Insights of a Writer

As I have never left the U.S., my impression of life in other countries is very limited when it comes to their lifestyles. But having lived in America for nearly 68 years, I have a pretty good take on life here. Not only do I have time as a consideration, but experience, observation and being female, black and low income gives me a familiar perspective with millions of others. These characteristics gives both men and women like me a perception that is perhaps quite different from the one most people who have not been to America think about our country.

The primary misconception, perhaps, is that all Americans have money. That belief is a real illusion. We do not all have money, although most Americans are able to live moderate lives with the money that we have. Nearly everyone has some sort of indoor plumbing and bathroom facility, clean water, electricity to run their refrigerator to keep their food from spoiling, some type of heat and stove for cooking, facilities to wash their clothing and public transportation.

Health care is available for emergencies, but general health concerns are often not addressed without private insurance. The exception is for children where there are entire hospitals set up for their care. Seniors and disabled fare a little better with most of their medical needs being provided at low or no cost, particularly if they are retired and have paid into our retirement system.

Living as a low-income person in a country considered one of the richest in the world takes a certain mindset and determination. Seeing wealth all around and not being able to partake in it can be very frustrating. It is human nature to desire beautiful things and to want more. However, because there are so many others who are living on the same level, after awhile you realize that it is not personal, but just an accident of birth.

The other particular consequence of being a minority, whether rich or poor, can be very real and very personal. That’s where the illusion of America’s greatness begins to break down. There is still great discrimination and injustice. Not only between the races, but also between the classes. Attitudes, preferences, and beliefs are still further grounds for bias and prejudice.

Nevertheless, with all the differences that it takes to make up the United States of America, as a citizen I love my country and its people. We sometimes fight among ourselves, like all families do, but when one of us is harmed or taken we rally together to return that one to our bosom. I am sure that everyone, wherever you live, can and should speak of your place of birth as I do mine. All I can say is that it ain’t perfect, but it’s home.

The story of the young woman who lost her job after posting a remark on Facebook about her customers brings us a great opportunity to discuss something that is running rampant in this country…bad customer service. With today’s economy being what it is, I am sorry she lost her job, but her firing brings up another point. If she was a good employee, her bosses could have taken the time to teach her a life-long lesson in etiquette and superior business practices by explaining the policy that was in place and why. Perhaps the subject never came up during her interview and probationary period and she was unaware of it. Many young people do not understand or have not been taught the same level of respect for the company and its customers that is necessary to display good work ethics or company pride as in the past.

The primary problem that exists in most business interactions today is the rudeness or complete lack of good customer service. Whether it is on the phone, or in person, workers act as if they are doing you a favor when they wait on you, rather than the other way around. If the customer did not patronize their business, the worker would not have a job. This concept does not seem to register with many clerks or service personnel. When did it become the duty of the customer to please the person behind the counter or on the other end of the phone?

Being a service person or government bureaucrat calls for being of service as one of the undefined duties and a great part of one’s responsibility. Besides, being nice will always made your day easier and more pleasant. Knowing that you can either make or break someone’s attitude or well-being just by the way you approach them, handle their affairs or respond to their needs should be a power booster and an incentive to act in a non-passive-aggressive manner.

If you do not like dealing with people, why take a job that has you interacting with other human beings on a constant basis? But just taking a job because it is available can put the company owner’s business in jeopardy, as shown by this incidence. So it is a warning to business owners to add instructions of proper social skills to their list of items to discuss during the training of their service workers. Better still, a primary question during the interview would be, “how do you get along with people?”

For the last four or five years I’ve been writing blogs and doing social networking and have joined or connected to over 300 internet groups. When I Google my name, I’m surprised at the things that pop up and am amazed at how far my name and messages have reached. This is not to thump my own chest, rather to set the stage for something which never ceases to amaze me. I wonder and am surprised when others comment on how strong they consider me to be.

