This is not some sophomoric assumption. You think I don’t understand violence?! You are wrong. I was 7 and you wanted to take my pencil in class. You had taken everyone else’s, including the boys. I refused. So you punched me. I still refused. I was 13 and you insisted on cheating off my spelling test. I received an A, you an F. So you waited for me after school. I ran and just as you were about to catch me, you tore the hood off my new coat. I continued to run. I received a tongue lashing from my mother (not for the coat, but for the running.)

Two buses each way to high school and you decide to steal my best friend’s camera. At the police station, we weren’t to be believed. Deflated, we walk back to the bus stop; and from your car, you herald insults and spit at us. So, yes, I know what you’re capable of and if I were any older, I would know so much more. But I am not deterred, your hate will not erase me. Your lies will not become me. Your fist and your guns and taste for brutality will make me no less a person; but it will indeed destroy you.

Don’t be fooled, Love is not a salve for the weak. It is for the strong. It is the weapon of choice for the mighty; and I have girded myself for battle. And when 9 of us dies, or 26 of us dies or 11 of us dies…at your hand…we will mourn our dead; and unplug the stove. We will not stick in our heads in the oven.

I was at a talk once where Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie once remark, “there is a great deal made of comfort in this country.” She was referring to America. I’m American, she is too perhaps. At any rate, I understand her comment regarding this idea of comfort. I understand it so much so that I might substitute the word comfort for happiness. Somewhere I read, we are mostly in the pursuit of happiness.

Recently, one night when out with friends, we played a game of, I would be happy, indeed, life would be perfect if only. World peace ranked number one, my answer was closer to home: “I would be happy if I had a gallon sized, dentist issued, pump dispenser mouthwash.”

Let me explain: Along with my husband, and while working full time, engaged civilly, and holding down a mostly disciplined writing practice, I reared two boys. Everyone had their own underwear draw, but we shared mouthwash. And inevitably, and even when I thought I was paying attention, those paper cups would always ran out before the mouthwash. And while I never could quite prove it, a mother knows: they were drinking from the cap and why was I so sure….because every once in awhile, I had too drank from the cap! Damn you! I will not be judged by you.

So over the years, and of all the things people probably do in private, I hated using the mouthwash cap as a cup most of all! It’s not you. It’s me. By now, I should have ceased to care. After-all, my kids are mostly gone now: One, a super senior in college; the other, living with our grand-dog Barry Allen in artist housing.

It’s just that in all these years, I always thought I was at the precipice of true happiness, and a one gallon mouthwash with the pump would change everything. Just imagine…after a good night’s sleep, you rise, the faint scent of lavender pillow mist still lingers in the air. You give blessings for a new day. You are filled with hope. Your inbox was at zero when you went to bed and you accidentally on purpose left the phone in the kitchen, but only after you remembered to set the timer on the coffee pot. In stocking feet, you go from hardwood flooring to ceramic flooring with ease. All is right with the world. You are pregnant with possibilities for a new day. And while you overlook blogs of toothpaste in the sink, in your haste to clean it up, and just as you notice the mouthwash cap is resting on the cup holder, you spill the open container of mouthwash. All of it. Everywhere.

Fast forward. Many years later when asked what would make life perfect, my answer remained the same: a gallon size of mouthwash with a pump dispenser. Yes, a great deal IS made of comfort in this country. But you too may have noticed, for many, comfort is waining. Blame the government, or not. Blame your employer, or not. Blame chocolate cities. Blame vanilla suburbs. Or not. Or not. I personally blame…well, you just read my story. So this is what I told my friends that night when we talked of creating a more perfect union.

To my utter disbelief, my friends purchased that gallon size mouthwash for me…pump included. We will see how much of a comfort bearer I will now become.

I admit it. This IS one of those #myjobisbetterthanyourjob post, but hang in there with me, please; I promise it will not be as obnoxious as the hashtag reads.

