Oliver

 There is a feral cat who lives beyond my fence. I have seen him flitting around for years. Now, I am reaching out to him, with food, shelter, and petting.

His name is Oliver. My daughter suggested the name after Olivia Newton John died. He does not answer to his name. I usually just "meow" and he shows up, meowing in response. 

This is my third cat. I rescued an older male who was on death's door in New York's winter a number of years ago. My son named him Strider, after the hero from Lord of the Rings. Strider was in his final days, and, despite my attempts at keeping him on my lap, he chose to go it alone, in the depths of my closet.

Then, we adopted a sweet tuxedo named Gemini. Gemini was a meowing baby, found by our dog Sammy. Sammy's unusual howling made us go outside at night to see what was wrong. A small kitten, without mother or siblings, she became our indoor/outdoor cat who responded to evening calls to come home. Sometimes, I would look out of my second-floor bedroom window to see her neon eyes. She was very good at staying in the neighborhood, not venturing into traffic. Gemini sat, purring on my daughters' chests, feeling as at home in our house, as around our neighborhood. We took her to our next home, where she became an indoor cat in her later years. She was affectionate, and still sat on my kids' chests when they were willing to be still.

Gemini developed mouth cancer and could no longer eat, nor clean herself. She lost weight and retreated to the closet. My daughter, the one who loved her the most, came with me to the vet's office. We held her as she passed into cat heaven, hoping she might wait for us at the end of the bridge.

I pride myself to be a dog person. But these feline companions have meant so much -- to me and to my kids. My Oliver greets me every day with an echoed meow, leading me to the makeshift house I have made, waiting for his breakfast and dinner, and excellent ear scratching. Oliver is mine, as much as I am his.

Whose Garden Is This?

Up north, I used to know all the names of the trees, plants and creatures. 

No longer.

Tiny delicate lizards flit throughout my garden and house, stopping to nod a throaty hello before moving on. Black Racer snakes sit still until seeing me, and then flit away to who knows where. Freshwater turtles greet me at the canal running in back of my house every evening, knowing I am coming with delicious food pellets. The fish and ducks like them too.

And, speaking of ducks, my extended family of Muscovy ducks wait for me to come out of the gate with cracked corn in the mornings, and waddle toward my car whenever I pull into the driveway. It is nesting season, and a few mamas congregate with their peeping broods, along with the other ducks -- even the fat, red-faced, hissing males.

I plant small things I cannot name, and they grow quickly into giants. Bird of Paradise, Banana, Oleander, Bougainvillia, and Cordyline. I plant others that become pineapples, avocados and mangoes. My Hibiscus has taken over the western fence. It is wonderfully out of control.

I thought this was my new Wild West (Wild South?). Yet the large orange and green Iguanas planting themselves squarely in sunny spots, blinking and nodding at me, say, "This is, and has always been my garden, not yours."

Atlantic, North and South

 The water is often still here.

The same ocean, yet she has changed her clothes several times

Since I last saw her.

She was sassier then, chilly and wild with waves worn

Around her shoulders like cotton batting.

Here, she seems deceptively softer, smoother, warmer to the touch.

But do not anger the ocean goddess of the south. 

She will roil and spill onto your safety -- 

A howling spurned mistress

Churning until all her rage is spent.

Her northern self is steely and controlled -- 

Her voice still so familiar in my ear that she almost tricks me into believing,

"Oh, it's you! You followed me here to keep me company, 

still singing the sea song from my earliest remembering."

In the north, she pulls no punches, tells no lies

Offers solace to the island dwellers.

Here, in the south, she is Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde

Lulling me into a haze, until the moon is full and the offshore winds whip her

Into a frenzy.

Once, I thought I knew her allure.

Now, I am not so sure.

Lisa the Tower of Pisa

 I recently learned my childhood crush, the youngest of three rambunctious boys, passed away. Since his rascally ten-year- old face is the only one I can conjur, it is
extra hard to believe he is gone.

He lived across the street. His father, a very loud man who knew nothing of

pig-tailed little girls, had composed a song in my very young honor:

Oh, Lisa, the Tower of Pisa!

She bends and she bends, but she never falls down!

It was shouted at me over the years, until this father retired and moved away.

