When I heard about friends/colleagues Sacha Jenkins and Raquel Cepeda’s efforts to organize an art benefit for Haiti, I knew that something memorable was stirring in the pot.  Sacha, co-founder of Ego Trip, co-author of “Piecebook: The Secret Drawings of Graffiti Writers” and a well-known scribe teamed up with Raquel,  award-winning journalist, filmmaker (Bling: A Planet Rock) and Sacha’s partner-for-life to do something vital, personal and potent for a land where they have deep ties.

N’ap Boule: A Benefit for Haiti will be held Sun. March 7 at the Anonymous Gallery in New York City.

TW: What prompted you to organize your own benefit rather than to join an effort already in place?

SJ: We really wanted to do something that mobilized folks in the circles that we run in. Art is a big part of our lives and art is a big part of Haitian culture. I know first hand as my mom, a daughter of Haiti, is a painter. We weren’t first-responders, we were bi-standers scoping the horrific snapshots from the island on flatscreens. Haiti needs money, and we figured on the best way to raise it. We’re supporting Doctors Without Borders, so we are, in a sense, working with an ongoing effort.

RC: While we may have been catalysts of a progressive idea, this would have simply been just an idea if it weren’t for the core conduits: Joseph Henrikson and Andrew Lockhart @ Anonymous Gallery offered their beautiful space. They have strong relationships with artists, and a hands-on rapport with the Scope art fair. Indie184 created our {he}ART For Haiti logo and all of the related graphic elements, and her partner Cope 2 contributed art  and leveraged his relationship with artists like TAKI 183 on behalf of the benefit. Sara Rosen offered up her  publicity services; Richard DiBernardo of Prographix NYC donated his time and resources in an effort to produce eight limited edition commemorative T-shirts; Lisa Shimamura is spearheading the online auction that precedes the event on Sunday; This gorgeous couple by the name of Henry and Kathy Chalfant were encouraging mentor-like figures who pointed me in the right direction. Sacha and I have great personal relationships with Deejays like D Nice and Treats. Same goes for a lot of our contributors—folks like Jose Parla, Lee Quinones, Haze, Daze, Mr. Kaves, Barry McGee, Shephard Fairey, and more. Needless to say, this was a real team effort.

TW: How did you go about selecting the artists to participate?
SJ: The idea is that art is a universal language with the ability to heal. We reached out to many, and we we’re blessed to have so many artists sign on. I think we happen to have good taste, so in this case, we’re winning on multiple levels.

RC: We’ve been blessed with good friends and people that are about it as much as they talk about it.

TW: You have close ties to Haiti. Care to elaborate? Have you had family members/friends personally impacted by the earthquake?

RC: I’m of Dominican descent, from the other side of the same island. I have Haitian relatives and partial ancestry, as many Dominicans do somewhere along their line because, well, it’s the same country. And also, you know, Haiti won our independence from slavery and colonial rule. I owe my fam for that. And most intimately, I married my own personal Haitian cabbie named Sacha! Just kidding.

SJ: The core of my family is directly from some of the areas hardest hit. Besides the limitless lives we Haitians have lost, there’s the history—oral, printed, structural—that is now gone forever. It’s painful for anyone to see the images that have been plastered on TV, but even more painful for the folks who have lost a major chunk of their legacy.

TW: What do you think are the most vital resources needed by the people?

RC: I think food, water and shelter are the most urgent needs right now. And medical attention. I also think that the international community must forgive Haiti’s debt!

SJ: Clothing—very important. And shoes–now more than ever. People are walking over very treacherous terrain rife with dirty, sharp edges. I can’t imagine what it’s like to see what the people of Haiti have seen first hand. Moral support is also key, but not in a “we’re gonna come in and save you, poor-little Haitian!” kind of way. Just people coming together to show respect for human life in a very actionable way. Haitians are very proud people. They like to work.

TW: Why have you chosen Doctors without Borders as the beneficiary?

RC: I’ve been a fan of DWB/MSF for years. They are always front and center when conflict and disaster strikes. Their overhead is low. Their mission is clear and their impact is immediate.

Is this auction motivated by something beyond raising funds? What role does the artist play in serving the community? How can arts heal?

RC: The auction was motivated by our desire to do something more than contribute a check to a relief fund. We wanted to be proactive, and take our efforts to another level. We’re looking to get involved down in Haiti, but this benefit is our answer in the meantime. The role artists play in serving the community depends entirely on them. There are artists who are purely motivated by ego, fame, money and commodification. Getting paid for what you do is a blessing but it doesn’t have to be your sole motivation. While I’ve seen this happen, even in the most charitable of times, I like to focus on all the positive energy I’ve experienced in the process. Art can certainly play a major role in healing: art is therapy, and examples of said healing are everywhere!

TW As the spotlight on Haiti fades, what roll will art-based events and programming play in creating awareness about the state of Port Au Prince?

RC: Only time will tell but I am a firm believer that creative impulses are not borne from ourselves but from something divine, something floating in the ether. I think there are artists who are able to tap into that divine language by realizing their art. And in that process, something alien or even ancestral passes through us. I’ll tell you this: if the collective spirits—of all the visual artists, dancers, intellectuals, writers, filmmakers—who have passed on in Haiti continue to hover about, artists will also continue to be compelled to pass on the gift: for Haiti and all the other communities around the world in need.

TW: What do people need to know about Haitian culture, before and after this tragedy?

SJ: Haitians are proud people who are tough, who never give in. And to have such a sense of pride when the world tells us that you don’t matter if you’re dirt poor…it puts our lives as “Americans” in a whole new perspective.

Full disclosure: The one and only Lee Q. has donated two works for this auction and clued me in on the Cepeda/Jenkins undertaking.

For more info:

Doctors Without Borders

Djalirancher

MSF

Through the vines in the jungle, we see two bright eyes staring at us. In an instant they disappear as a cat and mouse game of elusive moves continues. The smallish figure before us bobs up and down, peering over the edge, giving himself away with a rustle, a fluff of hair sprouting two-inches higher than he stands. He is on the hunt, we are his willing prey. And he gets us every time.

