Yes, I remember vividly where I was and what I was doing on this day at this time 23 years ago. It was horrific and a terrible way to wake up, to watch such an event knowing that people were suffering and dying as I watched safely, stunned and in disbelief from my futon in my living room on my little 20-inch TV with the rabbit ears. I was getting ready for work and had turned the morning news on like I always did. I remember trying to think of how I would explain this to my children, and wondering if anything more would happen and suddenly wondering if we, too, were in danger. I remember hardly any traffic on the road, getting to work late — we were pretty much all late — all of us stunned, crying, and hardly any patients showing up that day. The hospital was on high security alert. I remember one physician in our office, who was always crass, being just as ill-mannered as she always was, and I remember thinking I wanted to tear her hair out for being such a tremendous bitch about it, having no heart for how overwhelmed people were feeling that day. I remember just how eerily quiet it was for many days due to air and ground transportation coming to a halt, and having this disarranged thought that it was also lovely and peaceful.
This day, memorialized each year, no longer gives me a sense of patriotism — just immense sadness. I see what we’ve become since this day and how we’ve celebrated our patriotism right into being something worse than what we thought we were before that day.
I’m not going to applaud the USA on this day. I’m also not going to have an overdue honest discussion about how American imperialism causes so many of our own issues, including the tragedy on 9/11. Today, I am just going to go quietly about my business, praying for and remembering the truly innocent souls that were lost on that day at the hands and the whim of others that also included our own “leaders.” I’m going to be grateful for the heroes of the fire departments, other first responders and even private citizens who jumped into action, not even knowing all that they were up against. They saved some, they lost some, and many of them were also lost — literally and figuratively.
The first responders were doing their jobs, but really over and above what they were paid and trained to do. Some readers may not realize that they are not obligated as a condition of their employment to run into situations such as that. So I am grateful. In all honesty, though, I do wonder that if it had been my son, who is a Firefighter/Paramedic, if I would feel gratitude. I wonder if it would just be anger or immense sadness and loss. I pray I never find out.
I’m also not going to “God bless the USA” today. We hear talk and reminisce about how we all became family on 9/11 and subsequent weeks, suddenly recognizing our connectedness, having been jerked into remembering what was important, forced into the intense moment of NOW, foregoing the thoughts of the mundane day to day drudgery. But I’m not going to applaud behavior that we should exhibit everyday towards one another no matter what is going on. The goodness that did come from that day, that eked out, should be our mere baseline.
We also saw some repulsive behavior. I know in Phoenix, Arizona, where I lived at that time, we surely did. We saw horrible acts of violence against those thought to be Middle Eastern due to our complete lack of understanding and willful ignorance. FEAR. ANGER with no perceived outlet. I won’t forget that either. And I won’t forget that we still suffer from this racist affliction to this day. In many ways, whether we were there or not, we were all victims of 9/11 in some form or fashion, and continue to be.
I will pray for and remember the service women and men who were called into action either here in the states or sent over to the Middle East after this to fight a “war” that was not of their own making. I’m praying for those still in the thick of it due to a country that creates ongoing war and sends some of our most vulnerable populations to fight and kill on its behalf, that still uses propaganda from 9/11 to incite, excite, and encourage acts of war.
So, no, I won’t be raising my fists in the air chanting today, or driving around town with an obnoxious 8-foot American flag anchored in the bed of my pickup flying behind me, or taking pictures of myself wrapped in the American flag. Instead, I will be praying for the souls that were lost on that day, in the days following, and in years after because of their exposure to all of the toxic chemicals from the fires and debris. Those people got up to go to work or go wherever it was they had planned, not knowing what a horrific day it would be or how it would end. I will pray for those who have lingering physical and/or mental trauma from what they saw, what they endured, or because of loved ones they lost on that day or ones lost as a result of war. I will not participate in the furthering of war or the romanticizing of a man-made tragedy.
So today, I want to examine how I can be a catalyst for peace and look for where I fall short. I will just say, “God bless us all,” and pray that we all learn one day to come and go in peace and finally create a nation that heeds its own words written so purposefully long ago:
Whatever is going on now isn’t the end of your story or even the whole thing. It’s just a piece of the pie, a corner of your world that you’re building, creating.
Every story about your experiences, written, thought, or spoken should end with “More later….”
This memory flooded into my mind this morning in the shower seemingly out of nowhere. It must have laid dormant somewhere waiting for the right thought to release it.