The song always made me feel a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was the shouting.

Maybe I sensed subtle innuendo. But it also made me proud to know I was the

subject of someone’s original ballad.

The song has different meaning now, some 60 years later. It is a song of resiliency,

of survival, of flexibility in the face of gravity and a lifetime of leaning, bending,

straightening, bending again.

I’ve not fallen once. Nor do I plan to anytime soon.

Once Black, Never Back

 I can no longer do what I once did. My energy and strength have waned. Yet, at 65, I can still dig into the earth, still kneel to plant, still carry 40 pound bags of dog food and mulch. I can push the behemoth vacuum cleaner through at least three rooms at a time, before stopping to catch my breath. I can wrangle two energetic dogs on leash, without letting go. I can walk a few miles without fainting.

Once, maybe 15 years ago, when I was going to the gym on a regular basis, my friend (who was a personal trainer there) confided in me. He said, "I asked a client what her optimal goal was coming to the gym. She immediately pointed to you, and said, "I want to look like her."

I no longer look anything like this person's goal, yet still, I am happy with the body I have. I can walk unruly dogs. I can run if I have to. I can lift 40 pounds of dog food. And while my biceps have become the saggy bottoms of my upper arms, I still consider myself the Black belt, badass mama I once was. 

We are, not only what we see today, but a compilation of all we have been and
done. Like the black-belt martial arts community says, "once Black, never back." 

The Walk

 I took a walk tonight. It was just after sunset in south Florida, where the sunsets are particularly beautiful. It is January 21, the day after Joe Biden was sworn in as the 46th President, and Kamala Harris, the first women of color to be our Vice-President. Yesterday, I watched the swearing-in, with all its wonderful songs and poems.

Tonight, I take stock. I have been lucky to have received my first COVID vaccine, and am scheduled for my second. My kids are healthy and weathering the pandemic storm bravely. I am surrounded by those who care. I am safe, for the moment.

Tonight, in this south Florida walk, I remember my brother, who did not quite last until the pandemic hit, I celebrate my kids who are stoically weathering these hard times, and empathizing with my neighbors, whose houses still light up with Christmas decorations, or whose houses are dark and still, because their residents are old or sick. Some of these houses had proudly displayed Trump signs, and a few, Biden signs. 

A month ago, we were awakened to sirens and flashing lights. Our neighbor's brother had passed away in the night. All of us came into the street to talk to, and comfort the family. No one spoke about politics, or beliefs. We all gathered (masks on) to offer comfort to our grieving neighbor.

Let us go back to this time. This raw reality is real America. We come out in the middle of the night to comfort our neighbor. We do not ask about religion, race or political alliance. As often as needed, no questions asked. Always. This is my America.

Other

 My wonderful , thoughtful, brilliant partner is Jewish. Her father was a survivor of the Holocaust, as are many of her family members. Her uncle was Eli Wiesel. Photos of her family in concentration camps are displayed at Yad Vashem Museum in Jerusalem.

I am an Irish-Italian American who still (even in Trump times) believes in an America where we are all safe from mass extermination. 

In my job, I tutor all kinds of people, from all over the world. I think of myself as being the kind of person who is there for everyone, regardless of background. I received my degree from a New York City university (CUNY Queens College). I worked at another New York university, where my students were from every imaginable country on the planet. I now work In Miami, where, again, my students are from everywhere.

This is what I have learned.

All people, women, men, local or not, are remarkable in their knowledge, drive, understanding, and hope. I am always humbled by my students. They represent a future for the planet that I cannot imagine, a future that, (first of all) exists, and a future every human can be a part of, and proud of.

 

My life has had its twists and turns. But I never had to risk my life, or that of my children for the freedoms I expected. My wonderful, thoughtful, brilliant Jewish partner knows better. Her family has been on the run for centuries. Now, in this time, in America, all thoughtful people should be concerned for their neighbors -- Black, Jewish, Other.

No human is “other.” We are so much more the same than different. Is it white male supremacy that is the problem? It very well could be. Or is it the basic fear of whatever is different? I dress differently. I speak differently. I am different. But not really. I am the same as you, I want the same things as you. I hear you, beyond language, beyond culture. We breathe the same air. We walk in step. We marvel at the same stars.