Yesterday, most of my Advancement colleagues and I served at Our Daily Bread (ODB), a Catholic Charities of Baltimore program. As the name implies, we feed people, and on that day, we fed about 650 guests within 2 hours. New to Catholic Charities and my first time as a volunteer at ODB , “it was a light day,” they told me. In between guests, my job was to clean and reset the table. So with many rounds of 8, people sat and rose constantly throughout lunch, but it was the very first guest that shaped my experience. As people line up outside, they are given an entry ticket, and at 10:30am guests enter an open seating dining area where they are served by volunteers. A hearty balanced meal, including: bread and dessert, tea and water and a choice of a vegetarian or meat protein meal. The first guest in my section, the green section, enters and his face is buried in a newspaper; but he is holding the newspaper cross ways so the words do not appear as words at all, but look more like Morris code. He sat down, raised his fork under the paper, all while never revealing his face. He drank his tea the same way. Still shielding his face, he ate quickly. He rose and I could see that he had eaten all his food. He returned his empty plate and tea cup; and just as mysteriously as he entered, he was gone. Had he felt ashamed? Why was I now feeling ashamed? And why were my thoughts of the summer of 1972? I am instantly 7 years old again in Newark, NJ and I hear the call to lunch, but it’s not my mother, it’s Ms. Janice, the Rec Center leader. My friends and I put down our cards, our jacks, our jump ropes and grab a brown bag lunch. Free lunch. After all these years, I no longer remember what was served; but somehow, it surely involved yellow cheese. By the end of that summer, I hated two things: people who cheated at Spades and yellow cheese. Little has changed.

He could have sat anywhere, and he sat in my section. How did he know I read Morris code? What HELP did he think I could offer? “I’m seven, I too am on the mercy of world!” I almost yelled. So under my breath, I cursed our policy makers and the increasing holes in our collective safety nets…Only 15 minutes had past into a two hour shift, so I decided right then and there, perhaps it’s best that I am unseen too, damn him, he had taken the newspaper with him! My head slightly bowed, eyes cast down, quietly and dutifully, I swiped up water or slight spills and reset napkins and forks.

And that’s where I expected the story to end. Then I began to notice, guest after guest, at table after table, a community of generosity. Now, I am seldom surprised by generosity, as a professional fundraiser, that would be a job hazard. So I look for it everywhere, surely I witnessed it in the several for-profits companies that had come to volunteer as a by-product of team building and corporate responsibility; I saw it in the students who were completing service hours, a requirement for graduation; and I certainly stood in awe of the senior citizens who served with ease and dignity. One older gentlemen, has been volunteering for 14 years; and for all the long-term volunteers, their hugs, warm greetings and big smiles proved that there was something larger than themselves at work. They loved what they were doing and they loved the guests they served. But it were the guests themselves who impressed me most. Their generosity gave me the most hope. One guest offered his bread to another guest, another offered his salad, and another still, his cupcake; many to random strangers. It went on like this throughout the duration of the meal. Some people, without polling the table, simply left their untouched deserts or extra bread in the center of the table for anyone. They rose from the table not knowing who would benefit from their largess, only knowing that someone might. And isn’t that the real gift? Maybe that’s what my stranger-friend with his sideways newspaper was really signaling to me. It wasn’t SOS, it was LOVE. Love thy neighbor as thy self. Spread love by offering some of what you have to others. Time, talent, treasure.

Oh, by the way, by the end of my shift, I’d receive several proposals for marriage (since I’m already married many were willing to wait) and two offers to attend yoga or meditation with me…so yeah, somewhere along the way, I looked up and laughed out loud and even wondered why we just didn’t clear the tables and play cards. After-all, these stranger-friends had already proven that they were to generous to cheat at spades.

Catholic Democrats US Catholic magazine

Show your love for the people you serve! Thank you in advance for the fist pump and hand clap!

A story of generosity.

Today was not like any other day. Today, I was going to see Hamilton…in Chicago. I live in Bmore. I could barely sleep and good thing because at 3:40am, my flight was cancelled. Ok, no problem…

Rebooked myself on a later flight. My 7:20am nonstop becomes a 7:55am connecting through Columbus OH and yeah, you’re right, I had to change planes. I more than doubled the time to arrive In Chicago. First world problems, indeed.

