If you like what you see, please add me to your reader!

Here’s the AP video:

I have no idea what to say about this. My knee-jerk response is to say bleah. Breast milk should go to but one kind of recipient: a nursing child.

Though I’m curious to hear the vegan response to this. I’ve seen some say it’s good since it’s not taking from nonhumans for human consumption, and others take issue with breast milk in general.

(I try to respect such personal choices as much as I can, but I just have to throw in a point here that breast milk has all kinds of important hormones and nutrients, so if you can give your child breast milk, it seems more important than making an ideological point. IMHO. But I’ll shut up now because I don’t know people’s individual circumstances.)

But back to my original point. I had one. I’m pretty sure.

Oh right, my initial reaction is to shudder and say “no thank you!” But then, I wonder why? What is it about breast milk that seems less sanitary and edible than cow’s milk? Breasts aren’t any dirtier than udders. (You hush. I know what you’re thinking.) Probably cleaner in fact. Is it some form of abhorrence to cannibalism maybe? We don’t eat humans, or anything that comes from humans…but why is this different for babies than adults? Or maybe it’s just an ick factor, like being over the age of 10 and not eating your boogers.

Or is it that what is produced by the female body is inherently unsanitary? Am I reacting in a way that reflects centuries-old belief that women are unclean?

If that’s the case, I’ll take my mommy’s milk cheese on a slice of pumpernickel, with a dollop of lingonberry jam, thankyouverymuch.

P.S. My hubby’s reaction to mommy’s milk cheese? “I’d try it. It’s gotta’ be better than balut*.”

*Balut: fetal duck eaten out of the shell. A Filipino delicacy.

I’ve learned that instead it takes much more courage to hope. To take a leap, even when you are standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing there is the swirling mad abyss below.

It takes more courage to stare the darkness in its face and say, “Though I know not where I land or whether I fall, I must try.”

There was a time in my life when I was afraid, oh so afraid. Waking up at night with cold sweats, hands quaking, cannot see straight afraid. My heart had been shattered and the fragile pieces were thrown into the fire. Repeatedly. Phantoms in my head. Danger around every corner. But I dared hope, even when the naysayers feared for me. It wasn’t just hope that got me through, though. It was damn dogged work. Changing how I deal with problems. Smashing boundaries to bits and setting up new foundations. It was determination that above all else, it could work. Even when it didn’t before. And I was lucky. It could easily at any moment have gone another way, were it not for a refusal to let a precious gift die. And that gift, gives every day, and every day, and more and more, in impossible ways. But what really got me through, beyond work, when logic and reason failed, was every morning waking up and making a choice. And choosing one day more to make that leap of faith.

Some days, it took so much courage to leap.

What lessons have resonated with you in life? What have you learned or discovered?

The Rules
I think there is real power in the human voice, as flawed as it may be. And when the voices speak together, when you have a multitude of voices speaking, patterns begin to emerge and there you can begin to understand truth. So in the spirit of the personal narrative, I am hosting a weekly challenge every Tuesday morning, where I will post a topic (ranging from the banal to the intimate) and ask readers to respond. I would love to see everyone’s answers and how similar and different they all are.

You can respond in any way you choose. You can give a fictional response or a true one. You can use words, sentences, and/or photographs. If you have a blog, you can link it with Mr. Linky below. Please be sure to include “Tell It To Me Tuesdays” in the title, and link back to this post. Feel free to use the “Tell It To Me Tuesday” button available to the right. If you don’t have a blog, but want to join in, you can just leave a comment. Please follow the rules. I don’t want to have to delete links. I like links! Don’t make me delete them.

Next week’s challenge: Friendship

If you like what you see add me to your reader!

But they can’t. Even before the flagpole begins to peel and splinter, the ground underneath arches and slides forward into its own new destiny. It may bear the marks of boots on its back, but those marks become the possessions of the land. What does Okinawa remember of its fall? Forbidden to make engines of war, Japan made automobiles instead, and won the world. It all moves on.”
– The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver, p. 384.

Our politics today make me tired. I’m so bloody tired of hearing the same old diatribes repeated ad nauseam, over and over like wheels on a tired, creaky, aged wagon. They talk and talk and it’s like buzzing in my ears. For they say nothing new and none of it even applies anymore. It feels like they’re talking about Spaceman Spiff, when the rest of us are staring at moldy cheese in an empty refrigerator. They talk in the language of the Cold War, and the rest of us are sharing DVDs with the Japanese and watching You Tube videos coming out of Iran.