We are casualties of city living — a one bedroom New York family. Welcome to our urban jungle, where the wild thing roams. The wild thing is about 2 ft tall and 20 pounds, but his power and keen intelligence are getting the best of us.

When I bought my apartment it wasn’t a Tamara + 2 situation. It was me, grown-up, single and making moves. Then, my decision made sense — 950-sq feet was loads of space by New York standards — palatial compared to my cozy (err, I mean cramped, 650-sq ft) first Brooklyn apartment.  When I moved into the cooperative, I was ensured plenty of elbow room. Then came love and sharing my space with my beau — and the space felt homey and proper. When baby came into picture, we figured we had some time. I had only been living there just over a year; I wasn’t ready to sell.

We rearranged the bedroom, found a delicate small bamboo-wood bassinet and positioned it at the end of our bed the week he was born. I loved that bassinet, his first authentic piece of furniture, not a hand-me-down, but a natural wood designer piece (okay, probably a bit of an over-priced purchase) made especially for him. For the first several months it was family bonding — the chilly winter nights warmed by our tiny little bundle playing hopscotch from bassinet to family bed, nestled happily between us.

All the family fun came to an end in our giant king size romper room, when the scootching began and he catapulted each of us in effort to sky dive from the mattress to the floor. After two successful diving missions,we retired the bassinet, and found a crib on our new favorite kid site diapers.com, measuring carefully to be sure the large slabs of wood would fit inside our bedroom and give him ample room to grow. When the crib arrived, it was a complex joint construction effort, but alas we had a new setup that seemed like it would work for awhile.

His first evenings in the crib, he seemed very far away, and looked so small, toosh spiked in the air, no longer sleeping on his back like a newborn.  Sometimes he switched positions, and slept just like me, on his side, one leg resting in bent-knee formation with the bottom leg sprawled out under him. We were amazed when he made it the whole night through in the crib, but that was until the first spring cold took our little one hostage, stealing all of our slumber hours. We learned the dread of getting up and down to rescue the fallen soldier from his misery, our aching bodies, protesting the path we tread from our bed to the crib and back to the bed and to the crib and the bed, until somehow, despite his mobility, he ended up between us.  A few more belly-diving scares later, we drew the line. No more sleeping in mom and dad’s bed. He was an official crib kid now.

Yet, the little guy wasn’t going to be that easily dismissed. It seemed he had mastered yet another new skill — pulling himself up along the bars standing inside the crib. He would hold himself steady for a few seconds and then look over for approval. Soon, as he gained strength, he began to do laps around the edges, particularly pleased with himself, following our race car/track & field genes.  And then came his flashy moves on tiptoe, as he learned how to get our attention in the early hours, arms waving wildly, making loud sounds like “wog baw” and “uw wha ho.” He began to exercise his powers, which included a telescopic radar on my every move. If I came within a five yard vicinity of his crib he would automatically sit up, 100% awake and aware and ready for action.

On a visit to my parents’ house, my mother suggested that the wild one sleep in my brother’s childhood room. It never occurred to me to sleep in a room without him. Would he survive alone? Desparate for a good night’s sleep, in minutes I had the pack n’ play crib packed and set up in my brother’s room. And that night, he slept, like the baby he is, as I slept blissfully uninterrupted in my childhood bedroom.  It hit me then, he’s ready for his own room, and so are we.

Yet, it’s not such a quick solution, how to spread out in the confines of New York City.  A lot has to be considered — how we will move, where we will move, and what the bigger goals are of are next official home, beyond spreading out into separate bedrooms. There are schools to think of, neighborhoods, life style choices.

And so for the moment, we stay put. Despite the non-stop action, we love our home because that’s exactly what it is to us –where three peas dwell in the pod, it’s where the magic started and life forever changed as the latest installment stakes his claim on our turf.

Originally published July 2009.

Thirty minutes before my flight began boarding I glanced down at my scuffed-up brown  knee high boots, noticing the raggedy nicks and weathered scuffs under the terminal’s harsh light. A beacon of sorts, when I looked up there he was – the shoeshine man, beckoning me.

Research indicates that a proper shoeshine requires 30 minutes per shoe. The procedure can be rushed, but attention to detail requires patience. Brush off dirt. Lacquer with polish. Buff. Edge the side until the shoe has a sheen, rub until the shoe sparkles, like brand new.  A shoe shine in in a terminal or train station is a public declaration of privilege.  One man sitting on top of the world in a bustling hallway, killing time before his 6 o’clock train leaves the station.

Public shoe shining has a certain voyeuristic quality that communicates a sense of superiority.  Shining shoes is an act of inherent subservience with loaded racist inferences. When I think of shoe shining, I think of men of color working with dignity in an undignified profession. I think of the need for change — and how it slowly, diligently comes, even when it seems elusive.  James Brown shined shoes in Augusta, Georgia on a road that was eventually renamed James Brown Blvd. in 1993.

In popular culture references, the shiner is depicted as a man of African-American dissent, who is quiet and soft-spoken. He is a subtle reminder of another America, a carryover from slavery and segregation, in which people of color were relegated to such tasks, and in many parts of society, still are. He is designated “shoe shine boy,” a horrible name in itself which came up in scary right-wing propaganda recently in effort to diss President Obama.  In these images, the shined, usually a Caucasian man, is dressed in a conservative double-breasted business suit, thumbing obliviously through a newspaper as another man huddles over his feet massaging the wrinkles away with firm pressure.  And then there are the painful qualities associated with the use of shoe polish in minstrel eras.

Why on earth would I get my shoes shined at the airport? Curiosity, I suppose, about this man’s world.  I was traveling on business, too, and my boots certainly would be all the better for it. I reconsidered when I saw the airport fee of $7, but the shoeshine man already had me in his roster, I couldn’t back down just because I am thrifty.