I board the plane; the plane taxis down the runway and stops…I mean right there on the tarmac. The plane just stops! The pilot clears his throat, “engine trouble” he says, “in all my years…” he says. I stopped listening. “We can still make it,” I say to myself. Pilots make up time in the air all the time. Why, I remember once I got home from South Carolina so fast, I thought, surely, he must have stolen the plane (umm…the pilot’s voice sounded a bit gangster, anyway.) We were in good hands. Besides, I had a two hour layover in Columbus; I’m not worried. Yet. I’m not worried until the plane goes back to the gate and they open the door and they tell us that anyone who wants to get to Chicago before 3:00pm should exit the plane. 8 out of the 12 of us get off. Now what? I lost my A status with Southwest beginning Jan 1st, and with it any white…I mean, special privileges (a little humor folks, this is a long form essay!) The only thing left now is my winning smile and great personality…uh oh!

In a line 12 people deep, and to no one in particular, I say aloud, “I’m trying to see Hamilton in Chicago” and two young women turn and say, “you too?” What? How can this be? At that moment I knew…all will be well.

Digital babies, they knew that there was another flight on Delta heading to Chicago in an hour. We can still make it. Back through security, I begin again…I pluck down my credit card (I mean…Come on, WWJD? It’s Hamilton!) and rush to the next gate.

New Itinerary: Baltimore to Detroit to Chicago, O’Hare…ok…we’ll cut it close (yes we…my two newest stranger friends and I are now a team!) We can still make it.

Board the plane. Taxi down the runway and we stop again! Surely they must have installed a stop light on the runway. The pilot, clears his throat, and walks the aisle explaining that the plane can’t leave because of a mandatory stop. Which I think means, freeze! wherever you are and in our case it was on the runway. Why? Apparently, it’s freezing rain in Detroit. We sit for an hour. For the first time, Hamilton is starting to appear in my rear view mirror. Whatever the plane god is trying to tell me…I ain’t listening. Chicago or bust, I say!

The plane finally gets in the air and lands in Detroit only there is too much fog to go any further. Yes! Stuck again. The connection was coming from Buffalo but fog in Buffalo prevented its timely takeoff. It was going to be at least a two hour delay. My super smart friends scope out another plane and tell me that we can now land in Midway, and it leaves in 40 minutes. We change our flight pattern again.

By now, if you are still reading, yep…Hamilton is starting in 30 mins and we are still in Detroit. My stranger-friends say, “surely you have ticket insurance?” Yeah right! NOT! With my phone at 8 percent and 30 minutes before we board, I call TicketMaster. Mostly an automated system, they can’t recognize the credit card I used to purchase my original ticket. I email them and some BOT assured me that they will get back to me in 24 hours. I call again…after a 15 minute wait time (it is now 1:25pm) I speak with a live person. Once we determine that my name is not Reader, but indeed, Rita, we become instant friends. She takes all the information and promises to call the theatre and see what she can do and will leave me a message on my cell, which I should have by the time I land in Chicago.

My new friends have insurance and purchase new tickets to Hamilton. I don’t have insurance; so I refuse. They have also offered me to bunk with them for the night. I don’t have a plane ticket for tomorrow; but I accept.

It’s 4:00 pm, we finally land in Chicago. I hail us an Uber, my friends head to the back door of Wicked to meet the cast and I head to the front door of Hamilton to meet the concierge. The customer service rep had not heard from TM and suggested through the bullet proof glass that I speak with Carol, the house manager. Perhaps, it was I who made the suggestion. No glass, but more security and I finally get to see Carol. She is beautiful. Beautiful in the way, your favorite aunt is beautiful. She leads with love and I almost burst into tears at the sight of her. As usual, I start too far back in the story, and yet, she listens patiently. There are no tears (mine) only grace and mercy (hers.) She asks me to meet her at 6:45pm. She also tells me that there is a Mc Donald’s around the corner and I can wait there until the appointed time. I can’t thank her enough!!! As she closes the door to the theatre, I am still thanking her.

The girls text me, they are meeting friends for dinner and invite me to join them. I hurriedly buy an outfit for tomorrow. Call SWA to change my flight and I buy dinner for my stranger-friends and their friends! I was elated.

