Obesity Must Be Stopped

I visited my family in Southfield, Michigan, a beautiful suburb of Detroit for Memorial Day Weekend.  Southfield is a city free of the desolation and poverty that cloaks the Motor City.  My family and I visited downtown Detroit's historic Fox Theater to catch a comedy show.  As I sat and watched the excited revelers make their way down the aisle, I began to notice a frightening similarity in most of the patrons: obesity.  An alarming number of women and men filed into the theater carrying an extra fifty pounds or more of fat on their bodies. 

There were six comedians at the show.  Three of the six comedians were at least one hundred pounds overweight.  One of them walked stooped over with a cane. They made self-deprecating jokes about their weight that the audience delighted in.

The next morning, I sat in a restaurant and listenend to my mother (also 100 pounds or more overweight) place her order of one belgian waffle with ice cream, strawberry puree, whipped cream, scrambled eggs and bacon.  I was heartbroken that a nurse would consistently make such an unhealthy choice.

America, we are killing ourselves.  We are killing our children.  Fat is not funny.  Commit today to make a small change in your life: walk for thirty minutes, skip dessert, or limit fried foods.  If you can't do it for yourself, do it for those who love you.

Twitter:  R_Eason

Resilience

I watched Elizabeth Edwards last night on a cable news program.  My ear was only half focused on the interview, as I've heard her discuss her new book, Resilience, ad nauseam. However, last night she said something that struck me at my core.  She said her priority at the moment was just trying not to die.  Can you imagine waking up each day with a goal of living long enough to see tomorrow?  These words are bandied about in songs and famous quotations but last night, watching a woman in the midst of a long battle with breast cancer, her words had a profound effect on me. She is literally a person trying to stay alive. Perhaps it was her appearance that leant further impact to her words. Ms. Edwards looked tired; her hair a bit unkempt, her eyes dull. Perhaps her appearance had more to do with her book tour schedule than her health. However, despite what we may think of her politics or her book, Ms. Edwards reminds us that life must go on, even when you're fighting for it day by day.  Resilience, indeed.

Twitter:  R_Eason

Compassion is Free

I was on the ferry this morning and overhead a conversation by two boisterous women.  One of the women, I'll call her Jane, mentioned that she is irritated by people with obsessive compulsive disorder.  Jane said she watches a commuter get on the train every morning who is obviously afraid of catching germs.  The woman huddles near the door, clenches her purse tightly, wears gloves, and squirms at the slightest cough or sneeze.  Jane was adamant that people like the germaphobic commuter should stay home while others go to work and live their lives.

People like Jane frighten me.  The vitriole she spoke about the commuter was as heated as any hate rhetoric I've ever heard about homosexuals or minorities.  I wonder what the world would be like if we were all so insensitive to another persons plight.  Compassion is free and I believe we must seek opportunities to use it.  No one can know when we might need to be on the receiving end of it.

Twitter:  @R_Eason

A Grand Exit

I called my 86 year old grandmother one morning and was surprised to hear how jovial she sounded. Her poor health had given the family a scare. The hospital admitted her for three days and released her with a prescription for a bladder infection.

Speaking with her on that Saturday morning felt like old times. My grandmother was as soft-spoken as a timid child but as willfully strong as any man I'd ever encountered. We discussed her health at length and I asked her if she felt she was ready to make the journey "home."

"No. Lord, no!" she cried.

For some reason, her response surprised me. I just assumed that a devout Christian who had experienced so much personal suffering would be ready to throw in the towel. Clearly, I was mistaken.

"My goal," she explained, "has always been to live until I'm a hundred years old."

I froze in midstir of my soon-to-be scrambled egg.

"A hundred?" I exclaimed.

"Uh huh" she paused, surprised that I was surprised.

"Oh, Grandma," I said shaking my head. "I don't know if I'd want to live that long. I mean, you experience so many bad things in life. No, I think I'd rather go around 70.band and countless other setbacks and heartaches. Yet, the thought of throwing in the towel and joining the angels in heaven was foreign to her. The obstacles she faced had not defeated her nor was she afraid to forge through more storms.