True, I could have waited to buy a can of shoe polish for myself, or better yet, dropped off my boots to Eddie, my manly shoe repairman on Dekalb Ave, who always wears a rolled up t-shirt with a long Newport cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth.  Eddie is grumpy, but wants his customers to know they can count on him. Worn out heels, busted zippers, leather tears – New York living is brutal on shoes.

“Come back in a few hours,” Eddie would bark, writing out a hurried receipt.  When I returned, I would have to dig through a pile of shoes to find mine. When I did, I was always satisfied with Eddie’s handiwork. If the repair was minor, Eddie wouldn’t charge me. Eddie took pride in doing the job and for a few dollars, he made me feel brand new. He kept his clients on their feet.

Thirty minutes before boarding, I climbed into the shoe shine seat and placed my feet in the stirrups, which reminded me of the kind at the gynecologist’s office. The woman’s equivalent of a shoe shine is a thorough wash at the beauty salon, or a pedicure. I’ve never spotted a woman getting a public shoe shine.

His name tag said Dominique. He had olive brown skin, and spoke with an accent I couldn’t quite place. It felt strange to see the airport from this elitist perch.  I pulled out my iPhone, intending to pretend to be one of those oblivious businessmen, until Dominique called me out, and started a conversation as he worked, unhurriedly, oblivious to the bustle of the airport around him.  I focused in on his careful work, and I decided that for my first and only shoeshine, I would be present.

I told him that the only person who had ever shined my shoes  was my father. Late at night as my father unwound from working long hours, he would take out his shoeshine kit, which consisted of several brushes and several cans of polish, a carryover from his Vietnam era military service. I would bring him several pairs at a time. He would smirk, and diligently set about shining my shoes, along with his, perched on the stones next to the fireplace, concentrating on the meticulous motion. I would watch him as quietly worked, methodical in his process, a baseball game buzzing in the background.

Dominque asked me why I didn’t have my husband shine my shoes?

“He probably would shine my shoes,” I responded, “but he mostly wears sneakers. Besides, it’s my father’s thing.” He nodded in understanding.

Dominique told me he was from Guyana, but had been in New York for 42 years. New York was home now. He had returned back to Guyana to visit what he missed most the spectacular beaches, and now he was ready to let his childhood go.

I asked Dominque how long he had been shining shoes. It seemed like a lifelong sort of old world craft.  “Three months,” he replied.  “I got laid off from my job and this is all I could get.”

“Oh,” I responded. Clearly, I had much too learn about the modern day politics of the shining profession. He had worked at a hospital for fifteen years in Queens, until he lost his job when the hospital closed down last year. No one else was hiring. But he’s not unhappy shining shoes, he said. “Customers they come, we make small talk for a few minutes, and then they move on. Nobody bothers me, nobody watching over me. I like it this way. I’m going to do this until I retire at 62. I’m 58 now, not so long to go.” He stopped shining and looked up at me. “You’ve got to look for the good in things. It will come eventually. Sometimes when you don’t even realize it.”

I nodded at his bits of wisdom. Dominque was schooling me as he glazed my feet.

But then Dominque spoiled it.

“That job. The people were terrible at the hospital.  So many Haitians. I hate them. They talk that boom bap. Why don’t they learn the English language?”

I was quiet, mortified, as he instructed me to hold my boots stiffly.  I considered telling him I was married to a Haitian man.  I’m not, but I was so saddened; he was ruining the dignity of shoe shining with his own hateful bigotry. I hoped to lessen the blow of his sharp, ignorant words.

“You mean all Haitians?” hoping he would apologize, or back down, or qualify his remark in some way that made me feel some sort of empathy. He was after all bent on one knee, at my feet.

“I hate every one of them. They are like demon people.” And he commenced to rant about the evils of the Haitians he had worked with at the hospital — three weeks after the earthquake.

Instead of telling him exactly how disgusted I was, I stopped talking, as he wrapped up the shine.  Who was I to tell the shoe shine man about racism? My flight would be leaving soon.  I gave him $20. As he went to go get change, a white man in a business suit approached me with a newspaper under his arm, and asked, “Is there anyone here shining shoes?

At that moment, the shoeshine man returned, already focused on his next customer, a gleam in his eye. I counted my money.  I left him a $2 dollar tip for his time, and for the uncomfortable experience. I clicked my shiny shoes and boarded the plane. No more shoe shines for me.  It was time to buy some new boots.

At first, I tried to curb it. I tried to shut my mouth, to resist the temptation, determined not to become one of those kind of people. Before I knew it, I slipped. I figure I could limit it to friends with them.

It’s this thing with Kids. I didn’t want to become the kind of woman who can only talk about Her Kids.

The rationalizations had already begun. In the early days of mommyhood, I vowed that I would balance it with talking about other topics, too. Like what’s on the news. And all my new writing assignments. Or what’s for dinner. Or POTUS debates. Yet, no topic was safe, I would find a curveball to sneak it back to my favorite topic. Eventually, all of these avenues led back to the unavoidable – a new proud parent gushing about baby, nonstop.

What happened to my independent swagger? How did I become all-baby-all-the-time?

Soon, people didn’t even have to know there was a baby. I would be sure to tell them. “You know I have a six month old at home!” Maybe I just wanted to hear that I didn’t look like I just had a baby. That’s what they said at first. (Mental note: Put down the chocolate chip cookie, Tamara, they don’t say that anymore.)

Perhaps it’s because I feel that I am not quite forthcoming, or honest if I don’t mention the little one, that this makes me a selfish parent. Silly, really, because though he’s just arrived, he’s pretty unforgettable — the most precocious, communicative darling around. Pathetic mommy talk I know. As the days pass, the rapid changes are hard to keep up with and I haven’t quite adapted. I still call him “my new baby.” After six months is he still new? Why, he’s almost completed 25% of his baby mode. (Babies aren’t really babies after age two, are they?) In fact, he’s closing in on toddlerville. Okay, perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. The fact remains that he’s on my mind, even when I’m away.