At 6:45pm… I find Carol and security finds me and ushers me to my seat. I am not given a ticket and follow him aimlessly. I try to make small talk…my 6 itineraries, my new friends…blah blah. Yes, he had heard all about it. We climb a few steps and it is there, in all her beauty…heaven is revealed. I can’t believe it. He ushered me to the dress box. Of the four seats, he selects the best one, tells me to enjoy the show, as he quietly exits, closing the curtain behind him. I can’t believe it. I watch as the hall fills: I see those on romantic first dates or celebrating special milestones, I see middle schoolers and their parents. I see seasoned theatre goers. Old people and young people. Black people, brown people, and white people and I am filled with joy. We are all about to have a shared experience: the retelling of the story of one of the founding fathers of America, and some of the first lyrics we all hear is formed as a question: How does…? HOW DOES? And then I knew. I knew what this crazy day of trains, planes and automobiles was all about. How do we be in community together? By breaking bread, together. By experiencing joy, together and by saying our prayers, together. I’m a fundraiser and every once in awhile, it is good to be reminded that the generosity of others on behalf of those I serve is a real emotion and a reliable narrator of the good that exists in this world. Hamilton knew that and it was reason enough, for a “bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten Spot in the Caribbean by providence, impoverished, in squalor grew up to be a hero and a scholar.” So when he says, “My name is Alexander Hamilton, And there’s a million things I haven’t done. But just you wait, just you wait…” In that moment, we are all Alexander Hamilton and just you wait! Thank you Troy, Carol, Jenny, Melia, SWA, Delta, TM, CIBC, Uber, Nordstrom Rack, and all six seat-mates throughout my 8 hour plane ride. And thank you Lin-Manuel Miranda. Because of you, there are only 999,999 things I haven’t done; but just you wait. Just you wait. Generosity wins! Community matters!

So imagine my disbelief (and I can tell many of yours too) to learn about the President’s decision on DACA. But first, I was born in the south and raised in the north. Close your eyes and imagine for a moment that the south had been effective in succeeding from the union. (I know, I know…but it leads to a point.)

My mama migrated north shortly after I was born. Like many African Americans who participated in the second wave of the great migration, she was young, ambitious, extremely hardworking, God-fearing, strong and tough in all the ways you need a mama to be — especially when you recognize, even as a little person — that you’re very survival depends on her and other caring adults in your community “figuring it all out”

At first, the north was a strange experience for my mom. She grew up on a farm in Alabama; and Newark was anything but…for one, it had so many more people and so much more black top and asphalt. People spoke much faster and often time the words and colloquialisms were strange and confusing. In Alabama, she had never met any Catholics nor had she ever rode a public bus regularly. To this day, after 53 years in the north, she has never had a cocktail of any sort or a cigarette or a night of “boogie oogie oogie like you just can’t boogie no more.” She came from a blues people.

My mom…Ms. Bessie!

She has made life long friends, grows tomatoes annually, tends to her lawn (she moved to southern NJ years ago) attends church regularly and volunteers for civic engagement. She still eats supper instead of dinner. Lovingly refers to her grandsons as youn’s and her granddaughters as gals. She wears “house shoes” instead of slippers and carries a “pocketbook” instead of a purse. And when I had my first boyfriend in high school, she asked of him, “whose boy are you?” Which was understood to mean, to whom do you belong? And after my second child was born, for the first 3 months, she thought I named him Channel instead of Chandler. And since we are still imagining, and since I am my mother’s child, imagine me as a dreamer. She did. She planted a dream in my head and she waited…and waited some more. And here’s the head fake, it had little to do with me becoming a college administrator or world traveler or driving a nice car. But it has everything to do with rearing children who give more to the world than they take from it. She led by example. She spent 25 years working for the state of NJ taking care of handicap children when their own parents could not or would not. Many times, Thanksgiving supper was delayed in our home because she worked. And her labor provided the overtime pay to make whatever ends that needed meeting. But we don’t have to imagine, do we?