My readers’ perceptions make me wonder to what exactly is that strength attributed? Is it the time I’ve spent at the keyboard pecking away; or it is starting, deleting, uploading and downloading pictures and videos? Is it using the Thesaurus to express the same words in different ways to vary my content; or is it reading and re-reading, checking the spell-checked text to be sure I’ve caught all the errors? Is it arranging, rearranging, placing and displacing sentences, clauses, phrases, titles, paragraphs, punctuation marks, or whole topics?

Is it the subject matter I write about; the opinions I confer, the arguments in which I take a determined stand, or the information about my experiences I choose to share? Or could it be my resolve to write even when I wonder if what I am saying is making a difference?

I have come to accept that my being strong is not a power that I particularly possess. But my strength comes from the perception of my readers. If those who read my articles can derive some measure of understanding, enlightenment and inspiration, I believe they are made stronger. Their strength is then reflected back to me in encouraging comments they send which in turn makes me stronger.

Without receiving responses, the posts I write are merely me consuming time and effort. Instead they have become more than expressions of my point of view and a sharing of my life’s journey. Our ongoing communications have become a source of reciprocal strength, and I wish to thank all of my readers for making me strong.

Lately I have been getting lots of comments calling me “man.” I guess because I’ve carried a male name, Paris, all my life I forget that people naturally assume that I am male. That’s why I though I should post my picture so that you could put the face to the name and the messages.

I am a great-grandmother of 4, grandmother of 14 and mother of 3 surviving sons and 2 daughters. I am retired, but has recently published a book for children, The First Trip, and designed the characters into rag dolls called “Oodles,” the first one to be introduced is Bubba Oodle. Writing is one of my favorite things to do, so I enjoy writing this blog and hearing from my readers.

I appreciate so much all the wonderful comments, and those slightly left of wonderful (LOL). I learn something about myself from the way that you all see me and the thoughts you share.

It is good to know that my work has played a part in the advancement, enlightenment, and encouragement of so many. I try to give my honest opinion, while being mindful of the opinions of others, and respecting the fact that we may not always agree.

Now that we’ve come to the end of another successful year, I want to wish everyone Happy Holidays and God bless. Please continue to follow my work, and to let me hear from you. Take care, Paris

“Still You’re Gone” was the title of a song written by my oldest son, Tracy Eugene Tompkins, and given to me a year before he passed away in 2004. Today I am remembering Tracy with so much love, and just a little weepy. He wouldn’t want me to sit around all day crying over him.

He was not that kind of guy, you know. Tracy was 41 when the brain aneurysm struck him down. I had talked to him the day before because we were to go shopping for supplies for my new business I was so excited about.

After nearly 12 years, it seemed that I was finally on my way with my Oodleville books for children and the character Oodle Dolls I had designed for them. Tracy was excited also, and took the picture of me holding my first contract, calling me an “author” for the first time. That had been one of my most joyous days.

So I was planning to bring Tracy up to speed on all I had done, and one day leave it all in his most creative and capable hands. He was always coming up with ideas of his own, from writing music, doing art, writing science fiction, clay animation, and international gaming. His creative mind knew no limits.

Neither did his heart. He accepted everyone, no matter their status, race, class or sexual preferences. Tracy could and would find something of value in their spirits and they could be friends. He was the father of 2 beautiful girls, Christina and Samantha, and the grandfather of one at that time, now there are 3.

It is strange how death takes away so much, and leaves such torturous pain, but also leaves wisps of memory, and sprinkles of joy. Today I am focusing on it all.

In a series of articles I have written for this blog, I focused on the intolerance perpetrated by U.S. blacks toward other U.S. blacks. But the subject of this article has gone around in my mind like bits of fabric loosely sewn together with threads of memory and heartache. So rather than continue my own tirade regarding black intolerance, I decided to flip the script and discuss another valid point. Instead of focusing on the pieces, why not reflect on the whole?

Research for this project contained a patchwork of discussions with peers, reading material provided by “experts” and statistics about the supposed division of black people which serve to stir up much debate. Controversy has produced a tattered remnant with uneven edges and puckered seams; an unattractive and uncomfortable quilt whose rhetorical shape does not resemble the blanket which enfolds us all. They do not speak the language of truth that despite our differences we are all black, therefore, we are one.