It’s occurred to me that some aspect of my obsession with mentioning him constantly has to do with my ambiguous role. I’m not quite a stay-at-home mom. I’m a work-at-home om, who counts down the time until the babysitter springs me for a few hours of focused bliss. In some ways, I wish I could be stay-at-home, but unfortunately, I just can’t let the idea of my writing career go.

But I’m no 9-to-5er. It’s been a long time since I punched a clock.. My transitions are much more muddled. I’m the scattered writer who races back for another round of baby action, oh so glad there’s no commute keeping me far from the little guy.

It’s this precarious balance I struggle with — the push and pull of me, of us and of him. It’s me becoming comfortable with my new identity, and making peace with the core parts of myself. It’s why I treasure dressing up for fancy events (of course, in record time) and when I’m on regular mother-duty, I wistfully imagine all the fun going on in the world as I spend that extra time thinking about feeding times and naps. Yet, when I’m in route to these fancy-pants events or when there’s a lull in the cocktail conversation at some kind of writer-type of event, I feel this invisible string pulling me back to him.

I happen to think that these adventures away from my little man are probably beneficial for all of us — a new mom needs a few minutes out of the game to reflect from the bench to go the extra mile on the full-court press. (Another rationalization?) It’s precisely when I am gone that the urge to tell kicks in — baby newscenter on the fives. I’ve tried to divert, yet when I attempt to focus on something else, there’s always an easy out luring me back to him. Someone wants to see a cute baby flick, or begs for a cute baby anecdote. Granted, it doesn’t take me much encouragement to unleash. And there they go, the baby stories — what he did last night, the silliness of his latest noise that I try to foolishly imitate or the favorite phrase every parent murmurs in feigned awe, “it all goes by so fast.”

Since I haven’t been successful in curbing my baby/new mom narcissism, I’ve decided to embrace it, and to work with it. I sought out advice for a look to compliment my new sense of style and identity from consultant June Ambros )twitter.com/@juneambrose) “Rockmoms, need attitude & sexy energy! keep it simple & chic with one pcs that ads punctuation to ur look! Now that’s flawless.”

Today, someone else gently suggested WeWe clothing for hot mamas. (form flattering garments are still no excuse for extra cookies.) And as for that interesting accent piece recommended by June, I’m considering a locket — with his photo naturally — I’m a hopeless case.

Originally published March 27, 2009.

It’s January 23, 2010.  In a few short minutes, I will call my grandfather to congratulate him. I imagine he will come to the phone, in a loud voice, he will say “Hello,” emphasizing the second syllable with his German accent. Then, when he hears my voice, he will exclaim, “Little Klooney,” his pet name for me, and will apologize for his poor hearing, muttering, “Too old, too old.”

“No Opa, never too old,” I will, say.

I will tell him that I’ve heard he is celebrating today, and he will say,  “Yes, it was 65 years ago, today, when one Russian soldier did liberate me from Auschwitz. Can you believe it? One Russian soldier. I go to dinner with your mother.”  And then, the stories will begin. He will choose stories that allude to horrific images that resurface in his nightmares, but because he is talking to me, his granddaughter, he will still choose other stories to make me smile. He’s not looking for pity. Though I’ve heard most of them repeatedly, I will listen patiently, because there’s something special about a 99-year old survivor retelling the details of his life, a dignity that belies the odds that he overcame.

I’ve spent much of my life trying to make sense of my grandfather’s.  There were ordinary stories of immigrant experiences, and then there were Opa’s.  Born a Czech citizen, he was raised in Dresden, Germany, when the lines of the Bohemian borders were more fluid.  His family was well to do. He attended the best German schools and followed a career path in electrical engineering – among his proud life achievements are the successes he’s had in this field, as his father would have wanted for him.

He ran his father’s electrical parts factory, reclaiming it after the war, before losing it again to communist authorities in 1954, and starting over in Detroit. Along with stories of his family’s accomplishments, are the nuances of their personalities, like his mother’s colorful sense of humor, and his brother’s smoking habits.

When I spent time with him in childhood, he would find ways to recreate his favorite memories of youth, planning vacations that mirrored those he took with his older brother. When I was 12, we sailed on a coastal steamer to the most northern tip of Norway. I’ve saved the chipped souvenir mug, my own relic of a childhood spent enchanted by doting grandparents.  It was on these trips and during visits to their Baltimore home that I began to ask questions. Surrounded by the heirlooms that were smuggled for safekeeping during the war, I would ask my grandfather about his parents and siblings, and how they escaped Germany to Holland, where he met my grandmother, who hid him for a time.  By the time my fifth grade class read The Diary of Anne Frank in school, I boasted that my grandmother lived near Anne, and that she hid Jews, too.

As I came of age, I was drawn deeper into the details of my grandfather’s Holocaust experiences. I researched his life and studied under my mentor Ken Waltzer at Michigan State University, who helped me develop a plan of study to familiarize myself with the issues of concentration survivors. I wrote a thesis about what it is to be a granddaughter of an Auschwitz survivor, and defended it in 1998.  But I wasn’t finished with my exploration. I started a film about his life, and continued to write.

It is the need to tell that continues to keep me vested in my grandparents’ stories, to somehow find a small sense of solace for the murders of my great-aunt, great-uncle, great-grandmother, and countless cousins, to show that the ultimate act of survival is in the telling of stories, in remembering.  It is my grandmother that I draw from, learning that when someone you love is gone, it is the memory that provides comfort.

My grandfather is still spry, but he can no longer walk for miles, reads big stacks of journals and engage in verbal jousting duels.  Yet, he never complains about his aches and pains, though from the strained look on his face on some days, they are there. Instead, he always has multiple plans — social engagements, errands and anniversaries. He has not lost is taste for fruit, Czech baking and afternoon coffee.  Good food is a source of pleasure.

Every morning after finishing his exercises, my grandfather holds the hand rail and gingerly walk down a flight of stairs to his basement office. He sits at his large oak desk, that somehow survived the war and made it across the ocean, surrounded by statuettes of his patented circuit-breaker creations, and he goes about completing a set of tasks.  While some of his faculties are fading, he has not lost his work ethic.

