Rainy days and Mondays...
Hopefully it will be a rainy Monday. Brooklyn got me up particularly early today, licking my entire face until I opened my eyes (which is not the worst way to wake up!). The last couple of mornings, clouds have slowly taken over the horizon, but the sun has still managed to reclaim the sky by mid-afternoon. This morning, however, there is an ominous weight above, clouds just heavy with precipitation, and the tension is mounting. Will it rain or not? Yesterday morning, as I was driving home from Wal-Mart, there were the daintiest drops bouncing off the windshield, but only for five minutes at the most (and lucky for me, since I haven't discovered how to turn the windshield wipers on - "Things to do today..."). This morning, about five minutes into my walk with Brooklyn, sure enough rain drops started to fall. Again, only for about five minutes. As I type, I see outside my window that the pool is riddled with tiny rippling circles, so perhaps the clouds have finally decided to let go and I will now witness the debut of my first monsoon season. I didn't realize how much I am affected by seasonal weather, and while constant sun isn't too bad on one's emotional lookout, this recent cloudy weather out here has been a comfort and made me nostalgic for the smell of summer rain, and that safe feeling you get, huddled inside during a nice rainstorm, thunder and all!
I don't believe there is all that much to report on my end. There was a week or so there where I was getting to sleep in the wee hours of the night, and I realized that I had become an infomercial fiend, even grabbing the pen so conveniently located next to my bed to write down a series of 1-800 numbers, all promising financial security, body tone, a clean digestive system, and the best collection of music from the 70's! I haven't called any of them, but should I change my mind, the numbers are only a nightstand away.
A recent incident keeps playing in my head - I was walking Brooklyn on her morning walk. As we neared the tennis courts, I noticed behind me (well, actually Brooklyn noticed first) a woman, a Black woman (I specify this because besides my fellow castmate, I have only seen one other Black female resident in the entire seven-building complex). So of course, this woman caught my eye. She was attractive with long, styled hair, dressed a bit young, short skirt and sweater around her neck, like the proverbial "co-ed". She seemed out of place and even lost, but she was pleasant, a smile on her face and carefree in her gait. Both tennis courts were occupied by older, gray-haired, White men (I specify this because it has weight in this yarn). They reminded me of what I picture when I think "old boys' club". They gave Brooklyn compliments (as everyone does), ooh-ing and ah-ing, calling her a sweet pooch, etc. as we passed by. The woman continued walking behind me as I passed the courts, and for a minute, I thought that perhaps she was somehow connected to the tennis players, and maybe they were all fellow employees enjoying some early morning recreation (the tennis courts are usually vacant that early in the morning, and lately the complex has begun to take guests on a nightly basis, like a hotel). Just as I had cleared the courts, I heard the men from both courts on either side of the path yell out to the woman, "Hello there Serena!" "How are you Serena?!" to which she smiled and responded "Good morning," etc. And I naively thought, "I was right! She is with them!" But then, a few Brooklyn steps later, as I saw that the woman wasn't slowing down to join the men in the courts, I realized what had happened - these men were calling her Serena Williams! And then I was somehow disgusted. By the time I processed this, the woman was nearing me, and she smiled at me and said, "Of course they call me Serena!" and I backed her up with, "I know!" ("I know GIIRRLL" was implied by my tone), and then she continued past me and disappeared off in the distance. And the whole thing just struck a weird chord with me. I couldn't help playing scenes where Black women over the years have had to withstand all kinds of unwanted attention from domineering White men, whether they be taunts or jokes, regardless of intention. And while this wasn't a scene out of "Roots" or anything, and I don't believe the men meant the woman any harm, it just didn't seem right. There was something subversively ugly about it, something presumptuous about the freedom with which the men called the woman "Serena" without any consideration as to how she might take that. Did the woman resemble Serena? I don't know, maybe to an older White man in tennis shorts, she did? They didn't call me Serena when I passed by (that early in the morning, I look more like McEnroe). Actually, they didn't acknowledge me at all, it was all about Brooklyn for them. But I wasn't wearing a short skirt. I don't know, I wouldn't think to pass by saying, "Well, good morning Jimmy (Stewart)!" "How's it hanging there, Bob (Barker)?" "Nice form you've got, Johnny (Carson)!" (That's my repertoire of older, White men, thank you). And it wasn't like the woman was holding a tennis racket. Were they just appreciative of the image of an attractive woman, Black or White, so early in their day and inept at expressing their delight? Was it clumsiness? Perhaps. But I don't think they understand the scrutiny a scene like that would go through in the mind of a Black woman, a scene that wouldn't (and didn't) even warrant a second thought from them.