Somewhere in the fog of several lifetimes ago
I was in a place where I felt lost and alone, overflowing with my story that there was no one that understood me and no one near that I could comprehend — a place where those around me would see me fail before they would reach out or lend a hand — I walked away from all of them, every single one, ensuring that except for my young boys, I physically was actually alone… well, were it not for those neighbors.
Though her face and features have dimmed from my mind, and even her voice, I still remember these things about Ms. Patsy: her hands, the texture of her hair and the few white spots in it, her living room, and above all, the extreme kindness. That will live on in me forever. And when I close my eyes and transport myself, I remember vividly the warmth of her apartment below mine, and the smell of red beans and rice and cornbread from a particular night. I don’t believe I have ever had a pot of red beans and rice as good as the ones from that night.
Somewhere, I think I still have a borrowed Tom Clancy or John Grisham novel of hers with her name written in it. I borrowed it and never gave it back. I am disturbed that I cannot locate it. Right now, I cannot even remember her last name, but I feel compelled to find that book so that I can see it In her own handwriting on the inside front cover. I feel like I owe her at least that — to see her full name, run my fingers across it, and to say it out loud. If I find it, I will update!
The marvelous universe delivered us both to the same desert location. She was our new downstairs neighbor, and at the time I had no inkling how much I would need her later on. She was much older than I, older than my mother even at that time, in her early 70’s if I recall. I was somewhere around 27. She became a surrogate, a sort of mother/grandmother figure in the quadruplex inside of the apartment complex where I and other young parents lived. I was drawn to her. She was hip, modern, funny, brilliant, and a master at acceptance. We bonded over a love for Earl Klug, the Blues, a love of reading, and memories of the Bay Area in California where I had lived and from where she had recently retired and moved. Little did I know that at some later date she would be the one who may have saved our lives, mine at least, and for sure saved my heart and soul one evening.
We talked about so many delicious topics, and she was one of the first Black women that talked openly with me about race and social justice, and about her son who was living with AIDS. At that time there was a lot of stigma around it and it was pretty much a death sentence. I think she knew that I was open and wanting to learn about the world around me, shoes that I would never (could never) walk in, and that it would expand my perspective. She took a liking to my kids who are biracial, and I think felt it a compelling and important reason to share some of the things with me that she did. It seemed like she had lived many lives, and now that I am closer to her age at that time, I understand.
We would sit out on the stoop with neighbors between all of our apartments and chat for hours about all kinds of things. Our kids would run around out front in the little play area or sit in one of our living rooms watching TV and playing games. I found her fascinating, powerful, brave, funny, and loving. She was as outgoing as she was outspoken. I admired that.
When Ms. Patsy first came to us, I was married with two young boys, not realizing there was a series of heavy, life-altering events ahead. Not long after she moved in, I became pregnant with my third child, and shortly after he was born my husband and I separated. The boys and I stayed at the apartment.
Change. Whoa, CHANGE!
At the time of the separation, I was a member of a religious organization that was extremely rigid and stifling. I received a lot of rhetoric for separating from my husband, and I was very unhappy at treatment that not only I was receiving from some of the women in my congregation, but also how they were treating another young sister after a family tragedy.
I was unemployed and chose to go to allied health school to make myself more marketable for employment. I needed a way to sustain my family. When I received strong criticism from the elders in the congregation and was ostracized and harrassed by some of the other wives for doing so, I felt it was just too much more to bear and I walked away from my entire community. To this day, I can’t imagine how they expected me to care for my family without finding a way to obtain a decent job. Except for my boys, I had absolutely no family near me, and no friends outside of the congregation… well, were it not for those neighbors.
We were poor — not broke, poor. I went from being a housewife and stay-at-home mother, and an active member of a full congregation, to a student and single mother of three boys (one of whom was an infant) without any friends or family around in the same month. We had no telephone. There were no cell phones in that day, no internet or email. In order to call my mother, I had to walk to another building in the apartment complex and call her collect on a payphone. I had no transportation. I had no money of my own. I had a neighbor drive the boys and me to the Department of Economic Security (DES) so that I could apply for food stamps and “welfare.” I was terrified, depressed, bewildered and overwhelmed, but determined.
My neighbors, and especially Ms. Patsy, leaned into me. It was EVERYTHING. They were encouraging, kept me company, and would even help me with the boys once in a while so that I could study for tests or finish homework.