“The hardest choice to make is always the right one” — one my grandfather’s tenements. Indeed, in living, my grandfather made the grueling choice to go, to become a husband, a father, an uncle, a friend, more than the only survivor in his immediate family. My grandfather has lived most of his life after the Holocaust in these 65 years, he has had his good times, he has lived well. In his words, in his quiet example and in the retelling of his stories, I find meaning.

They say there is no love like a mother’s, and yet, the notion that I would be so attached and intimately intertwined to a little, itty-bitty tiny baby, was not immediate. At some point in my pregnancy I wondered if I was lacking because I didn’t have the mushy mama noises down. In fact, somewhere in month seven I realized I had never held a newborn child for more than two minutes. The fear struck — I was going to be in big trouble.

After all, if you have a kid over 30, could you really shake the selfish qualities that are coupled with independence and the right to delicious control over your own schedule? I was coming up on 32, meaning I no longer qualified as a young mama. I looked for evidence to validate my unfeeling, pragmatism that I would be a bad, resentful mother. I had no interest in shopping for cute baby things during my pregnancy — that must mean that I would be detached and not the over-achiever I generally strive to be.

It took some time for this awkwardness to fade. When my son was born, the sensation of responsibility was exhaustive, overwhelming and exhilarating. I was emotional and grateful, but mostly, it was surreal. It was as if I was watching myself from afar, stumbling through the motions of caring for a child.

From the first days of his life, I felt no more competent than a young teen, clumsily wrapping him. The nurses in the maternity ward seemed so much more skillful with their swift swaddle moves. When I attempted their quick draw, the soft cotton fabric fell off him a pathetic heap as his eyes blinked wide looking past me. Alone, it was so quiet — just he and I trying to figure it out. He didn’t cry or fuss; he stared furtively at the new world he found himself in, through blurred vision. It was as if this tiny creature was showing me what to do.

Indeed, the first days of his life seemed more about my personal growth than his rapid development. I had given birth, but I was becoming mother. He set about with his instinctive appetite and gained weight in his first week of life. While he nourished, I gradually learned to care for him. My heart soared, but still it was abstract as I processed the fact that a human life was developing before me, as it had inside of me.

Through all this, his father and I have been lucky so far. He’s not demanding nor a screamer, but generally patient and kind. Of course, he has his moments, but he voices complaints in this deep groan. He’s only reached def-con five on a handful of occasions and the blasts are generally shorter than one minute.

Back to my fears on motherhood — he was several weeks old when the breakthrough came. I realized that he was looking at me — a penetrating gaze, deep blue eyes that reminded me of my grandmother whose been gone for over 12 years. It was unlike anything I had imagined parenting to be, and it was at that moment of recognition that I understand what this “mother’s love” business is all about. It was something that I could not speculate on or read in books. It was a moment. I fell head-over-heels in unconditional love, in love with my child, who looked at me in a way no one ever has looked at me before. He looked at me like I was the answer.

As his communication and cognitive skills developed, so did other forms of interaction. He began to make noises. We continuously marveled at these noises. One evening his father and I entertained ourselves with a tape recorder as he made those gleeful gurgles and fart noises with his mouth. Oh our little man stunned us with his advanced talents!

Before I was pregnant, I remember imagining myself with a baby someday. It was an exterior vision, a picture of a family, of a tiny hand clasped in my mind, based upon wist from a past relationship, and the girl I was in that bitter era.

I still see hand holding in my future, but I have the sense that there’s so much more. What reality has brought me with our son is something so much denser, primal and sweeter. It’s in the coddling, coaxing, soothing, teaching, and then ultimately standing back and observing him as he goes.

In his current state, just shy of 6-months old he’s developed his best quality so far — a wonderful sense of humor. The kid loves to laugh. Sometimes I can stretch it out for nearly an hour. This is become my new favorite way to spend an afternoon. And I’ve become pretty decent at the mushy noises, too.

Originally published March 6, 2009.

On graceful motherhood:

Mamaista: Smart Moms Don’t Get Caught

Mogul Mom: Time is Money

More Mama Tamara:

On Being a Daughter With a Son

I’ve never been to Haiti, but someday I hope to make it there. Despite the horrific images left in the wake of the 7.0 earthquake, and the inconceivable loss of life, Haiti will endure. At least, what I’ve learned about Haitian culture, leads me to believe so.

Most of what I know of Haiti, I’ve learned as a student of the Katherine Dunham technique, a dance technique that incorporates the lifelong research of Dunham, who considered East St Louis, Senegal and Haiti among her spiritual homes.

I stumbled upon Dunham in 1998 in Detroit. Laura Gavoor, a woman that I worked for during that time, studied Dunham with Penny Godboldo at Marygrove College. The technique came to Detroit through former Dunham company member Clifford Fears. Thousands of Detroiters have been exposed to the Dunham way of life, and as a result the cultural dances of the diaspora. Godboldo is among the few in the world who received Dunham’s blessings to teach her technique, as a certified instructor, who worked closely with Ms Dunham in her lifetime. Intrigued, I began to take classes.  with Laura. I learned the rudimentary movements of Haitian Yanvalou and Shango, Cuban Rumba and Brazilian Samba, translated through Dunham’s isolations, ballet barre work and progressions.

What I’ve discovered in 12 years of study, in addition to the sheer physicality and strength that is required in Dunham dance, is a blueprint for approaching art as a social activist. It is in the work of Dunham and people of her caliber that will aid Haiti as the island makes it way forward in an uncertain, shaky world.

To know Dunham is to study her life. While known for her indelible influence on perpetuating the teaching of dances from the African diaspora that in turn inspired Alvin Ailey, Katherine Dunham devoted much of her life to helping those in need. The Chicago native’s technique married the form and function of dance. Haiti is where her path took shape.