I remember one morning years ago when I was in the military, my squad had a two-mile run ahead of us and I was falling behind. The drill sergeant ran alongside me and yelled, "C'mon, Airman! You give up too easy. That's the problem with you young folks today. You give up too easy!" I think my grandmother would have agreed. The more bumps and bruises we endure on our personal growth journey, the stronger we will be when all is said and done. The key is to never throw in the towel.

My grandmother died later that year from a bladder infection. She held on until the last of her immediate family members arrived to her bedside, many of whom, myself included, traveled from states afar. She allowed herself to slip away when the last of our clan arrived. It was a reluctant exit from a life well lived.

STEP UP!

I took an Advanced Step Aerobics class yesterday in my neverending qwest to shed that pesky ten pounds that follow me everywhere I go.  I had not been in a step aerobics class in three years.  But how hard could it be?  I reasoned.  Confidently, I entered the class and chose my Reebok Step.

The aerobics instructor, a fortiesh blonde with a gifted sense of smelling fresh meat, asked me through her microphone if I was certain that I wanted a step that high.  I assured her, with a condescending smile, that I could handle it.  In fact, I had never used a Reebok Step before and had no idea how to adjust the risers.  I had always used The Step, which was also available, but I wanted to be different.  I wanted a challenge.

Five minutes into the warm up a bell started to sound in my hear.  Quiet, at first, then it grew a little louder.  Was that really my quadricep throbbing?  Was that really a bead of sweat forming on my raised-with-concern forehead?  After the warm-up, I ran to my water bottle and sucked down water and air as quickly as I could without making myself seem too obvious.  Again, through the microphone, the instructor asked me about the height of my step.  Meekly, my confident smile vanquished, my lifted chest deflated, I replied, "No.  I'll change it."  The instructor moved with the speed of a cougar.  She traversed the obstacle course of the classroom and made her way to the corner I was tucked safely away in.  With the agility of a ninja, she changed my risers, dusted off her hands and began the class.

I was pleased to discover that my body had instant recall.  The moves were like an old friend to me.  I moved to the beat and blended nicely.  Fifteen minutes into the class, the "Advanced" part of the Advanced Step Aerobics class began to kick in.  Remembering Susan Powter's old edict, I modified, modified, modified and stuck to my basic right step while the show-offs stepped around me.  Thirty minutes into the class, I was so hopelessly lost I found myself standing alone in the middle of the room, praying for the clock to speed up.  It didn't.

When the class mercifully drew to an end, I felt compelled to apologize to the instructor for my lack of coordination, skill and grace.  But I didn't.  Instead, I committed to myself to be at the same place at the same time next week.  As Elbert Hubbard once said, "There is no failure except in no longer trying."

The Price of Loving a Pet

The last time I cried, I cried for my dog.  The last time I laughed heartily, I laughed at my dog.  The last time I pondered the simplest joys of life...well, that too, was because of my dog.

Scotty, a vivacious, ten pound, tricolor Chihuahua, has been with me for a little over a year.  The impact he has made in my life during that time is immeasurable.  Watching him lie on his back, legs to the sky, in sweet anticipation of a belly rub always makes me laugh.  His needs are incredibly simple.  Why couldn't we be so easy to please?  I used the  Vet Directory to find a good veterinarian for him.

He had an overnight stay in the hospital recently.  I missed having him greet me at the door, tail wagging. I missed the eleven o'clock walk that always annoyed me so much because I was already in my sleepy state.  I missed the early morning walk in the morning rain that I'd grumbled about so often.

He is back at home. He is healthy.  He is playful.  And he has chewed the heel off my favorite pumps.

And yet, I have no complaints.

When I told a co-worker about the medical bill I had to pay, she could identify.  She said her dog also needs medical attention, the bill would be $6,000 and she'd happily pay it if she was certain that his ailment would not return.

I was a little taken aback.  My bill was a fraction of that cost.  Which leds me to wonder, how much would I be willing to spend to resolve my dog's ailment?  How much is too much?

The Dating Dilemma..Or Is It?

"I cannot date him anymore," she said to me vehemently.

"Why not?" I asked her, genuinely surprised. After all, this was the same man she had gushed to me about only three weeks before. He had spent quality time with her, not to mention major bucks, and most importantly, they seemed to genuinely enjoy one another's company. So it was to my surprise that she was ending the relationship before it had the chance to really blossom into something significant. And isn't that why we were out there schlepping from one disastrous date to another? To find that relationship that could blossom into something significant, everlasting and real.