First, to those who are not black descendants of slave forefathers, or might not have been born in the U.S., I believe I can unequivocally say that there are few blacks in America who are not proud to be black. Whether we are accused of “acting white,“ dye our hair blond, talk “proper” or only date members of other ethnic groups, we love, and are proud of being black.

Second, we recognize each other for the special-ness that we share.  After slavery was abolished in the 1860s, we formed intact communities and lived among those like ourselves. Because of segregation and Jim Crow laws, we were generally separated from white Americans because of  the color of our skin.

The civil rights movement of the 1960s brought the illegality of our separateness to the forefront of the world’s attention, and new laws allowed for desegregation and integration. For many, the opportunity to relocate allowed more urbane blacks who could afford it to move beyond our communities into new neighborhoods. So, we were again separated except it was from our own people due to differences in economics, education and social skills. That separation marked the beginning of the situation we find ourselves in today.

Prior to the 1960, there were variations in education and economic classes among blacks, the same as in other groups. But the one thing that most of Americans, black and white, had in common was their social skills. We all knew “please,” “thank you,” “sir,” and “’mam.” Direction, support and aptitude were the most determining factors as into which class blacks would fall.

As the years have gone by and the populations of both those who left and those who remained behind have grown, the inequality between the two has come more forcefully to the attention of those who made it out. They are looking back, seeing their brothers and sisters lagging behind, and wondering what to do about it.

The success of many who have risen from the ranks has shown such outstanding achievement, the question of why we all have not made it has come to the forefront of discussion. I believe the reason is that there is not enough directional and economic resources available, and not for a lack of inspiration, imagination or ingenuity. There are many local people making and plying goods and services, some legitimate, some not.

The crux of this problem has been how we can focus assistance on blacks without appearing bias toward other groups, as there is a definite desire to help. We see it in the flourish of entertainers and others aiding blacks in African nations rather than at home, because it was viewed as the job of government or churches to provide for the needs of lower income Americans, and those entitlements and charities continue to some extent.

However, in the present economy, black culture needs are not being addressed because items that had a slight resemblance to ridicule or stereotyping was made “politically incorrect” in 1965. That ban on such items, even those created by blacks,  has attributed to their being shunning by other blacks. So the need to support each other has created a microcosm of human to human assistance that is existing to the extreme in the macrocosm of need in the world.

As before, blacks helping their neighbors on the other side of town would serve as an example to the world of raising up a culture from its lower status. The opportunities are plentiful as there are many black artists, writers, inventors and designers, dreamers of great dreams, who could use financial backing, direction and support. To be able to move their products and services to the mainstream would allow them to return the favor and help those organizations struggling to educate, feed and clothe others. The trend could continue until the majority of, not only blacks, but all Americans are achieving on the level of which we are capable.

There are many who are capable and desiring to move beyond their undeveloped state to be able to realize the American dream. But without help, their dreams will not be realized. Recognizing that we are one, our blackness should serve as the cover big enough to enfold our discomfort and discontent, as we bind the edges with the distinctive fabrics that represent our unique and varied features.

No longer do we have to hand stitch our identity with the tattered rags and scraps left over from cloaks of servitude and slavery, or sew them together with worn and tired fingers blistered from the drudgery of picking cotton. Now we can construct a quality cover sewn with the finest needles and thread on a marvelous machine stitched by the efforts of the hearts of brotherhood.

It is time for black people to wrap ourselves warmly in the mantle of our blackness, proudly edged with the many colors of our attitudes, quality of our souls and feel of our culture. As James Brown penned so long ago and we heartily sang to help us survive the hostilities of the civil rights movement, we should pick up the song again and sing with spirit and dignity, “I’m black and I’m proud.”

