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Posts Tagged ‘Family’

Yesterday I received a copy of my fathers last will and testament in the mail as is a required part of the probate of his estate. I won’t go into the contents publicly, but it brought the loss once again very much to mind, as well as the years of absence we both endured from each other.
 
I found this beautiful, sad poem written by one of the best young poets I have found in quite some time, Warsan Shire. It brought a needed calm to me, as it embraced the emotions I feel as well.
 
 
Backwards
by Warsan Shire,
 
for Saaid Shire
 
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;
that’s how we bring Dad back.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.
We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,
your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can write the poem and make it disappear.
Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Maybe we’re okay kid?
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,
you won’t be able to see beyond it.
You won’t be able to see beyond it,
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.
Maybe we’re okay kid,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.
I can write the poem and make it disappear,
give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums
we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,
that’s how we bring Dad back.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
 
Warsan Shire, “Backwards.” Copyright © 2014 by Warsan Shire.
 
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An interesting look at Buddhists doing something one might not expect. Well, okay, maybe doing 2 things one might not expect; Protesting and using social media in ways other than teaching Buddhism or reaching followers. But then, perhaps it’s not as unexpected as one might think on first glance. The issues that are presented by the Trump administration are plentiful indeed, depending on your individual politics. The travel ban, or whatever he might wish to call in on any given day, is obviously the most contested so far. I’m sure that his policies and my own philosophies will clash many times.

Do have a read, dear reader. I hope you find it interesting.

Buddhist teachers, on social media, respond to “Muslim travel ban” (Updated)

 

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And the Gods told our fathers

Give us your sons

And we will trade their smiles for death.

Send us their coats of many colours

And we will change those colours to red,

Give us their sandals

And we will exchange them for boots with which

To tread upon the lives of nameless mothers.

Give us their shirts and

We will smother the children in them.

And they will hate us for it.

 

We will lie to them,

We will never set them free.

 

We will take the lives of your sons

In wars over greed and lust.

Our altars of sacrifice will bleed once more

With glorious blood.

The spilled blood of your sons

The sons of the poor, the sons of the illiterate,

The sons without hope, and the foolishly brave.

 

And we will teach you deception,

We will teach you loss

We will teach you sorrow and

We will desert you when you grieve

And you will thank us for it.

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Harriet Tubman On The Hilltops Of Heaven

 

Prayed as she tossed stones down

Into the valley of remembrance.

And each she offered with a prayer,

A word of blessing to each name

Written one by one on each stone.

 

To those both named and unnamed,

The mild and the strong,

The wretched and the saints.

To each life ripped away by hatred

Those who empowered

Those who oppressed

Everyone who hid behind walls

Those who stood to be counted

Those who were beaten down.

Those who saw their own death

Written in front of their eyes

On burning crosses

Spread across Mother Earths bosom.

Who saw their children’s souls ascend and

Cried the tears of Virgin Mary.

Those who at the moment of death

Saw their own fate reflected

In the futures of their children.

Those whose lives were filled with fear,

Those who heard unforgotten words of hate

In their dead ears for centuries.

Those who touched the sky,

Those who could barely crawl,

Those killed because they ran,

Those hung from trees,

Those dragged into the earth,

Those whose wounds bled for generations.

Those who believed blindly,

Those who suffered the lies in silence,

And those who knew a lie for a lie

And died trying to teach.

 

When she ran out of stones

Her cry was heard throughout the universe

For there were so many more names than stones

 

 

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1.
Where have they gone
The young and the proud?

Will we say their names again?
Will we sing their praises on Sundays in church?
Will their photographs hang in Willies’ barbershop windows
Alongside the heroes of World War 2,
The Norman Rockwell prints
And his autographed photos of Ted Williams and Rocky Marciano?

Will there be a celebration of their sacrifices in the town square
The mayor making a speech and mounting a plaque?
The mothers and sisters and wives crying inconsolably?

