To My Dad...

... when the times were toughest...

Happy Birthday, Dad

Dad at Niagara Falls, 1950s

1930-2006
Dad and Me, Detroit
Circa 1969

Another b-day without you. Very sad.

Wish You Were Here

There are two people I am missing tonight:

A) My dad would be one of the most proud men on earth just about now because of Barack Obama. He loved Bill Clinton but would be highly saddened by Senator Clinton's campaign because he believed in them more than not.

and

B) One my life heroes, a Loving of Loving v. Virginia, Mildred, died today. It was in 1967 that she sued the State of Virginia, in order to "legally" be able to wed the love of her life, Richard. She was black, he was white. They would have celebrated the 40th anniversary of the landmark case last year (he died in 1975) and recently, she advocated for homosexual marriage.

40 years ago, I was 3 years old. This happened in my lifetime. Do you understand? I don't hang on to it, but I feel it. And I wasn't even cognizant at the time.

Thank you, Richard and Mildred, for one of the greatest love stories ever told.

All I want to do is cry. And heck, I even went to see Iron Man tonight, and it was great. But really, the death of Mrs. Loving made me think of my dad and then that made me think of so many things.

BTW the way, Robert Downey, Jr. is hot. Wish you were here, too. But in a... different... sorta way. So, make that three people I'm missing tonight.

Surviving Cancer

Photos by Jason Schmidt

New York Magazine gets a lot of flack* about its format and seeming lack of content, but as a subscriber, I find the magazine fun and informative (though sometimes the reviews make me wanna gag). One of the reasons I enjoy the magazine is because of articles like the one in this week's issue called, "The Survivor Monologues."

My dad, whose 77th birthday would have occurred earlier this week, died of cancer in August. His battle was pretty short and way painful. The monologues in this week's New York Magazine brought home to me how much he went through in the last five months of his life. The words of the survivors (and one lady moving to a hospice to die) are all in all very moving and encouraging, despite what every one of them faced and continues to face, whether in remission or in the middle of treatment. Godspeed to all of those who appear in this issue, and to everyone who suffers through the agony of cancer.

*who cares whether John McCain spells it with a c or not.

Happy Birthday, Dad

I miss you.

Home for the Merryness in Detroit

Well, I'm sitting in a Starbucks in Detroit because Ma has no Internet connection at the house. I got in yesterday. I guess it's a good thing. I'm ready to end my pilgrimages to Detroit for good. It's my hometown, but it depresses me to be here.

It's my first Christmas without my dad, who passed in August. It's just not the same. It's nice to see my mom and the new puppy, Tiger, but still, I could think of a million billion other places I would want to be. Oh, just thinking about it gives me a brain explosion.

Anyway, I hope everyone has a good holiday.

Photo: 11 Spring Street Graffiti Project, "There is Hell in Hello," December 2006, NYC

To the Detroit Tigers

The Main Entrance to the Comerica Park, AKA Detroit Tiger Stadium

Dear Tigers,

The last time you guys won the World Series, in 1984, I had just left Detroit that September to attend New York University. I was a little sad that I hadn't been there to watch the Series with my dad, but a little happy to have missed the Bubba Helms mini-riot directly after the game. Dad and I use to watch baseball and football together all the time. I wasn't that into football, but I always liked the baseball, and dad taught me the rules of all the games and matches we would watch together. (I always impress men that I actually know how games work.)

So it's kinda funny that I left Detroit just when you guys last won the whole enchilada, which kinda means that's the year I left my dad, too. He and I were really close when I was younger, and from what I understand, when I moved, I kinda broke his heart. So now, you guys are back in it since 1987 and then he dies just before you make it back to the post-season. Strange. Possibly only to me, but strange nonetheless.

I told him the night before he died that I would come back and tell him what the game scores were; I didn't get the chance, as he died early the next day.