The republic of these United States are alive and well; so what harm is it to extend a dreamer a chance? Like my family, many come from a very humble home and like my family, parents want the very best for their children; and they are often willing to give up culture, the familiarity of home, and risk it all (even deportation) for a chance at their children’s future. Little has changed. Now imagine the Western Europeans who came to the cotton fields of Alabama or the Eastern Europeans who came to the black top and asphalt of NYC, all with their own dreams and dreamers in tow. We didn’t turn our backs on dreamers then; let’s not turn our back on dreamers now.

All dreamer’s deserve a chance.

On the Ocassion of my Birthday, I’m grateful For many things: meaningful work, family and friends, sharing a birthday with my mom and son, but no more important than my deep and abiding gratitude to my beating heart.

A heart that started beating 53 years ago and has been on post with no break, no vacation, no mid-life crisis, accepted no better offer, no up-grade…my ride or die chick just ticking, pumping, grinding on my behalf so she can bear witness for my gift of life. Now that’s a reason to celebrate! But don’t think I didn’t “try” her. (a primer for my beloved friends who may not recognize the colloquial use of the word “try.” Imagine you’re 7 and you’re in church and after being warned, you continue to place your feet on the back of the pew in front of you instead of on the floor where they belong and your mama turns to you and say, “oh, you want to try me!” It’s not a question.)

I’ve had over a half century of close calls. There was the time I decided to do a headstand on the front door and someone opened it from the other side and I fell on my neck, then there was the time I forgot to duck a baseball pitch and ended up with a broken nose and two black eyes, lest I forget near the misses when riding in cars and yeah, Trudy Love, my own up-close and personal bully for 3 totureous middle school years (how can someone with the last name Love be so mean, but I digress.)

There were the not so usual heartbreaks: a friend perishes in a fire, another teenager OD’s in our courtyard, still another young adult friend dies of AIDS and later, much later cancer strikes friends and foes alike…my bestie dies when we are both pregnant. There were times when I thought it all to much. My heart disagreed. She thought I protest to much…be grateful she seem to say with every thump: for career, thump; marriage and children, thump; service to others, thump; and time after time, I get in my own way: a cheeseburger, thump; forgoing the long walk, thump; crossing my legs, thump; holding my breath. Thump, thump, she proves herself again and again. I exhale.

A half century later, the old girl needs my help now. We’ve talked. I didn’t know she cussed. I hear her sweet soft whisper, “stop kicking the (blanky-blank) pew in front of you. The ocean is calling. Go deep.”

I didn’t tell her I have but a small boat.

Instead! I joined a gym, and the first thing I did was learn to row.

Thank you dear heart.

If you like, show some heart with a heart! Thank you. Follow me here and on twitter ritalwalters

But first…

It’s 10pm, you pick him up from the airport. He tells you about his spring break adventures including, The Canadians he met who entertained he and his friends. “Mom, they were so nice…a beautiful home, they made us pasta for dinner and paired it with the best wine.” An early Monday morning class, he insisted on driving back to school that night. And no talk of a hearty home cooked breakfast would persuade him otherwise.

By now, It’s midnight and the phone rings. He couldn’t possibly be there by now. His school is at least 2.5 hours away. Then it happens: The five words you never want to hear from your African American son, “Got stopped by the police.” He continues, 4 words this time, “missing a tail light.” I freeze and now Troy (his dad) is asking questions; but I only hear the sounds grown ups make in The Peanuts…mwa-mwa-mwa…

disoriented and confused, teeth clenched and shaking by now, I blink several times and try to think. Hadn’t we driven his car to the airport? There were several police officers walking back and forth as we waited, why didn’t they notice? My thoughts are swirling. I should have insisted he stay the night. Troy had driven the car everyday for a week, he filled the tires with air, why didn’t he notice the tail light was out? Sandra Bland was steps away from a college campus when she was pulled over, right?

Troy routinely arrives home after nightfall. I don’t understand. This is Troy’s fault! Is Chandler filming this, I wonder if there is a FB live tutorial? I will make a note and insist that both children are trained on FB live. This is my fault! I hadn’t been grocery shopping and one glance in the frig and Chandler would know that I didn’t have the ingredients for a “hearty home cooked breakfast.” By now, I am far away from my bedroom, and the newly washed down-comforter that only hours earlier, I was convinced was the most comfortable ever.