Or will their fathers hide their grief in bottles of moonshine
The bitterness growing with every drop
Their mothers asking themselves in secrecy what they’ve done wrong
Sisters feeling unprotected without big brother
Little brothers lacking a role model, what chance do they have?
Will no one waltz in the street when their names are mentioned
Or will they merely turn their grief away?

Who will lead us into the future?
Who will install that first traffic light?
Their photos in the Sunday paper big smiles all around
Where will our smiles come from without our boys as heroes?

There will be no continuity here
A generation is lost
Our sons have been ripped from their future
Johnny will not come marching home again.

Where have you gone, my heroes my heroes,
Why have you left our lives?
Where have you gone, my heroes my heroes,
And what will become of us?

2.
Where have they gone
The young and proud?

Where is Gus?
He who could run like the wind
Down the field to victory on homecoming night

Where is Eddie with the cannon right arm?
He who threw the winning touchdown pass to Gus?

Where is Lawrence?
He who made his grandmother so proud
Her slave life stories were so vivid in his mind
The first one in the family to finish school

Where are Gunvald and Bengt?
The town’s only immigrant sons,
Those two new Sons of the Town who worked so much harder,
Just to fit in,

Where is Tom?
He who always drove too fast
Son of the local sheriff,
Racing in the streets on Saturday nights?

Will their parents mourn their loss?
Will we notice their absence?

Greg, he whose Diner has already closed down,
Crippled after his hip surgery failed, and now
Gus is not there to take his place
Irene, his wife, she who couldn’t deal with the loss
The towns first civilian casualty
Of a war so far away

The 5 and Dime store won’t last long either,
Mr. Nichols, he who is getting older by the day,
Never stands outside the shop door anymore, greeting everyone,
His health is failing and Eddie isn’t coming back to take over
It’s a matter of time now they say.

Pete he who can’t climb the trees anymore to trim them,
Says he’ll have to sell his orchards and land to pay his mortgage
Gunvald and Bengt will be trimming trees only in Pete’s memories

Where have you gone, my heroes my heroes,
Why have you left our lives,
Where have you gone, my heroes my heroes,
And what will become of us?

 

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This is about a romance, the start of an ending that began long ago. It’s about romance and a team that came and went and came and then, as things always do, went again, and now is gone, awaiting a return. I speak of baseball, the great American pastime, roundball, the search for home, the Mick, the Babe, Jackie Robinson, Ebbets Field, my grandmother, and baseball in my hometown, Portland, Oregon.

There is a scene in the movie Field of Dreams where an aging Burt Lancaster tells Kevin Costner in very romanticized terms about wanting to play big league baseball.
“I-I never got to bat in the major leagues. I’d have liked to have had that chance just once, to stare down a big-league pitcher. To stare him down, then just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn’t. That’s what I wish for. The chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingle in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases, stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That’s my wish, Ray Kinsella. That’s my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true?”   It’s a beautiful scene, full of wishful thinking about how we rarely get the chance to do what we truly want in life, and the wonderment of what might have happened if.

To me, baseball IS what might have happened if, or at least the baseball I grew up with, the baseball I learned to love, is. It’s filled with it. Baseball is a way of life in the US, just as much as hot dogs, picnics, the soft breeze on a summer’s day as you jump into the lake, riding your bike to the store to pick up a paper for your dad, scrambling from your bike, over the fence to the neighbour’s farm for some strawberries or apples on the way and hoping the farmer’s dog doesn’t spot you before you jump back over the picket fence to safely enjoy the fresh fruit. The strawberries were always perfect, the green apples never too tart and the dog was always a few steps slower than you.

I first learned about baseball from my maternal grandmother, a wonderful, caring, strong woman. She would sit by the television and watch the baseball game of the week every Saturday. She grew up in Brooklyn and as probably everyone in Brooklyn was back then, she was a Dodgers fan. While I grew to love the Yankees and Cubs, I appreciated deeply her passion for her team and felt her sorrow, even as she grew to an older age, at the memory of the day the dreaded Walter O’Malley moved the team she loved away to the west coast. The dreaded day the Brooklyn Dodgers became the Los Angeles Dodgers, the first team on the west coast. The classic beautiful Ebbets Field has been torn down now and is covered up by a 20-story brick apartment building, having only a sign mentioning the glory hall that it supplanted. Ebbets Field was built in 1912-1913. This year marks the 100th year anniversary of the first major league game played there. The 100th year anniversary of when a love affair turned bittersweet was born.