Anyway, my dad and I have been looking forward to you returning to the post-season game for some time. We badtalked you to no end at times, but he was happy when the new stadium went up. He only went once, but his legs were bad, and he didn't like the crowds, so he never went back. Vesti, over at the irreverent "Intellectual Comedy Salon," poked me with a stick when I kept saying how sucky you were. He quickly convinced me that it was "steady as you go" and that the team was rebuilding and doing well. I said fine, but I could still call youse guys sucky cause you weren't winning!

My dad owned a bar in Detroit, and back in the 1960s, baseball and basketball players from the Detroit teams would come into the bar. We don't have many pictures of the younger days at the Moonglow Lounge, but one of my favorites is a series of photographs of Detroit Tigers player Willie Horton, enjoying a night on the town at my dad's.

Detroit Tiger player, Willie Horton, at the Moonglow Lounge, 1960s

Dad passed away in August, so he won't be able to see you guys play. You might not win this year, but you're looking good for the time being. I'll look at the playoffs, like I usually do, with one eye on something else, but I hope you all the best against the Yankees.

I can see the Bronx bombers stadium lights outside my window, and I take the subway every day past the it on my way to work. The Yankees are tearing up trees and a park right now to make way for a new stadium right next to the old stadium. Actually, the trees disappeared three weeks ago. Steinbrenner throws money at things and knows that everything will work out in his favor. He took that park with promises that I only hope will come true for the immediate neighborhood. I personally, would like the Yankees not to win per year for every tree that was ripped out of the ground for the new stadium. For the trees' revenge. Someone's got to look out for them.

For my dad, I would really like to see you Tigers win. We'll see what happens.

Good luck. You're gonna need it. The score is already 5-0 (Yankees), bottom of the 5th, first game. It's gonna be a long night for someone.

Don't mess with me! I'll tear your heart out! I'm a tiger! Rooar!

Yours forever,
Edward and Elderta

9.11 pt. 2: The First Person I Called on 9/11

The first person I called on September 11, 2001 was my dad, Edward. This was, of course, after the initial hysteria of the day.

I had just gotten into work as a researcher for ABC-TV's "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire." There had been no announcements of anything untoward when I was on the F train getting into work. We did stop at 34th street for an abnormal amount of time, but hell, it's New York, that happens all the time. I finally got off the train, and started walking toward Park Avenue and 59th. I couldn't see downtown, as once you get to a place with a clear view south, the MetLife (Pan Am) Building, blocks your view down Park. As I was crossing Park, I noted how few people where on the street, and how only two people were walking in front of me. Two people who clearly didn't know each other were talking together. I had my earphones on, so I didn't really pay much attention, though one of the fellows was going into the same building I was.... on the elevator, he began speaking to me about how "they bombed the World Trade Center." My earphones allowed that extra layer of personal protection as to not really hear/comprehend what another person might be saying around you. It's NY, personal space is important. By the time I was able to take my earphone out, my floor appeared and I had to get out of the elevator.

I got to our office, and the television was on, right next to the door. I immediately walked in at the moment that the first WTC began its collapse, at 9:59 am. Needless to say, not knowing exactly what had happened (who did?), and coming in at a moment when something that CLEARLY wasn't suppose to be happening, was happening (one tower aflame; the other coming down), my mind broke down and I could only say, "This is war, this is war, this is war." A fellow co-worker had to calm me down. A little bit later, I went to my office. This was a little after 10:00 am.

I picked up the phone and called my dad's cell phone in Detroit. Our landlines were erratically still up, but his cell wasn't responding. I knew that he would probably be setting up at his business, the Moonglow Lounge, for the day, so I called the bar's landline, and he picked up. He had the bar television on and was watching it realtime. We didn't talk about much, just acknowledged that war was on its way, and noted that it was a bad time to have Bush as President. Dad said he thought something crazy was going to happen, and then said the strangest statement, "You know, Tanya, one day there's going to be a war right here in the U.S."

He didn't elaborate, and I thought to myself, it's possible.

My dad, Korean War veteran, actually told me on 9/11 that one day there would be a war in America. Only time will tell if he's right.