We have real problems and real concerns. And they’re still talking ideology. The world doesn’t operate on ideology. It operates in the handshake between neighbors, the crops grown by farmers, and the earthquakes and hurricanes that steal our homes away. Who cares about ideology when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun?

I hear the noise and it makes me tired. I hear the lies and it makes my bones melt. I hear the anger and I feel sorrow.

But when I turn off the noise and look at people, I see a different story. I see people buying produce from local farmers. I see people biking to work. I see people wringing their empty pockets to give to others in need. I see people ignoring corporations, eschewing industry and taking the path less walked. Home schooling. Midwives. Etsy. Blogs. Project 3/50. Interracial marriage. News, products, food, and information home grown and shared neighbor to neighbor.

We throw the pills that cause atrocious side-effects down the drain and we eat better food. This is not a revolution. This is not the masses rising up in revolt. This is the world moving on, like ants marching steadily out from under the boot through the gaps in the platform of the sole.

So you can have your soapbox. Let the potentates feed the lie. Let the corporations write our politicians’ speeches. We’re not listening anymore. Because while you sit there spouting and playing your chess games and lining your pockets while everyone else suffers, one by one, we take the road less traveled by.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

by: Lewis Carroll

In honor of a glorious Sunday afternoon.

Their Eyes Were Watching God

This is the theme that emerged for me in reading this book: all the ways in which we can become enslaved. We can become enslaved, yes, by the expectations of family or society or by the hand of a ruthless man. Or sometimes we can enslave ourselves, when we allow ourselves to become captives of our own fears. It is so easy to become overwhelmed by them, to become blinded by them, to not even see or know how we do this to ourselves. It can become so hard to emancipate ourselves, especially when we know those fears so well. When they become a cocoon to hide within. When they are justifiable. But no matter how much reason we have to be afraid, those fears prevent us from being free.

And often have the potential to lead us to unjustifiable actions.

It is amazing what humans are capable of doing when they are afraid.

Hope is a dream, an endpoint, a goal…the sunny scent of candles filling your nose.

Gruyere Chicken & Asparagus and Potato Salad recipes

Fear is the shadow lurking, taunting you with the promise that life will never measure up.

My attempt at the Gruyere Chicken and Potato Salad...

Hope is when you try again, and again.

Recipe for Steak with Tomato Herb Vinaigrette

Telling fear to buzz off, for you don’t care if you fail, you’ve at least got to try.

My attempt at the Steak with Tomato Herb Vinaigrette.

Hope is the many-fingered rosy dawn that led Odysseus home.

Recipes for Gnocchi in Brown Butter and Beef Nicoise Salad

He feared losing wife and home, but still he spurred on and on, fighting demons of all kinds

My attempt at Gnocchi in Brown Butter Sauce

Until his hope of returning to his wife, Penelope, was finally realized

My attempt at Beef Nicoise Salad

And triumphantly he came home.

I am hopeful…

…I hope that you’ll wander over and read a short story I wrote! It’s called: My Brother, Soweto. And then head over to Beth’s site, I Should Be Folding Laundry and participate in this week’s You Capture challenge!

P.S. I can’t wait until it stays light later in the day so I can get dinner food photos under natural light. Sorry for the poor quality pics! Well, the recipes and cookbooks are fine, but my own attempts at these dishes need a little help…

Please feel free to comment on the stories or on the design of the story page. I would love and very much appreciate feedback.

“Don’t do it, Bhekithemba.” I stared into the face of my brother. His bright eyes shone back at me through the darkness as we lay opposite each other on our mattresses of cardboard and tattered sheets.

“I must,” he said, his voice thick with determination. “Don’t you see? This is something I must do.” We spoke in a whispered hush, so as to not wake our mother and father who slept beside us, though we need not have worried. They rose before the sun to traverse the twenty-three kilometer road to work in nearby Jo’burg and did not return until long after the moon rose, casting its silvery light onto the rusted metals roofs of the township. They slept soundly each night, even when the police came with their dogs and banged their batons against the corrugated iron walls of the homes of our neighbors. The shrill echo pierced our ears, but still our parents slept.

“But it is just words, Bhekithemba. It doesn’t mean anything,” I pleaded.

It is unsettling when your younger brother looks at you as if you are naïve, especially when you know he is right. “It is not just words, Nomvula. It is who we are. They are trying to make us act like them and be like them. And if we don’t do it, they push us out. Even in our own homes and our own schools they push us out. They push so that the only choice is to pretend we are just like one of them. But I am no Afrikaaner!” He spat the word like venom from his mouth. “We are Zulu. We go to English schools. We speak Zulu. We speak English. This is as it should be. We will not speak the words of the oppressor.” With that promise, I knew the conversation was finished. We both slipped into an uneasy silence and when I dreamed, it was a dream of violence.