3 words this time…mine. “Hate that comforter.”

How could I have thought life was perfect because I added wool balls to the dryer cycle?! Troy turned on the light and my harsh reality returned. Alas, we understood that after some questioning about his home address, where he was headed, where he was coming from, followed by a quick look in the back seat and seeing a laundry basket filled with clean clothes; he was sent on his way with a warning. A day earlier, he was in Mexico (yes, the same Mexico where our government intends to build a wall) celebrating his friend’s 21st birthday.

Chandler had no international phone plan. I had no access to his Snapchat. Yet, I slept like a baby (ok, that’s not exactly true, but you feel me, right?) Within two hours on US soil, he is stopped by the police for an infraction. Chandler described the Officer as nice and professional and we all are grateful that he was sent on his way with a warning; but there is something wrong when the mere thought of an encounter with a police officer sends chills down your spine and makes you hate the very comforter you just spent 2 hours and $11.75 washing and drying at a public laundry.

When my kids were little and would get frustrated at some slight, real or perceived: dead batteries in their favorite motorized toy, peas touching their potatoes, tying their laces and instantly it would start: tears, falling to the surface, pure frustration. Words! I would say, use your words.

As I look at the Presidential race, I am at a lost. Its not that I don’t remember my own advice to my then three year olds, I just can’t seem to find the right words myself. Every time, I think this is surely the bottom, I am astounded at a new depth of despair. “Pick yourself off the floor, stop kicking the wall and use your words,” I say to my 52 year old self. But isn’t that what he has done? Used his words to divide and conquer? Used his words to alienate and hate? Used his words to belittle and demean? Used his words to cast blue against red, north against south, east against west? Used his words to silence the rest of us? Here is what I know for sure, when you’re three, words can help you communicate your dilemma. Words alone cannot magically tie laces, words alone cannot mend toys, words alone will not make you eat your peas(unless you, like me, have a mama named Bessie, but that’s another post): but engaging in an action will! Voting on Tuesday, November 8th will. Put your words into action. Say to those that would dismiss you because of race, gender, sexuality, poverty, education, disability, or religion…that I’m with her because America is to great to make me hate. I’m with her…Because if you want to lead the people, you have to love the people. I’m with her because we hold life and death within our tongues, and we the people, for the people, will stand by the people and choose life over death and freedom over fear. #hrc #hillary2016 #i’mwithher

Then the basil, but it too was ok, or so I thought, because the fresh mozzarella in the frig had begun to mold anyway; but it was the death of the impatiences that got my undivided attention. I then realized it was to early for so many things to die: vegetables, trees, plants, Castile, Sterling. Summer is growing season (May-Oct) the time when we sprout forth, multiply, populate the earth. It’s no wonder, in the shadow of death, I found myself at the sea baptizing myself in salt water, giving birth to myself again, and again. Loraine Hansberry said it best, “I wish to live…and wish others to live for generations and generations.” Press the heart button please.

My boys 2 and 7 years old sharing tea. Now fast forward about 18 years and no matter what hell I’m going through (and let’s face it, your smart phone is the gateway drug to news, work, social media, bills, ills, terrorism, racism, politics, family, friends and the worst offenders and most dangerous to your wellbeing “frienemies “ and online shopping…welcome to hell) the first image I see before I unlock whatever is in store for me…is the image of my children, and the innocence of their lives then, and my hope for their lives now. My personal trigger warning, Chaz and Chandler are my constant companion statement piece in the face of a rugged terrain of personal, professional, spiritual, financial, and emotional triggers. As proxy, their image speaks to me, they seem to say, “slide to the left boldly, sip your tea baby gurl! You got this.” So I electric-slide, Beyonce like slide, to the left, to the left slide…unlocking my phone with confidence knowing that whatever I’m about to face, I do so as their mother, as their teacher, as their role model. I got this. Indeed. What’s the first thing you see before you unlock your day? Curate carefully.