Maybe it's the desert heat - let's hope it rains soon.
I don't believe there is all that much to report on my end. There was a week or so there where I was getting to sleep in the wee hours of the night, and I realized that I had become an infomercial fiend, even grabbing the pen so conveniently located next to my bed to write down a series of 1-800 numbers, all promising financial security, body tone, a clean digestive system, and the best collection of music from the 70's! I haven't called any of them, but should I change my mind, the numbers are only a nightstand away.
A recent incident keeps playing in my head - I was walking Brooklyn on her morning walk. As we neared the tennis courts, I noticed behind me (well, actually Brooklyn noticed first) a woman, a Black woman (I specify this because besides my fellow castmate, I have only seen one other Black female resident in the entire seven-building complex). So of course, this woman caught my eye. She was attractive with long, styled hair, dressed a bit young, short skirt and sweater around her neck, like the proverbial "co-ed". She seemed out of place and even lost, but she was pleasant, a smile on her face and carefree in her gait. Both tennis courts were occupied by older, gray-haired, White men (I specify this because it has weight in this yarn). They reminded me of what I picture when I think "old boys' club". They gave Brooklyn compliments (as everyone does), ooh-ing and ah-ing, calling her a sweet pooch, etc. as we passed by. The woman continued walking behind me as I passed the courts, and for a minute, I thought that perhaps she was somehow connected to the tennis players, and maybe they were all fellow employees enjoying some early morning recreation (the tennis courts are usually vacant that early in the morning, and lately the complex has begun to take guests on a nightly basis, like a hotel). Just as I had cleared the courts, I heard the men from both courts on either side of the path yell out to the woman, "Hello there Serena!" "How are you Serena?!" to which she smiled and responded "Good morning," etc. And I naively thought, "I was right! She is with them!" But then, a few Brooklyn steps later, as I saw that the woman wasn't slowing down to join the men in the courts, I realized what had happened - these men were calling her Serena Williams! And then I was somehow disgusted. By the time I processed this, the woman was nearing me, and she smiled at me and said, "Of course they call me Serena!" and I backed her up with, "I know!" ("I know GIIRRLL" was implied by my tone), and then she continued past me and disappeared off in the distance. And the whole thing just struck a weird chord with me. I couldn't help playing scenes where Black women over the years have had to withstand all kinds of unwanted attention from domineering White men, whether they be taunts or jokes, regardless of intention. And while this wasn't a scene out of "Roots" or anything, and I don't believe the men meant the woman any harm, it just didn't seem right. There was something subversively ugly about it, something presumptuous about the freedom with which the men called the woman "Serena" without any consideration as to how she might take that. Did the woman resemble Serena? I don't know, maybe to an older White man in tennis shorts, she did? They didn't call me Serena when I passed by (that early in the morning, I look more like McEnroe). Actually, they didn't acknowledge me at all, it was all about Brooklyn for them. But I wasn't wearing a short skirt. I don't know, I wouldn't think to pass by saying, "Well, good morning Jimmy (Stewart)!" "How's it hanging there, Bob (Barker)?" "Nice form you've got, Johnny (Carson)!" (That's my repertoire of older, White men, thank you). And it wasn't like the woman was holding a tennis racket. Were they just appreciative of the image of an attractive woman, Black or White, so early in their day and inept at expressing their delight? Was it clumsiness? Perhaps. But I don't think they understand the scrutiny a scene like that would go through in the mind of a Black woman, a scene that wouldn't (and didn't) even warrant a second thought from them.
Maybe it's the desert heat - let's hope it rains soon.
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