d rather watch TV.After finishing the top layer, I naturally washed the cake plate. Yet this was one dish I didn’t mind cleaning because it brought me sweet satisfaction. And as I stood over the sink I thought to myself “That was a brilliant idea…perhaps my best ever.”

Trapped (A tribute to my friend Regina)

Trapped!
Like a caged animal pacing in a zoo.
And all eyes watching to see what it will do.
Or me in a new school on the very first day,
Closely being studied like I was on display.

I was different from the others back when I was eight.
And they made sure I knew it by expressing their hate.
They stared and whispered and snickered to hurt me.
Not one kind face as far as I could see.
All alone, abandoned, like in a horrible dream
I felt trapped, confined, and unable to scream.

A girl walked up and looked me in the eye.
And I stood there frightened, wanting to cry.
“Do you want to play with us?” in a kind voice she said.
I smiled and said “Yes!” and that’s when she led
Me to her friends who treated me kind.
And as we played, I started to find
That trapped feeling soon faded away
Because I made true friends that very day.
And I owe it all to Regina who’s own sheer will
Started a friendship that continues still.