Dunham first wrote about Haiti in DANCES OF HAITI (her master’s thesis, published in 1947), and ISLAND POSSESSED (1969), analyzing how dance in Haiti functioned as a source for culture and spirituality, preserved over the generations that led back to West African.

Initially, Dunham set out to be an anthropologist as a student in her native Illinois. She spent much of her early career in Haiti, studying Vodun and the role of dance in Haitian culture. She  purchased Habitation LeClerc in 1961, the former home of Napoleon’s sister. She opened a clinic for ill and malnourished Haitians aided by American and Haitian physicians. While she continued to expand on her research to the far corners of the world, she remained devoted to the Haitian people. In 1992, age 82, she engaged in a 47-day hunger strike to protest discriminatory practices toward Haitian boat people. “It’s embarrassing to be an American,” she said at the time.

Dunham was 96 when she died in New York City in 2006, and was honored by the dance world for her work on Broadway, the Metropolitan Opera and on film. While she toured the world widely with her company, the first Black dance troupe, she was much more than a choreographer. In her lifetime, Dunham received 10 honorary doctorates, the Presidential Medal of the Arts, the Albert Schweitzer Prize at the Kennedy Center Honors, and membership in the French Legion of Honor. A civil rights leader in her own right, she was awarded major honors from Brazil, Senegal and Haiti. She  was recognized as a mambo priestess in Haiti of Voudun. Dunham understood the power of art and the roll of the oral tradition and cellular memory on an intuitive level, and she had the wisdom and insight to develop a method for spreading that culture in her codifed technique.

In short, Dunham chose activism over Broadway and Hollywood fame, but she had the aura of someone magical, of someone great. I met her on several occasions during annual seminars in East St. Louis, and each time, I was struck by her astute observations, poignant presence and riveting gaze. She restored dignity to the disenfranchised,  and focused on what endured, as opposed to what was lost.

What I’ve heard of Haiti as a student of Dunham still makes me breathless. The wafting rhythms of ceremonial drums, a people who’ve endured suffering, who turn to song and prayer in the ancient patterns.  While Haiti exists as a sovereign nation, it rests in the American shadow, looming in the Carribean.  It was the nation that overcame slavery, yet lives with the burdens of oppression in daily life.

Haiti’s widespread poverty is in constant focus in the new reports, in the infrastructure that crumbled against the quaking earth, but Haiti has long been among the world’s poorest nations. Here is a chilling reminder of how easy it is for humans to forget about those born less fortunate, when the spotlight is removed. Only in the ultimate vision of suffering do hearts soften. Resources are sent, good-will is spread, yet, the deeper more complex issues of Haiti are lost in words like less than $2/day, and in the labeling of Voodoo practitioners.

What troubles me is the skeptical limits of benevolence. Instead of embracing Haitians, and allowing some form of amnesty or temporary visas, American officials warn against an exodus. The message is clear: stay put, Haitians. Ships scour the waters to spot families fleeing on boats, instead of focusing all efforts on feeding the hungry. America sends troops to restore order, when basic human needs for food, shelter and water have not yet been adequately distributed.

In these actions, Dunham’s criticisms of America in 1992 reverberate. What kind of nation denies those in need, a nation built on poetic phrases, “Give us your tired, your poor/ Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”  Instead, as ambassadors of good will, America focuses on containing the suffering, as if these people might just go away, as if suffering can be siphoned, as if America hasn’t contributed to the problem with questionable foreign policies over the past 50 years. Why are we so afraid of letting more Haitians into our nation?

When the rubble is cleared, when the final death tolls are tallied and when the news cameras move onto the next global crises, I wonder will remain of Haiti as Dunham knew it. It is there, but it will, indeed, require nurturing.

The terrifying images of efforts to contain rotting corpses depict suffering and disposal of human life in a way that feel plains inhumane — children, adult and elderly limbs jutting from dump trucks. While these visuals invoke people to donate resources and money, ultimately Haiti deserves better.

As we attempt to understand what Haiti will be, it is imperative to reflect on Haitian-American relations, as a lesson on what should and shouldn’t be. We have the wisdom writers such Edwidge Danticat, who capture the yearning, frustration and injustices of this storied land.

The discussion of Haiti’s future requires an understanding of its core. It is through the works of people like Katherine Dunham that we have a method fror understanding, a respectful and dignified explanation of an ancient culture preserved. While Dunham’s work is not easy to find, it exists — in Ned Williams’ New York classes, at the Alvin Ailey Dance Center, in East St. Louis and in a large contingent of Dunham teachers in San Francisco, and of course in Detroit. Dunham’s work is one many paths that will lead to the cultivation of Haiti’s future.

Related articles:

Detroit Dunham
Katherine Dunham Center for Arts & Humanities
PBS on Katherine Dunham

Literary Haiti with Edwidge Danticat (timesunion.com)

Stories of Haiti: A reading by Edwidge Danticat (ted.com)

My kid was 3000 miles away from me and I was okay with it. I mean, I knew he was in good hands with his papa — two peas in a pod, both who laugh with their mouths wide open, eyes twinkling with mischief and cleft chin cutting a sharp profile. It was their first time alone overnight with me, but I wasn’t concerned. Is it wrong that with my infant son only four months old, I flew the coop and sneaked back out on the road for a work trip?

The six-hour flight was a stark to contrast to my last few plane rides, when I had the wee one in tow. Those flights with Baby Boy involved constant fret as each subtle movement presented a new tiresome obstacle. First, how to carry all my belongings? My mother advised with logical packing tips — never my strong point — providing her usual maternal backup. What they don’t tell parents-to-be: You better learn how to be planner. Ugh! Never my strong suit. I cringe at the word, but I was determined to get on that plane, so old ways had to go.

With Baby on board, it was determined that I would be checking bags. Thanks to golden frequent flyer status, this move was cost free, and helped solve the problem of lugging the big diaper-stuffed suitcase. I shelled out a couple extra dollars for curbside check-in. We would strategically be going to and fro in cars that already had infants car seats in them, so no need to figure out that debacle. And the rest I would carry along with the little one.