"Girl," she continued, "you are not going to believe what he told me."

"What?" I replied. My heart started to beat faster. Was he gay? Was he married? Did he have illegitimate children or worse - baby mama drama?

"He's into white girls."

Ah, the "white girl issue". To fully understand the white girl issue, you have to be a black woman. It can be a painful subject and a complete turn-off for some of us. Black men who date, dated, or simply had random sex acts with a white girl can completely turn a black woman off. Why? That is a question that each black woman must answer for herself. But here is my presumptive collective answer in a nutshell: insecurity.

Many black women are insecure about themselves and unsure of who they are as women. As a child, I saw only a handful of black women on television or in videos: Whitney Houston singing "How Will I Know" immediately comes to mind. She was one of the few role models we had on television. Never mind the fact that she always wore wigs and careful lighting tricks in her videos gave her skin the appearance of being lighter than it actually appeared in person.

Black women struggle with their identities. Dark skin, coarse hair, wide noses, thick legs, plump lips, big behinds and darkened knees were never trumpeted on television. Today, our physical uniqueness is significantly more accepted than in the past. (It still amazes me that it took a Latina like Jennifer Lopez to allow society  the ability to trumpet the big behind when Janet Jackson had one for decades prior.)

I remember sitting at my desk in an accounting firm not too many years ago. A white girl walked past me absentmindedly singing a snippet of Kanye West's "Gold Digger" to herself : "But you stay right, girl. And when he get on, he leave yo' ass for a white girl."

Had I not dealt with "the white girl issue" years before, that would have hurt. But it didn't. Watching a black man kiss a white woman on the street evokes images of passion instead of betrayal inside my mind now. I no longer question either parties intent, nor do I feel it is directly or indirectly related to me. It is not. I've come to realize that black women must love to love themselves. They must love to be comfortable in their own skin and must come to appreciate the fact that we are not "less than" our white counterparts, even if our society, and sometimes our own people, try to persuade us that we are.

Once we can truly love and appreciate ourselves - we can do the same of others - of all colors. We will be able to date comfortably outside our race and not feel as if we are trying "something new". And we will not begrudge men who do the same. Nor will we question their motivation. After all, isn't it possible that a black woman could date a black man solely for financial purposes? Isn't it possible that a white woman could date or marry a white man solely for financial advantages? There are people in this world who will date others for a specific reason: money, fame or simply love. Don't we owe it to ourselves and to others to assume we are all in it for love?

"So what?" I replied. "He's good and decent and today he's calling you on the phone - not the white girl. So if I were you, I'd let his past be buried and accept the fact that he's with you today. Because if you don't, someone else will."

Maybe I AM old!

Went to a Tony Robbins seminar this weekend called UPW. Unleash the Power Within.  Had a great time.  Lots of dancing and singing and hugging and massages.  I even walked on fire.  Didn't know I had it in me.

Things were going just great until they played an oldie but goodie. Let's Get Physical. Olivia Newton-John. Good times. I danced with a young girl in her twenties.  She was impressd with my skills.  I was flying high and singing aloud.  Then she said it.  Those words that knocked the wind out my sails.  "Wow!  You know all the words to this song!  I've never even heard it before."

I stopped dead in my tracks.  Wanted to smack her on her fresh, supple, perfect little face devoid of wrinkles or even a pore. I wanted to unleash the power within and toss her across the crowd of 4,500 other folks who also knew the words.

But I didn't.  I was there, after all, to discover my better self.  I didn't know I'd discover my older self.

Next time...I'll dance with girls my own age.

Twitter:  R_Eason

The Exhibitionist

I call him The Exhibitionist.  He is over six feet tall and dark as an African coffee bean.  His body - tight, toned and ripped - is all I have ever seen of him.  I could not identify his face in a police line-up despite the fact that I have seen him almost ten times. I am always too mesmerized by his well-defined body.  If I had to place him in a division, I would choose middleweight.  His body is not compact with sinewy muscles nor is it hulking with overwhelming bulge and unnecessary mass.  No.  He has exercised just enough but not too much. And I know for a fact that he exercises because that is all I have ever seen him do.  And yet, I have never seen him in a gym. 