The next morning, I wanted to plead with my brother again. But on this day, he was a different person. Instead of my joking, jovial brother with a laugh like music, a man of calm stood before me. He wore his best button-down white shirt and ate his mealie-meal in studied silence. He was only fifteen, but he was preparing for war. I straightened my school clothes and gathered my schoolbooks and my tattered, hand-me-down copy of Macbeth. It was missing half of the third act, but in class, I could share books with my schoolmate to read what happened. I stood at the doorway and looked at him. When he finally met my gaze, I said, “Uhambe kahle.” Go well on your journey. His eyes melted a half-degree and he nodded, and I turned into the sun.

I had always been the good daughter, everyone’s pet child. I could be counted on to do my work and smile, even when there was little to smile about. My mama’s boss would always give me treats when I helped mama work, and said I did such a good job with the cleaning. I played with their daughters as if we were siblings too, and my mama said this is how things should be. We were lucky to work for a family who cared so well for us. We would be fools to break their trust.

But Bhekithemba had it harder. He smiled, but people saw mischief in his eyes. He was the troublemaker. The one who could not keep quiet. He looked at the family of mama’s boss and said to me, “You want to be like them? You think they are free? They drink the milk of the same tainted cow.” I warned him this demonstration against the Afrikaaners sounded too much like trouble. I warned him that little good could come of it. But he said, “We will be peaceful. Tsietsi has insisted upon it. We will only march. We bring only our words to counter their words. Even if they bring guns, we march in peace.” This mantra was his armor and he felt secure in its weight. This time it is the children who will stand up, and maybe it will work – for who could ignore the words of the innocent?

I nodded and waved in greeting to Mama Shabala, who shuffled barefoot down the dirt road, her skirt and blouse a bright cacophony rustling in the breeze. Her hand steadied the basket on her head and I adjusted the weight of my books, clutching the used copy of Macbeth to my chest like my own clumsy shield as I passed by.

As I drew nearer to the school, a melee of voices carried towards me on the wind. The children were gathering. I found my feet moving, not in the direction of my class, but instead towards the voices. I wound my way through the makeshift homes and came upon the gathering of students. My jaw dropped in stunned silence.

I had expected a hundred, maybe two hundred students. There were thousands. As I watched they began singing, the vibrant tones of “Nkosi sikeleli iAfrika” ringing through the streets. And in one long mass they began to march. I followed, unwilling to join them, but unable to turn away. They marched, voices raised in song, their black bodies drumming a rhythm that reverberated through the earth beneath them. Black fists raised in the air, with cries of “Amandla! Ngawethu!” Power to the people. Power to us. Their clothes were tattered, shabby and brown with dirt, but they walked with pride. Soon, students from Naledi, another high school, also joined in with their voices and their feet.

The demonstration did not go far before it reached a police barricade. The police pointed their weapons and raised their shields, preventing the students from going along their intended route. Some of the children began to call out. But Tsietsi warned the crowd not to provoke the police. He and other members of the student action committee tried to move the marchers down another route. They reminded everyone to stay calm and remember to the way of peace. I strained to find my brother in the thronging masses, but it was impossible to see.

Then, with a crack that pushed my heart out of my chest, a gunshot ripped through the air. Children screamed and began to run. Thick clouds of tear gas rushed over the crowds, the dogs began to bark, and the clatter of gunshots ricocheted and echoed all around us. It was chaos. Our eyes began to tear while our skin itched and burned, and we could not see which way to run as the police began to shoot indiscriminately into the fleeing crowds. Some of the kids threw rocks and stones in defiance, but most tried to run away.

But I, I did not run away. I dropped my schoolbooks and ran into the crowds. There was no thought, no plan. Only my brother. “Bhekithemba!” I screamed, calling out for my brother. “Bhekithemba! Where are you?” I ran through the pulsing masses, searching for my brother. I called his name, though I could not hear my own voice over the din. But I did not have far to run.

With a fist of iron clutching my chest, I saw the white-buttoned shirt of my brother. I ran to him, to where he lay in the street. I pulled him to me, staring at the gaping black red hole in his chest. I watched the stain spread, eating its way across the white. I watched and his hole became my hole. His wound became my wound. Where he had always seen, I had always turned a blind eye. But when the blood on your hands is the blood of your brother, it is your heart that bleeds. It is your blood, your hands, and your shame, no matter who pulled the trigger.