That conversation is neither here nor there at the moment, really. What is relevant, is that when tragedy has happened, or bigger than life events (or little events for that matter), the first person I usually called was my dad. I won't be able to call him anymore. We didn't talk about much, but at least I could talk to him. I am very very sad about this. I was hoping he'd be around a lot longer, as folks on his side of the family live well into their 90s, mostly. Fate, however, had other ideas.

My dad died of complications due to metastatic colon cancer. From what I understand now, he had been told in April that he only had two months to live. He didn't tell everyone, including my sister and I. He went on the chemotherapy drug Xeloda, and lived for five months. He went into the hospital with some sort of infection, and due to a miscommunication, his hospital-assigned doctor thought that he did not want treatment for the infection. He had signed a DNR, and was so sick and my mother so upset and the doctor so not communicative, that by the time the resident surgeon who had helped with his surgery got to his room, the doctors had fallen behind the eight ball in treating the infection. These last words came straight from the resident surgeon himself when I asked what had happened.

Again, this snippet of information is not really all that important to this post. What I want to bring out is that my father was the first person that I would call in times of tragedy. My father also had time to face what was about to happen to him. Dad had five months of contemplation, five months of getting his house in order, five months of being with his brothers, sisters and his family, five months of living in the house he loved and with the wife he dug a lot, too. He had five months of being with his friends, until he began to withdraw about the final month. He had time, albeit it a short one.

Unlike the people who perished on 9/11, in the planes, in the buildings, my father had a longer time to face death, and had 76 years to build his life and live it. He died with almost everything he ever wanted, except for that million dollars.

On the whole, he died happy.

I've often thought in the past few years about those moments directly prior to the planes hitting the buildings in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania, and those moments directly after, before the buildings collapsed, and what went though people's minds during those short moments. How many seconds did 2996 people live? How many minutes? Half hours? Did the time feel like eons, or did it go by quickly? What did they do during that time? What were they thinking? Feeling? I do not want to imagine the fear that went through anyone, but sometimes I cannot help but to think on it.

I am sure that many people who perished in the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania had a "first person when a tragedy strikes" loved one, and in turn, they were other's first choices as well. First people who they would have wanted to share good news with, cry with, die with. First people who were loved so much that they had to be reached out to, to make sure they were safe and to reassure others they had made it through.

There's a great sadness when those first people you would want to call pass away. Often, there are no second people. It's always really that first person who you will miss speaking with the most.

9.11 pt. 1: Five Years of Angst

A number of months ago, I decided to participate in the 2996 Project, brought to my attention by Simply Left Behind. I responded to blogger D. Challener Roe's call to speak about one of the many people who died during the early daylight hours of September 11, 2001. I specifically asked to write about Michael Richards, an artist who died in his artist studio located at the World Trade Center.

And then, I proceeded to do nothing.

At the time that I emailed regarding the project, I didn't really anticipate the possible impact of my decision. I knew my dad was sick, but I didn't expect him (who ever expects it?) to die. I did, however, really ceased to function from May (when I found out my dad had cancer) to August. Only now, looking back, do I realize that I had been so worried about my dad that I couldn't concentrate on anything else.

My dad died on August 24, 2006. I had known he was sick, but apparently he was sicker than he wanted me and my sister to know. I'm still a bit shocked that he's gone. I've been having an argument with a really good friend for the past few months, and I've been too chicken to really talk to her. In March 2006, I moved from the bestest apartment for one person in the entire Universe, after living there for five years. I needed to move from Brooklyn (the bestest borough in the Universe) to the Bronx to be closer to work and got a roommate again. I also finally started paying my student loan. Either the apartment or the student loan had to go. I chose the apartment, but at least I've paid my loan on time for several months now.

In January 2006, my cat of 11.5 years (who I had from the day she was born) passed away after being misdiagnosed, rediagnosed, and then going through a harsh operation. Several months earlier, I attended a conference in New Orleans. I left on the 21st of August 2005, one week prior to Katrina's landing. I was a bit emotional afterward, as I had also visited the city in 2004 for a family reunion. I also researched and published a major paper on the man who coined and defined the word, "genocide." That was fun stuff.