Only in New York will you find an exhibitionist with the body of a Greek god who pops up spontaneously at subway stations across this great city toning his already impressive pecs.  He does push-ups silently as though he is alone in a room.  He hangs from a directional sign and lifts his body countless times to the amazement of passersby.  I watch the commuters as they notice him for the first time.  The looks are predictable based on gender.  Men look at him disdainfully, their faces scream "Show off!"  Their eyes turn green with envy.  Women are an odd lot.  They stare at him appreciatively, yet, none crack a smile.  Instead, their lips part into a perfect O shape and their eyes -  filled with longing - take a slow wishful joy ride along his rock hard physique.  I, too, crane my neck for a better glimpse.  All that is visible to me are his black tank top, black jeans, black sneakers and muscles. Now that I think about it...I hope never to see his face.  I enjoy the mystery.  Besides, I don't use my imagination enough. 

I hop on the number three, my day a little brighter.  Rarely are my eyes treated to such candy.  As the train pulls away, I consider what kind of man exercies at subway stations clearly making a spectacle of himself.  Is he crazy?  I have decided that he is the type of man who craves attention and he is brave enough to go out and get it.  And as far as I am concerned, the world is a better place because of it.

Abuse By Any Other Name

"Shut up before I bust you in the mouth!" she yelled.  The words cut through my early morning coma like a butcher's knife slicing through butter.  The language was sharp and strong, but it got the message across. 

I stood at the sliding glass doors, like hundreds of other Staten Island commuters, and waited for the doors to open.  We would scurry onto the ferry like sheep, pushing and shoving our way on in our quest for our favorite seat.  The morning ritual was abruptly halted by the threatening words that came from a few feet away from me.

Curiousity got the best of me and I couldn't help but turn to see who was speaking and to whom.  To my utter disgust, but not to my surprise, it was a woman in her mid-twenties speaking to her child.  She appeared to be an angry young woman, perhaps bogged down with the difficulties  and stressfullness of being a parent.  Her son appeared to be under two years of age.  He sat in his stroller, clearly unhappy with life and cried.

I decided to sit as far away from them as I could when I got on the ferry.  Few things disturbed me more than to listen to a parent threaten their child with physical violence.  After all, this mother did not warn of a simple spanking.  She threatened to "bust" him in the mouth.    Unfortunately, my seat on the ferry was still in eyeshot of the family. 

I saw the boy walk to the side of the ferry, grinning michievously as little boys do.  He had keys in his hands.  He attempted to put the keys inside of the electrical socket .  It didn't work, but judging from his giggles, it was great fun just to try get the keys to fit.  He laughed wildly and walked on bowed legs back to his mother who was looking in the opposite direction.  He attempted the feat again but this time, his mother saw him.  She stood up, walked to him, turned him around and slapped him with a full hand on the face.  I jumped out of the shocking brutality of the act.  I saw the look of disgust on a few other passengers face as well. 

Who could help but feel anything but pity for a small child who would be reared by a woman who seemed to loathe her own child?  She threatened to bust him up and then made good on the promise.  She was the one person who should have been entrusted to protect him from such acts of violence.

A week later I rushed through the Bowling Green station to catch my train to Grand Central Terminal.  I saw the woman again, standing on the side of the wall, patiently watching a police officer inspect her photo identification.  In all honesty, it wasn't her that I recognized, it was the child who stood near his mothers leg.

I quickly moved on and stood on the platform.  I allowed my mind to drift ahead to the day that was ahead of me when I heard her voice again.  She stood behind me, on her cellphone, ranting about the temerity of the police officer to interfere with her and her child.  She spewed expletives and racial epithets as she expressed her anger at the officer for minding her business. After a few minutes, she hung up the phone but kept yelling to all within earshot.  "This is my child," she yelled, "and I can do whatever the fuck I want with my child!" 

I can only imagine that the officer witnessed how she treated her child and did all that he could to intervene.  But could more have been done?  Was the onus on the citizens on the ferry or in the subway station or on the streets of New York to have intervened in someway?  Was I partly responsible for the adult that that child is going to grow up to be, in part because of  the violent and hateful home environment in which he is being raised? Will he make it to adulthood?

There is an old adage that parents oftentimes jokingly say to their children, "I brought you in this world and I will take you out."

How sad when those words turn out to be true.