I am proud to be me, proud that as a people we have overcome tremendous odds and prospered and proud that we can finally come to terms with the truth that has always existed from arrival in this country. We were brought here with one identity…we were black. That identity still exists today. We are an American group among many American groups, and in both cases, there’s no disputing the  fact that we are one.

Song by Frankie Beverly and Maze.

As experiences come into your life, you begin to recognize how one situation compares and relates to another. For example, my recent bout with the side effects of a treatment meant to improve and protect my bones from the ravages of bone cancer and osteoporosis triggered the thought of how the side effects of integration have affected the lives and lifestyle of socioeconomically disadvantaged blacks in America.

The once a month infusion treatment, or intravenous injection, was supposed to alleviate the pain and prevent further disintegration or breaking of my bones. I suffered great side effects of chills and aching the first time the drug was administered, but when the injection time was increased, those particular side effects decreased. The treatment continued month after month, but I began to notice I was having difficulty breathing.

It began with the feeling of excess fluid and a rattling breath sound. The problem impeded my ability to perform any physical activity, walking, cleaning, showering, having sex, etc. All effort was labored and distressful. My doctors ordered x-rays, scans, and echo-grams to try to find out what was causing the “pleural effusion” I was suffering; but to no avail. The situation kept getting worse.

Along with complaining, I began to do research into the side effects of the many drugs and supplements I am taking for my various ailments which include Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, anemia, breast cancer, bone cancer, osteoporosis, and kidney disease. Some of the medications mentioned difficulty in breathing, but the doctors seemed to ignore that as a cause. Since the infusion was the latest treatment, to me it became the most suspicious.

As a required precaution, prior to receiving the treatment, a blood test to see if the creatinine level in my kidneys is low is taken as the medication negatively affects the kidneys. For the past three months, my tests have come back with the level too high because the tumor in my cancerous breast erupted and caused bleeding. The loss of blood caused the kidneys to be drier, causing the creatinine level to go higher, which negated my infusion treatment. So while my body has been healing from the tumor eruption, it has also been withdrawing from the side effects of the infusion, which has allowed my breathing to return to normal. I am regaining my strength and ability to function as before. Thank God!

When I awoke this morning the correlation of experiencing side effects from a medical treatment fit into the framework of the black Underclass in America experiencing the side effects of integration.

For many blacks, successful assimilation became a reality. However, according to Bill Cosby, beloved TV father and celebrity, the “lower economic people” or black Underclass, are “knuckleheads walking around…not holding up their end.” To Mr. Cosby, the Underclass has not gotten with the program of living in an American, integrated society and their inability to appropriately function has become very obvious.

In recent statements, Mr. Cosby, has spoken on their lack of language skills, their poor parenting, their spending habits, their dress, their lifestyle, their reflection of ethnicity, even the naming of their children. We all recognize him as a very funny comedian, but what has and is happening to our people is no joke.

Integration was a wonderful concept from a basic human standpoint. All people should be allowed the freedom of their “inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” and the U.S. prides itself in that ideal. But along with the powerlessness to pursue the better things in life, there were many blacks who were unable to escape their environment even after the opportunity was presented due to a lack of money and education, or simply because they wished to remain in the comfort zone of their surroundings.

The side effects of such great change in their surroundings became most severe when nearly all of the educated, prominent, role models moved from the black neighborhoods to white suburbs and left the less fortunate behind. The ones left were forced to continue surviving as best they could without direction and the leadership and guidance that had always been available. The motivators and mentors disappeared, leaving only folks of basically the same status. So the vulnerable ethnic group developed their own ways of life and became a culture (Underclass) within a culture (black) within a culture (white or American). The culture of the black Underclass includes a language and moral code which often seems harsh and even barbaric to those from the outside.

But the resourceful group has now increased in such numbers and have gained the attention of outsiders through the widespread popularity of rap and hip hop music, clothing and hair styles, piercing and tattoos, etc. Those who are thriving with conventional lifestyles are taking notice. Particularly as another side effect of integration has been the adoption by mainstream youth of many of the Underclass habits and social standards; including the use of the “N” word.