Luckily, I was in Los Angeles for the Great Friendly Blackout of the Greater Great Lakes in 2003. From early 2001-2003, all sorts of crazy things happened, beginning with my constant screaming at the TV from the first day of the Bush Administration's taking of the White House and continuing in a more satirical sense (and intact televisions), combating the overreaching banalities of the Bush Administration with the Billionaires for Bush. And of course, I still remember the smell of 9/11.

It's the thing of that day that I will never forget. I never want to smell that smell again.

Needless to say, I've been a little tense over the last five years. I also need a boyfriend, and dammit, I actually worked on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (Regis edition) until January 2002. Isn't that one thing humiliation enough without all the other nightmarish rigamorole? Hhhmmm?

At least I am typing this on a new MacBook, but that's beside the point.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the past five+ years haven't been so merry, but in actuality, they haven't been so bad, either. Except for the Bush thing. That's just been the worse thing (almost) ever.

I've had a lot of fun, and good laughs with a great many wonderful people. I've gotten into arguments, I've been there and I haven't, but all in all, good years, with some very hard blows. I try to stay optimistic and hope for the best, and all of my friends tell me to be optimistic. Let's just say I'm optimistically pessimistic. (Hell, I'm still thinking that maybe the Second Coming is really coming.) Truthfully, I'm a lot happier than people think I am; I just get down every now and then that my life and the world isn't exactly where I hoped they would be at this point. I really thought the world (and me) would be better by now.

Anyway, I kinda haven't been doing what I was supposed to be doing this summer (including apologizing to my friend, researching and writing about Michael Richards, and blowing off temporarily one project and permanently, I think, another). It's been that kind of summer.

It's been that kind of five years.

My Dad

May 23, 1930 - August 24, 2006
Love You. Miss You.

Panic in Detroit

"Panic in Detroit" is one of my favorite all-time David Bowie songs. Mostly because it's the story of my life. Except for the rock star part.

Going to Detroit very soonish (like 15 minutes from now) to see my dad. He's not feeling well.

Please send him good and happy thoughts.

To My Dad and Granddad

Some friends and I were having a bit of a discussion about what's right and wrong to remember on Memorial Day (yes, it's to honor those who died during war), but I wanted to give a shout out to my Dad and Granddad, who fought and lived through the Korean War and WWII. I have some relatives in the Army and Air Force right now, but I'll wait until Veterans Day for them.

Thanks to all those who lived and died.

Thanks to all who are fighting now.

Dad during the Korean War

Granddad during World War II

Home to Detroit

So, I'm sitting at the Chili's in LaGuardia Airport, chillin' with a cold Sam Adams and reading Rolling Stone. I'm also sitting here mobile blogging. Woohoo. My flight doesn't leave until 6:00 (it's 4:30 now), so I plan on having at least one more giant, cold, Sam Adams so that I'll be woozie on the plane.

I'm going home to see my dad, who underwent colon cancer surgery last month and is now undergoing radiation therapy by pill. Which, I think, means I'm going to have to talk to him through his bedroom door or don surgical scrubs, not quite sure which.

Anyway, this will be the first time I've been able to see him since the surgery last month.

If the parental units haven't pulled the plug on the Internet, I'll still be blogging, from a Detroit perspective.

Right now, however, Rolling Stone and Sam Adams are calling my name.

Drink me, says Sam; read me, says Rolling Stone; eavesdrop on the guy sitting next to me talking loudly about meeting President Clinton and Broadway shows... Priceless.

White People This, Black People That

If there's one thing about coming home to Detroit that I can always count on, it's that the issue of race will more than likely rear its head up sooner rather than later. I believe it took about a day for the first inkling to be heard, and by Christmas Day, it was white people this, white people that. It gets to be so tiring to hear it, but I have to ask myself, is it perception or is it truth? And does one person's perception of the truth make it invalid or not? Is it real or not? I just don't know anymore.