My older brother played little league baseball when he was young. I remember watching the games (I was too young to join). I also remember the day we got tickets to see the minor league team, the Portland Beavers, play a game in old Civic Stadium. I couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7 years old when I went to that first game but I had a great time. I even won a baseball glove, which made my brother jealous to no end. (Actually he was hoping for a bat, but would have loved the glove!) The team, founded in 1903, was a good team, occasionally a very good team, with a great loyal blue-collar following. They first played at old Vaughn Stadium, now long gone, and then moved to Civic Stadium in 1956. They were, or are, both inner-city stadiums in a workers filled neighbourhood in Northwest Portland long before the area became so very fashionable.

I hate to admit it but that was the last Beavers baseball game I ever went to. I always followed them. I knew whether they won their last time out or not, knew if they made the playoffs or not, (not often). But I took comfort knowing they were there. A sort of a sense of continuing tradition in a time where we questioned every tradition we ever had as a country.

In this spot originally, was Multnomah Field, opened as an athletic playing field in 1893. Multnomah Stadium, which later became known as Civic Stadium, was originally built in 1926 at a cost of 502 thousand dollars or about 6.51 million dollars in current value. It has recently been completely rebuilt and is known as Jeld-Wen Field, at a cost of over 36 million dollars. Ebbets Field, by way of comparison, was built in 1913 for 750 thousand dollars, or about 17.4 million dollars in current value. But none of those statistics matter worth a damn. It’s about the game, isn’t it?

A lot of great sports writers and others are going to write about their memories of games at Ebbets Field. Very few will write this year about their memories watching Beavers games at Civic Stadium or Vaughn Stadium before that. My baseball memories started there, with a winning ticket, a glove, a hot dog and a coke, the organ in the seventh inning, the sky so blue that it hurt my eyes to look at it. It will continue to Seattle, watching the Mariners play, the beauty of Ken Griffey Junior’s swing and Edgar Martinez playing the game like it was the 1930s again. It continues to New York and Yankee stadium and Reggie Jackson in the World Series belting out three homers, to Los Angeles, Kirk Gibson’s miracle home run, to Shea Stadium in 1986 where poor Bill Buckner misplayed the ball, the sad deaths of Roberto Clemente and Thurman Munson. The almost unhittable Vida Blue, Rickey Henderson, Don Drysdale, the Bambino, Sandy Koufax, Wilie Stargell, Derek Jeter, and a list to long for anyone’s blog.

True, not all of baseball is perfect, not by a long shot. When Jackie Robinson finally broke into the big league as the first African-American player he was hated, threatened, abused (and that was even during the games), when Henry Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s home run record, he was also threatened and suffered terrible racial injustice his entire career. Steroids have eaten away at the very fabric of the game, to where no great accomplishment goes unquestioned. Players seem to be more concerned about money than winning, etc. etc.  All of this is public record; feel free to look it up. However, none of that has dampened my love of the game.

I rarely get the chance to watch baseball here, now that I live in Stockholm. My beloved Beavers have moved to Tucson. The networks over here don’t understand the game and don’t carry it, so I have to try to stay up all night to catch the game of the week on ESPN Sunday nights, or actually very early Monday morning. But when I do, I sit there with my late grandmother, we both enjoy the smell of the grass, it’s a beautiful perfect night for baseball and all our friends are there. I don’t give a damn how much some guy earns for knocking it out of the park. Just play the game guys, it’s a beautiful game to watch and play!

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Have a wonderful holiday season filled with fun, friendship, warmth and the companionship of those you love. May your days be filled with peace.

Peace is not merely a distant goal that we seek but a means by
which we arrive at that goal.
– Martin Luther King, Jr

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