On our first trip together, I set off for the airport, armed and strapped in the Baby Bjorn pack carrying Baby, a diaper bag stuffed with blankets, diapers, bibs, hand sanitizer, teething ring, wipes, two fresh changes of clothes, and my laptop and documents in another bag. Needless to say, I was weighted down like a camel. We made it through security in the early hours of our flight, baby’s eyes wide and ready for this foreign world.

But it wasn’t always so smooth — like the time a TSA official tripped on his own authority and made me take off the Bjorn and take out Baby. All chaos broke loose as the camel of me slumped to one side and our possessions were scattered on the conveyor. Another TSA official on duty, shook her head in annoyance, and told me that the robo-TSA cop didn’t know procedure, but it was too late, as we haphazardly dressed again. Baby (code name for the mission: Lil Trooper) stayed quiet as I tried to put the pieces back together. After a brisk power walk with my 15 pound weight, me sweating all over Lil Troop, we made it to gate A72 at the far end of the terminal just in time for the flight.

Each time Baby and I boarded for a trans-continental trip, I went into stealth mode. I eased my way past the frequent flyers circling the door like hungry wolves, and stepped first in line. I’d stroll down to the gate and balance Baby on one hip as I collapsed the stroller, gaining considerable skills with every attempt. Once on the plane, I sought out my window-seat and propped up baby while I organized. First, I shoved my belongings in and then I began to strategically set up the feeding station — left boob discreetly away from male seat mate with a blanket tossed casually over to hide the feeding that would go down. (Breast feeding on airplanes relieves pressure on babes’ ear according to pediatrician, in case you’re not privy to this parent-type tip.)

On each of the first year flights we were upgraded to first class thanks to my reserve of miles from my former life as a jetsetter. Shuffling our bags and blankets, I ignored dirty stares from business men who foresaw a screamer as we made our way to the front of the plane, of course knocking people in the head with the diaper bag. Two of my first class seatmates were eager grandfathers who shared stories of their daughters’ little ones.

During takeoff Baby cooed and I held my breath and shooshed, hoping to avoid shrieks, but back when he was immobile, he was a dream traveler. Baby passed out as the movement worked like a sedative, lulling him instantly to sleep. Of course, I didn’t get much shut eye. (The imagination has too much time to work when one has no arms free with which to read.) I was proud of Baby’s savoir faire, though I was always worn out from three hours of sitting erect as a 2×4.

Yet, on my first solo trip  it was all so refreshingly different. I flew from JFK to SFO to drive Volvo XC60s –to write about driving the new cars.  It was like flying for the first time, back when flying was still fun. I could stroll around the newsstand at the airport, buy an overflowing latte, and work on my laptop during the trip and lay back in my seat — oh what perks! And when I landed, no need to pick up checked bags, just snatch my suitcase from the over head bin and go-go-go. I was whisked to my hotel, and for the first time in months, I had no one to think about but, me. That’s right, it was all about ME! That is, except for the one piece of mother-related stress in my suitcase — the creepy breast pump. And here was my anxiety about first-year traveling: Would my milk dry up? I have become a bit of psycho-breast feeder, forbidding formula at all costs. What if they ran out of milk back home? I better return with a full arsenal, TSA officials be damned. I set about the milk maid session — the first of many in the coming two days, but the degrading act of pumping didn’t seem so bad as I overlooked the Golden Gate Bridge in my private room. In fact, I hadn’t been alone in a bedroom since my suitemate joined me in the hospital birthing center.

Did I miss them, my beautiful baby and man? Oh yes. Did I want to cut my trip short? Oh no. I passed up on going out on the town (it was only two nights away) in favor of early, indulgent full nights of sleep. I turned on the electric fireplace. I took a long bath and plugged in the ipod to some smooth grooves and stayed in the bath until I pruned. I worked out without glancing at the passing minutes. I took a walk without carrying anything obtrusive. I ate dinner and lingered with a glass of wine, until I retired to my room, blissfully alone. It was really a commercial mom fantasy, ala Calgon during soap opera primetime. And, I still had time left over to work. “Time, there you are my old friend,” I said out loud in my still hotel room.

Of course everywhere I went, everyone I spoke to knew that I was a new mom from my cheery glow and my incessant babble about babies. In that two day visit, I finally mastered the art of the iphone photo library function — the proud mother showing off her new baby who didn’t feel so far way at all.

I savored this journey, but it wasn’t like I forgot or regretted any of my choices to have a family in that reminder of life before Baby. Wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly even think about trading the life; no way; nope. In fact, I appreciated them oh so much more. What I gained on my solo excursion was a moment to reflect. And appreciate. And admire. And love.

The old life seemed faded and less exhilarating, and in this sour fiscal climate, kind of lonesome. Yet I felt this invisible transcontinental string connecting me, drawing me back home to the roots and foundation that was growing in my absence. If it wasn’t for that wilting milk supply, I could have stayed an extra day to simply just chill. Fact: Moms need at least five days to properly unwind from duties, but rarely get it.

I prepared for my early morning flight back to my brood, content with the balance I had achieve momentarily — working mama ready to go back to working at home mom. The only trouble was that as I was waiting for my frozen cooler to come back to the front desk, a breast milk bag exploded in the hotel lobby, and precious extract congealed before my eyes. As baby’s sweet stinky supply seeped onto new floors and cozy couches, I used my sleeve to smear it before I threw the majority in an open trash can, cringing at the foul display and shoved the few remaining packets in my suitcase. I managed to smuggle six containers home where Baby Boy had just consumed the last of the reserve supply. I was needed.

Originally published Feb. 9, 2009.