In the morning, I would walk with all of the kids to take my oldest son to school about a half mile down the street. Some mornings, their father would pick up the younger two and take them to daycare a few miles away. Sometimes, I had to walk them. From there, I would go to school which was another half mile from our apartment in the opposite direction from my oldest son’s school. It was a lot of walking. But I was determined to finish this 9-month program that so many people worked hard to convince me was a ridiculous endeavor. At the end of my school day, I would walk back the mile to my oldest son’s school, and from there we would walk another two or three miles to the other side of the freeway to pick up his younger brothers from daycare and go home.
Spiraling
One morning in February 1993, our electricity was turned off for nonpayment. It felt like another hit, but I knew I had to get us to school so I put it out of my mind and told myself I would deal with it later that day. I left school a little bit early that day hoping to get a ride from a friend when I got home later to go pay the bill. It began to rain. I wasn’t expecting it and I was not properly prepared. It was very cold, and I had on my nursing whites, which consisted of white starched and creased pants and a white blouse, as well as my white nursing shoes and knee-highs, and a white lab coat. This is what was mandatory for us to wear to school back in that day. Thankfully, I had a decent winter coat left over from my days of living in California. So I hurried down the street to my son’s school, dragging a folded up umbrella stroller as fast as I could. It wasn’t raining super hard at this time, but it was cold and I was definitely getting wet. I picked up my son and we went on our way. He thankfully had a winter jacket that my mother had purchased for him, and put his hood on.
As we began our walk, it was still raining, mostly drizzling. By the time we had reached the daycare to pick up the two younger ones, it was pouring and we were pretty soaked. I bundled up my 4-year-old as best I could, and put my infant in the umbrella stroller. He had on a little sweater and sweatpants and had a blanket. As we began rushing as fast as we could towing a 4-year-old and pushing an infant, thunder and lightning began and it was raining so hard that I could barely see. When we left the daycare, I had draped my coat over my infant son to keep him warm and dry, but it was raining so hard that we were all wet. My lab coat and pants felt like a drape of ice. It was so cold. It was just SO cold! All I could think of was how cold I was, and how miserable this must be for all my babies. At one point, all four of us were crying. But we just kept walking. I don’t know what other choice we had! I was a mess. I could feel the mascara running into my eyes, and I was consumed with grief and fear.
It all just felt like too much that day. I had another six or seven months to go in school to finish my certification, and another month or more of cold weather. I didn’t feel like I could do it. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to quit. I thought about dying. But even that felt like too much to think about, and like a betrayal to my kids, to my mom. I felt like I was failing and letting my kids and myself down. I was lonely. I was tired. I couldn’t see for the life of me how I was going to make this work.
I was just so damned cold, frozen to my core, it felt.
By the time we reached our apartment complex, my face, hands, legs and feet were numb and burning with the cold, and I knew it must be the same for the boys. Our clothes and shoes were completely soaked through. I was scared to death that my kids would get sick and I wouldn’t be able to afford to take them to the doctor or have to miss school.
As we approached our building, all I could think about was laying down and just sleeping forever. And then I remembered… the power was off! This meant that I had no heat and no way to cook what little food we had.
THIS WAS ALL JUST TOO MUCH.
I had to walk past Ms. Patsy’s patio to get to the stairs to my apartment above. At the realization of the power and food situation, I burst into a wail. The kids were bawling. At that moment, Ms. Patsy came out onto her patio, hands to her mouth when she saw us. I just looked at her and could not stop crying. I was probably blubbering unintelligibly.
She instructed us to immediately come into her apartment. I didn’t even try to resist. We walked into her foyer, all of us dripping and frozen. She dumped towels over us, and went into her bedroom and retrieved a pair of sweatpants and large t-shirt and some socks. She handed them to me and told me to go into the bathroom and change. She said she would take care of the boys. I barely even recall what she put on them — I think it was just some T-shirts. I remember how relieved I was that they were dry and warm because of her. It was so warm in there, and it smelled so good! Something on the stove just smelled like love, warmth, and safety. And did I mention how deliciously warm it was in there?
Once dry, she sat me down on her couch and just hugged me and hugged me, ensuring me that this would be the worst of it all, and that everything was going to be alright. I wept and sobbed, and she just let me. She told me that she had grown worried about us when it started raining, and she had gotten in her car to come and get me from school, not knowing that I had left a little early that day. She didn’t know which way the daycare was and had driven around just guessing, knowing that it was somewhere on the other side of the freeway.