The further side effects of the full acceptance and incorporation of the black Underclass language, dress, and customs, has made some middle- and upper-class blacks, like Mr. Cosby, criticize and denigrate them in order to try to set them apart. But it can’t be done. Just as I can’t separate my breathing from what is happening to my bones, all descendants of slaves are segments of the whole, parts of the body. It is our legacy. All we can hope for is to find ways to alleviate the side effects which are affecting us.

If Mr. Cosby really wants to help, rather than rant to his peers; he should go to people who would benefit the most from hearing what he has to say. Speak to them and I believe they will listen. He should tell them about his own side effects and challenges. As a matter of fact, the black Underclass has been waiting for someone who made it out and overcame the struggle to come back and give them some honest relief. After all, isn’t that what all those suffering from side effects really want and need?

A common experience like falling in love
Is familiar to all it comes from above
But the common experience of hatred and war
Is man’s greatest crime that’s spread from afar

Many know fear and many know pain
And many know bullets that fall down like rain
Mothers cry and children scream
While fathers and sons take their place on the scene

The enemy comes in with dogged determination
To wipe out a race, a religion, a nation
While others look on or support the infraction
With silence and guns and covert action

The common experience of hatred is spread
When men stand by and turn their heads
Or when words of peace they just don’t say
Or when they allow evil to just have its way

The common experience that we need to spread
Is peace and love and a decrease in dread
To stop the fighting and killing and such
An end to racism would help so much

Without prejudice and cultural strife
All of God’s children could have a peaceful life
A common experience is in man’s control
All we need do is let love unfold

When I awoke this morning, I had the words of my title in mind, but I was remembering an old Negro spiritual we used to sing in church. “How I got over. How I got over. My soul looks back and wonders, how I got over.” I remember my mother, grandmother and others singing it with gusto, thanking God for helping them to “make it through.” Then I typed in the words on YouTube, and found this song by The Roots, and it changed my whole attitude.

Rather than praise and worship, the words, music and images took my heart and mind into a totally different mood of distress, despair and disturbance. Tears began to flow, and my heart began to ache. For I remember, can almost smell and feel, the sensations of the people portrayed in the video; because it wasn’t too long ago that their plight was my own, and it hit too close to home.

I sit now, at my computer, with my heater going full blast in my cozy third-floor apartment overlooking a majestic oak tree, while the capitol building of the state of California is at the end of my block. There are limos, Lamborghini-es, and other luxury cars nightly pulling up to the restaurants, coffee houses and cafes that line my street.

Happy people sitting outside having lunch, dinner or just over coffee fill the air with their laughter and content. They smile and some even nod as I pass, thinking and accepting me as one of them, an equal. But I wonder what they would think about me if they knew that it wasn’t too long ago that I was homeless, living in a shelter with my two kids…friendless and alone? Would their looks be diverted away from me?

This is not the way I envisioned my day going when I woke up full of gratitude and rejoicing this morning. I had no intention of spending my morning revisiting an episode in my life that I seldom visit anymore. Not that I am trying to forget it, because I think it plays a significant part in my current sense of empathy. But today was not going to be one of those days when it would come back to me with such force, with a video as stark evidence that what happened then was real to me, just as now it’s very real to others.

But now that I think of it, both the rejoicing and the pain belong to me. I embrace them as value which has been added to my life. For without the pain there would be no joy. I would not know that it is possible to overcome and not be genuine in sharing that hopeful message with others. I would also not be able to serve as an example to those who think themselves above and beyond the possibilities of becoming like their less fortunate neighbors. It can happen to anyone.

There is a message for all of us in this, I think. For me, reminiscing keeps me grounded. For those who are struggling, I wish them God’s best. For those who are reading this, I hope it stirs something in you to reach out to even one in whatever way you can to those disenfranchised by the state of their birth or whatever life has thrown their way. A simple smile of encouragement will go a long way, and with just a little help one day those who are suffering won’t have to wonder how they got over, they will know.