Words of REason

The Price of Loving a Pet

R. eason — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 16:25:54 GMT

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?

Abuse By Any Other Name

R. eason — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 20:44:15 GMT

"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.

The Dating Dilemma..Or Is It?

R. eason — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 17:19:35 GMT

"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."

A Grand Exit

R. eason — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 16:52:34 GMT

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.