She had a small stackable washer and dryer unit in her apartment, and had thrown our clothes in the dryer. I sat there and told her how hard it had been, all the feelings and fears I had, about the power being turned off, about the woman at DES treating me so poorly once she eyeballed my biracial children, about leaving a whole community behind, about missing my mother, and she never once told me I was wrong or tried to convince me that there was something I needed to change or do. She just listened and let me hang out in my misery for a bit. She continued to listen until I had squeezed it all out of me.
She really took care of us that evening. She invited and insisted that we stay for dinner. She had made a big pot of red beans and rice and some cornbread. She had intended on bringing it up to us when we got home that day, but of course invited us to stay and eat with her. I have to tell you again — that was probably the very best pot of red beans and rice ever, and probably because it was made and served with unconditional love.
We were there for probably about three hours while I finished crying, while we ate and talked some more, and while we waited for our clothes to dry. She offered for us to stay the night there, but I was really wanting to get into my own space, and didn’t want to be any more of a burden to her. She told me she would bring up some red beans and rice leftovers the next day, and sent me upstairs with flashlights and $60 to pay for the light bill the next day, and an offer of a ride to get there. The boys and I all slept together in one bed that night under a pile of blankets with our bones and soles thoroughly warmed.
She saved us. She loved on us. Everything changed after that night. Well, maybe not everything, but something in my head clicked and felt better. It was a dark night of the soul for me, and she was the beacon that was right where and when we needed one.
Regret
I live with regret that I didn’t thank her thoroughly or say a proper goodbye when we left that apartment complex many months later — a decent farewell befit of such a gem. I only saw her once more after that when I returned to the complex to return a cradle that I had borrowed from a neighbor. I was in such a hurry all the time, living in this massive web of survival chaos and anxiety. I pray that from somewhere on the other side of the veil she knows the deep gratitude I have.
This memoir is the flowers and the grateful and loving words I wish I would have given her back then, our dear Ms. Patsy.
Love, Debora
P.S. I finished school that August with a 3.90 gpa. I got my certification and completed an externship. I got a job. I bought a car. I missed my mother and moved back to my hometown 10 years later. My kids grew up. I have three grandchilden, three dogs, one cat, and one husband.
Aerial view of the complex where we lived. Outlined in aqua is our building, and our stoop is circled. The area in yellow is the area where our kids would play.
This is me at my graduation feeling very accomplished and excited for the future. It’s a bit blurry. What can I say, we didn’t have these fancy cell phones back then!
I have been watching this Gerbera Daisy grow for at least a couple of weeks now. I first noticed it opening up on December 26th, and today is January 16th. This probably doesn’t seem unusual, except that we are in the dead of winter. All of my Gerberas die out in the winter and most of them come back in the spring if I have some kind of cover for them, or they are covered somewhat and protected by another plant nearby. This year, I didn’t cover it at all. I just ran out of time, and then figured whatever survived this winter in the garden was icing on the cake of life!
For context, so far this particular flower has survived freezing temperatures, hail, winds above gale force, and the most ridiculous deluge of downpours for days on end. It also normally blooms a red-orange, but is showing up yellow at this time.
For context about myself, I love gardening. It is one of my very most favorite things to do. When I am in the dirt so to speak, I have some of the most profound personal discoveries and gain insight for solving all of the world’s ills. I am at home in the garden and yard, and it is a balm for my soul and mind. It turns my often-chaotic thoughts into a peace garden. It transforms my rushing river of emotions and stinky thinking into a constructive and placid pond in a meadow. I gain so much calm and peace and clarity in the fog and storms of life when I spend time in nature. So, I’ve been learning from this beauty.
This surprise Gerbera Daisy – unexpected, but welcome.
We usually think of daisies as being delicate. But this one is showing us something different. This one is showing us that there is strength in what appears to be delicate, and apparently longevity as well! Below are 35 of the many thoughts that have come up as I have observed this flower for the last few weeks.
I can weather any storm.
I may have some tatters, and scars, and maybe even some broken or missing pieces, but I am still beautiful.
It is somebody else’s choice whether they see me as perfect petals or tattered and torn, but means nothing about how I choose to show up.
At first glance, I might appear to have it all together, to have it all perfected, but upon closer examination you will see truly that I have lived through a lot. And yet, I live.
Sometimes I get stuck in conditions that are tough, but I can show up beautifully still.