Read Tamara’s Volvo Xc60 review here: Gotryke

Related articles:

• Traveling with baby (momblognetwork.com)
• Review: Bundle of Trouble (bookingmama.blogspot.com)

We don’t speak the same language, but we understand each other. Baby boy has a formidable handle on gurgles and oohs and ahhs that leave us with the acute impression that he know exactly what he means – a man of obtuse words. He is quite articulate and prolific in his discourse. With each passing day more of his waking hours are spent in deep concentration and a thorough follow up of said sounds. I’m not sure if he follows researcher and mezzo-soprano Priscilla Dunstan’s patterns, who has coded baby language into five definitive noises. Perhaps in our shrinking adult minds and bodies, we are unable to converse to master his instinctive form of communication.

Yet, it’s not what he says, but what he does, living up to the adage at an early age — that actions do indeed speak larger than words. And so it goes that our youngster has an uncanny sense of timing. At parties, he is a welcome favor, instinctively batting his eyelashes at cautious childless strangers, waving his arms, and emitting gurgles of glee that endear him to crowds. It seems that we have a charmer on our hands. A few times his reaction has puzzled me. Only once has he frowned when a perfectly nice person cradled him, only to find out that this friend was suffering from depression. Oh the wonders of my intuitive child! Yet, I wonder if it is a budding sense of humor that inspires him on other occasions. It the only way I can explain his with utter delight when he wakes up precisely when we (his charges) think that we can grab a few stolen moments of romantic bliss.

It starts with a rustle in the bassinet at the foot of our bed. If we do not heed his warnings, we will soon be bombarded by the distinct noise of whooshing breath and finally the crack up of sobs as he proclaims, “Don’t forget about me.” He calms as we peer above him, our super-size faces hovering inches away from his. How can we be annoyed with this enchanting flirt who hovers near? He breaks into a crooked smile and kicks his feet out in an exclamation of satisfaction.
After a few minutes, we attempt to lay back down — he in the bassinet, we in our bed. Yet, our presence is not enough to calm him. He feels us near and has decided that the king size bed is a preferable to the bassinet. He knows how to get his way as we crumble to his disciplinary reprimands. And yes, he joins us, the strict chaperone enforcing the rules. Only then moments later he falls into deep slumber, a slight smirk on his innocent face and we are forced to do the same.

Originally posted on Dec. 28, 2008

Employees at Yasmeen Bakery on Warren Avenue prepare to serve Ramadan delicacies. PHOTO: Nafeh AbuNab/American Elite Studios

When you tell people that you grew up in Michigan, most do not judge you to be a person of worldly knowledge.

As I watch countless news reports of the failed terrorist attack by a Nigerian man cutting to a video clip of passengers disembarking at Detroit Metro Airport, it strikes me as curious that most international outlets have failed to examine the irony of destination Detroit — a hub for thriving communities of Middle Eastern immigrants of many persuasions.

It is a reminder of how a seemingly forgotten region is at the center of a global conflict, and will continue to be singled out in the coming years as world issues grow stickier.

More than New York City, more than Los Angeles, more than Chicago, Southeast Michigan is the American hub for Middle East culture, period.  A reported 403,445 Arab Americans live in Michigan, according to the 2000 U.S Census, with 30% of the entire population living in Dearborn, while the eastern suburb of Sterling Heights is home to the largest percentage of the Arab-American population.

It is reminder of how little Americans really want to understand personal ties to the Middle East. In casual terms, Southeast Michigan is known for its segregated racial politics, and black and white exterior, and not as hub for international relations. But, like most things, the reality is far more complex.

A few months ago, my mother and I had dinner at a new Middle Eastern restaurant near my childhood home in a northwest Detroit suburb. The waiter, a lanky 19-year old, was chatty and charming. He began to tell his story as he drizzled olive oil and lemon on our hummus, the way his mother had shown him to do. He told us that he was an American citizen of Muslim background, who was born in Iraq. (The restaurant’s owners were a Jordanian and Armenian-Italian couple.)

He explained to us that he had been driven out of Iraq at age five with his family, and then lived in Saudi Arabia as refugees before coming to the US. Until recently, he and his brother had a job with the American military. They conducted sensitivity training with soldiers due to deploy to Iraq. He told us how he is waiting tables, because the military is done with Iraqi talent; now they are in the market for knowledgeable Afghanis. That’s why he’s waiting tables until he determines his next move, he said.

Not too far from the restaurant, I attended Maple Elementary School in the Walled Lake school district for a good chunk of the 1980s.  By first grade, I had a cursory knowledge of a few ancient Aramaic words from my classmates. The town that I grew up in happened to be a hub for a sect of Catholic Iraquis — the Chaldeans, who immigrated in clusters originally from Telkaif in Northern Iraq. Side by side, we played together — oblivious of our differences –  Jewish, Catholics and Protestants. The Chaldean kids typically had large families — I knew about 30 kids in one family who were all cousins scattered throughout the grade school. Close Family ties were central to the Chaldean identity.

As we moved on to high school, I noticed differences in how we were raised. In the mornings, some of the Chaldean girls would be in the bathroom, chattering away as they applied makeup that their mothers wouldn’t allow them to aware.  Hormones were kicking in and teenagers were being teenagers, and rebelling.

While I’m sure it wasn’t easy to be a minority in what was then a small town, when you grow up together, many of the tensions naturally alleviate with the passing of years.  Yet, the 90s brought about the first Gulf War, which placed Chaldeans in a precarious position — with many of their relatives remaining in Iraq, and Chaldeans were treated as outsiders.

It wasn’t until I went off to college that I realized that outside of Oakland, Macomb and Wayne County, the average American doesn’t know anything about Chaldean culture. It is estimated that about 80,000 Chaldeans live in the Detroit area, but they make up only 10 percent of the population in Iraq.  Chaldeans, like most groups started coming in the early 20th century for manufacturing jobs, and later came in waves in the face of persecution. They do not self-identify as Arab-American, though they are often grouped within the culture.

There’s so much about the Middle East that is not common knowledge, and with ignorance, it’s easy to overlook inconsistencies in reporting,  to dehumanize people, and to overlook the complicity of belief systems. Generalizing only perpetuates ill-informed understanding of issues that do ultimately matter — Read the rest of this entry »