Let's start off first by saying that if you get a chance to read Bob Herbert's New York Times op-ed from today ("A New Civil Rights Movement"), he brings up some interesting points. (Hopefully Truthout will pick up the op-ed and rescue it from the behind the New York Times selectwall.)

Herbert starts off his op-ed thusly:

One of the cruelest aspects of slavery was the way it wrenched apart black families, separating husbands from wives and children from their parents.

It is ironic, to say the least, that now, nearly a century and a half after the Emancipation Proclamation, much of the most devastating damage to black families, and especially black children, is self-inflicted.

You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that some of the most serious problems facing blacks in the United States - from poverty to incarceration rates to death at an early age - are linked in varying degrees to behavioral issues and the corrosion of black family life, especially the absence of fathers.

Another devastating aspect of slavery was the numbing ignorance that often resulted from the prohibition against the education of slaves. It was against the law in most instances for slaves to even learn to read. Now, with education widely (though imperfectly) available, we have entire legions of black youngsters turning their backs on school, choosing instead to wallow in a self-imposed ignorance that in the long run is as destructive as a bullet to the brain.

Herbert essentially says that many of the plights of blacks today are self-inflicted wounds, particularly "behavioral issues and the corrosion of black family life," and choosing to "wallow in a self-imposed ignorance," when it comes to the issue of education.

OK, Bob, you've hit on some very raw, vibrant and essential points. And luckily, Herbert acknowledges that a large portion of the black population is not poor and are leading productive lives. At the same time, he goes on to say that millions are being left "out in the cold, caught in a cycle of poverty, ignorance, illness and violence that is taking a horrendous toll."

Yep. I see it in Detroit. I see abandoned houses, boarded up, on many city streets. I see the signs of poverty everywhere, mixed in here and there with middle and upper-class affluence. I see my adopted sisters and brothers trying to grab the golden educational ring, but are struggling to make it academically. Not necessarily because they are 'wallowing in a self-destructive pattern' regarding education, but mostly because they weren't given the proper tools to survive academically in the first place. Partly that's a matter of were they came from, and how tough it is to play catch up by the time they got to my parent's house. You stop trying after a while when it becomes too tough, especially if you're a teenager dealing with those precious hormones.

Anyway, Herbert goes on to sound the clarion call, that there's a crisis in the black community, and though racism is still rampant, he believes that...much of the suffering in black America could be alleviated by changes in behavior. What's more, those behavioral changes would empower the community in ways that would make it easier to successfully confront opponents in government and push the society in a more equitable direction.

I'm not quite sure about this last point. I really want to believe that one could empower the community from the inside and therefore force the outside community to work in a more equitable fashion, but I think part of the problem is that there are too many black folks who believe that nothing, not one thing in the system is going to give them a break in order to rise up and stand on their own two feet. And I believe that there are too many white people who are tired of trying to mollify and understand the black community anymore. Either side is just about fed up with each other. (Of course, this is just probably because I've been beaten down this week with issues of white and black... it always happens when I come home.)

I've had to listen to my dad this week say numerous times that he doesn't understand why Detroit is ranked the poorest city in the country, when everywhere you look people have new cars. He actually said that it might be a conspiracy because white folks are always trying to keep black folks down. I don't know. I look around and see a poor city. He looks around at the city he's been in for fifty years and sees great things, every where.

Yet my niece is home from college, and she believes that she almost failed a class (after getting good grades from every other teacher, and good grades from this class as well) because of possible racism. Her school is pass/fail and her teacher thought of failing her because she mistakenly placed a period outside of a parentheses in a final term paper. I don't know, I wasn't there, but the school is in Milwaukee, and I've heard time and again how segregated and racist that city can be. Was it racism? I have no idea.