If a flower can change its color to survive a season that no one would expect it to survive, I also can shift how I show up to thrive where I am in the moment, the season.
What is my default behavior, my unconscious automatic reaction? Do I notice the beauty or the scars first, and which do I focus on?
Do I honor someone’s scars, especially if I don’t understand them or why they have them?
Sometimes it is necessary to find a balance to stay true to what is good for me and still thrive where I am.
Hold on! There is a new season just around the corner.
Someone might pick me, but it may not be right now.
If no one picks me right now, I can still bloom and bloom again.
If someone does not pick me, they aren’t the one who sees my strength and beauty correctly.
No two flowers are exactly the same, and the flowers don’t care.
Every good bouquet or garden has other kinds of flowers and greenery to create texture, levels, and a more beautiful mix.
I may not be someone’s favorite flower, and I may grow better in a different garden.
There is a time to bloom, and there is a time to rest.
Beauty can be fleeting, so plant good seeds.
It may be surprising at how well I can do when circumstances and surroundings don’t appear optimal.
Surprises and blessings aren’t always planned.
Despite how, where, or what climate I was raised in, I can still thrive, be beautiful, and share joy.
I may never know the depths of what came before someone’s growth and success, or the circumstances from where they are coming.
How someone is dressed or appears shouldn’t determine how much respect I give them.
Examine others under a microscope only if you can handle them lovingly.
I am worthy regardless of where I show up, who is around, or what enyone else thinks.
I won’t be everyone’s favorite.
Sometimes I will need to or have to grow alone, and may even do better that way.
Sometimes I might have to stand alone.
If you pick off too many of my petals, you might end up with an answer you don’t like.
Give me enough room to spread out.
Protect me, but let me grow.
I’m not done unfolding.
I am a part of nature.
Handle me with care — and this is as much a message for me as it is for you.
I have layers, and none are the same, but they all make a whole, beautiful me.
What would you add to this list?
A closer examination reveals that it’s tattered, weathered, but still thriving and beautiful.
I was out trying to fix a sprinkler earlier today. (Yes, Mama, I had on my N95 mask.) I was working as fast as I could so I could get back in the house. I noticed that I had ash on my arms and could feel it getting in my eyes. My glasses lenses were scattered with it. I noticed it on everything. I noticed that I couldn’t see behind our property very far today from all the smoke. When I got in the house, I decided to take a shower to get the smoke and ash off of me, and I noticed that the top of my head had quite a bit of ash on it. Seeing that ash on my head, even more than when I was out in the yard, shoved me right into a reality I hadn’t examined thoroughly before.
All I could think about was that people’s lives were raining down and floating all around me… pasts, futures, hopes, dreams, plans, tiny pieces of homes and precious belongings, maybe even pets and other wildlife. And I couldn’t help but think, “Please, no people.” Whatever it used to be, it’s all things that can’t be put back together again. They can be replaced, some of it, but if you’ve ever lost or broke something special, often times it’s just not the same. I hear it said often in times like this, “At least they didn’t lose their lives.” In an obvious sense that is 100% true, but it’s also not true at all – when we work so hard for the things we have, the places we live, the things we cultivate and that are precious to us.
Certainly I think it’s a safe bet that the vast majority of us would not trade our lives for any of those other things, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt or isn’t significant. It may even be life-changing and cause a domino effect of other hardships.
So I said a quick prayer over the ashes on my head, a prayer for what was contained in them – the things that though they showed up as ash are actually the intangibles that keep us all going. I didn’t think to mention any of this until I saw someone posting a little bit ago about how annoyed they were with all the ash on everything. I get it. It’s messy and it’s certainly not good for us to breathe in. Yet, I think it’s sacred. Granted, we’ll have to wash it off of things, and some of it will catch in the wind and be shuffled off to another destination over and over again, but I sure will see it differently forevermore when I watch it floating down, resting on things, or being rinsed away.
Good, bad, or indifferent, I’m the common denominator in every event and circumstance in my life. If I get to take credit for the celebration and praise-worthy instances, I must also take responsibility and credit for the lackluster and substandard occasions as well.
The way in was me, and so it is for the way out. If I want more, then I stay the course. If I want change, like everything else, that movement begins with me as well.
Simply because I’m human and share the planet, life sends me surprises. I may not be responsible for that, but I am still at the center of the space created from my own response.
Debora Lynn: 