I clasped him to me, lifted him up and carried him, my tears mixing with his blood. He was too big for me to carry, but just then, I found strength I didn’t know belonged to me. Rioters and looters swarmed around me as I walked, but my ears were deaf to the broken glass. Patrol cars shepherded their way through the streets, but my eyes did not see them. I carried my brother through the stained streets of Soweto, singing a lullaby softly under my breath.

We came to an emergency clinic, where the staff was already overrun with the wounded and the dying. A medic came up to me, but he took one look at my brother and I saw the sadness in his eyes. Together, we laid his body down and the medic took notes on a clipboard. Cause of death, he wrote: abscess. Abscess: the pus that fills inflamed and diseased flesh. To protect the families of the protesters, he did not even bother to write a disease as the cause of death, he only wrote the symptom. The disease itself could not be fought directly; you can only ease the pain by drawing the poison out. The disease is too big, too great to cure all at once. We can only try to kill it, abscess by abscess.

I passed my hand in prayer over my brother’s closed eyes. “Uhamba kahle,” I whispered into his ear. I raised my head and looked at all the wounded bodies in the clinic, and saw all my brothers and all my sisters. “Uhamba kahle,” I said again, louder, to all my brethren, and as I did so, I watched the guilt seep out like sweat from my open pores. And tomorrow, when the police come with their dogs and their mace and their tanks and their guns, I will stand. I will stand for my brother, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

——————–

Author’s note: This work of fiction is based on real-life events. On June 16, 1976, students marched in Soweto to protest the Bantu apartheid government’s law dictating all lessons must be taught in Afrikaans. Most students and even many teachers could not speak Afrikaans, only English or Zulu or other tribal languages. The law not only sought to force the Africans to conform to a language they saw as the language of the oppressor, it effectively cut them off from their education until they learned to speak Afrikaans. So the students marched. Their plan was to just walk through the streets of Soweto, sing the national anthem (which is in Zulu), and then go home. They emphasized peaceful demonstration and non-violent civil disobedience. But when the students met the police barricade – it is unclear what exactly happened, a student might have thrown a stone – the police responded with gunfire and teargas. Even as the students began to run away, the police continued to fire indiscriminately into the crowd. An estimated 20,000+ students marched that day, and over 360 children were killed in the ensuing violence. Doctors at emergency clinics wrote false claims on their medical files because writing “gunshot wounds” would have made the families of the victims targets for the authorities. This tragedy caused a massive shift in anti-apartheid sentiment and is seen as one of the major catalysts for the movement to overthrow the apartheid government, which did not happen until almost 18 years later, in 1994.

I remember a particularly luscious one about sunflowers in the second grade.
But I don’t remember the long division I was supposed to have been paying attention to.

I had to stay after school with the teacher so she could show me long division. She couldn’t understand why I got some things so quickly and others not at all. If I could see her again, I would say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Greene, but it was because there were some things I just never heard.” My husband’s stepmom said this might have been a coping mechanism. I suspect she might be right.

I’d like to say the daydreaming stopped when I was a kid, but actually I’m kind of glad it didn’t. Now I daydream stories and characters and have entire conversations in my head. But this time I write them down, and enter them in contests, and submit them for publication. Maybe I still don’t pay attention when I should, though how can I when I’m constructing war and sadness, love and little bits of truth?

(And…I’ve decided to share them. Soon (very soon!), I will have a page up on my blog where I will post my short stories. I hope you all will like them.)

Is it strange one of the things I loved most about childhood was something that…wasn’t exactly real? Hmm.

What about you? How would you complete the phrase: “When I was a child…”?

The Rules
I think there is real power in the human voice, as flawed as it may be. And when the voices speak together, when you have a multitude of voices speaking, patterns begin to emerge and there you can begin to understand truth. So in the spirit of the personal narrative, I am hosting a weekly challenge every Tuesday morning, where I will post a topic (ranging from the banal to the intimate) and ask readers to respond. I would love to see everyone’s answers and how similar and different they all are.

You can respond in any way you choose. You can give a fictional response or a true one. You can use words, sentences, and/or photographs. If you have a blog, you can link it with Mr. Linky below. Please be sure to include “Tell It To Me Tuesdays” in the title, and link back to this post. Feel free to use the “Tell It To Me Tuesday” button available to the right. If you don’t have a blog, but want to join in, you can just leave a comment. Please follow the rules. I don’t want to have to delete links. I like links! Don’t make me delete them.

Next week’s challenge: “I’ve learned…” (or: “I’ve discovered…”)