I have a friend I went to high school with who can't stand the Mayor of Detroit. And yet my father thinks he's great. Both are black, with different viewpoints of what would make a good Mayor of Detroit. My dad, bless his heart, basically said that only the white folks were for the current Mayor's former opponent, so I guess, if you voted for the opponent and you were black, you were actually white.

Or something like that.

I can't say much about any of this. Truthfully, I'm a bit too lightskinned to really get involved. Does that sound crazy? You bet it does; you bet it is... but once you've been accused of being a honky, an oreo, a white girl, a sell-out, a whatever, believe me, you just don't want to be called those names again. My views are basically that everyone sucks and needs to step back and stop the bullshit and start all over again. I'm tired of blacks crying racism and I'm tired of whites being racist. Chicken or egg, which comes first? Plus, I like alternative rock too much.

Sigh.

Bob Herbert ends his op-ed by proposing a new civil rights movement summit. (God, please let it be with different leaders... uh... did I say that...? well Bob sorta says the same thing...):

The problems facing black people today are comparable in magnitude to those of the Jim Crow era of the 20th century. There were leaders in those days who were equal to the challenge. I believe that nothing short of a new movement, comparable in scope and dedication to that of the civil rights era, is required to bring about the changes in values and behavior needed to halt the self-destruction that is consuming so many black lives. The crucial question is whether the leadership exists to mount such an effort.

A good first step would be a summit meeting of wise and dedicated men and women willing to think about creative new ways to approach such problems as crime and violence, out-of-wedlock births, drug and alcohol abuse, irresponsible sexual behavior, misogyny, and so on.

Addressing issues of values and behavior within the black community should not in any way imply a lessening of the pressure on the broader society to meet its legal and ethical obligations. It should be seen as an essential counterpoint to that pressure. (emphasis added)

Most important, it should be seen as a crucial component of the obligation that black adults have to create a broadly nurturing environment in which succeeding generations of black children can survive and thrive.

Despite the sometimes valiant efforts of individuals and organizations across the country, we are not meeting that obligation now. And that's because there's a vacuum where our leadership should be.

Oohhh... you go, Bob. You know you gonna catch some flack for that...

I was just speaking with my mother and my nephew, and my ma brought up a good point. The world can throw you a lot of curveballs, a lot of hassles, a lot of turmoil, but mostly it's how you deal with all those curveballs, hassles, and turmoil that separates you from those who make it, and those who don't. If you don't have the will inside of you to better yourself, there is no amount of work that anyone can do to make you push yourself. If whatever forum Mr. Herbert is talking about can address the essential problem of self-motivation and will to power, then that's a good place to start. Though how you teach and instill motivation and will without sounding hokey or authoritative, I just don't know.

And how you teach these things with the generation of leaders we have now, I just don't know either. It is time for something new. The leadership vacuum is immense and it's not going to be filled by some Baptist Republican with a "you are all sinners" speech. Nor is it going to be fulfilled by black Democratic Mayors who are either so firmly ensconced in the monied community (black or white) or so firmly ensconced in a self-perpetuating mythos of the "white man this, the black man that" sensibility as to be locked into a neverending cycle of recrimination.

Who is going to fill the void... well, I just don't know that either.

And that's the problem. I just don't know. Do you?

1964 was a good year

So, I've entered the blog world for the second time. The first, a complete failure, but it's good to try again, I suppose.

So, why the title, "At the End of the Boom"? Well, I was born in 1964, the 'official' end of the baby boom. But it can also work as a triple-entendre: at the end of the American boom; at the end of the bomb comes the boom.

I've always been fascinated by being a baby boomer. But being at the end of the cycle is a little like coming to the party late: you can still get in, but mostly everyone is already gone by the time you get there. It's a little like being invited and then some folks won't believe you actually have an invitation. There's all kinds of arguments that 1964 wasn't the actual end of the boom (and I'm too lazy to go and find them for you, so there), but just suffice it to say that I'm late and no one cares if I'm here or not.

Anyway, my blog will be a mismash of stuff, items on politics, life, and a compilation of news of the day. Pretty much like every other blog on the 'net, only mine.