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Racial Disparity Still Stains America’s Game

As a young girl,I fell in love with the game of baseball. It wasn’t a passing phase or a brief interest that faded with time.It built slowly, embers into flames, a fire that has been burning for more than 30 years. Like any relationship, baseball and I have our issues. I fight with the men wearing the numbers on their back, grow frustrated in trying times, shout obscenities at the men in blue. I’m not perfect and neither is it.But all these years, it has fed my soul.  I passed that love along to my two children, one actively, with the simple purchase of a bucket of balls, gloves, and a bat, the other by using her teenage hormones and a cute player from Aruba to get her to watch the game. The third, well, she still resists, but I haven’t given up trying yet.  I’m also the mother of three multi-racial children,and am quite cognizant of the issues they face as young people of color in today’s society. We have had no issues with race in school. My children have participated in soccer, gymnastics, competitive cheerleading, football, and track, all without having to think twice about race, a fact that I am more than grateful to give voice to. The baseball diamond, however, is a whole different story.  My son began playing at the age of 8, and now, five years later, is playing on a highly skilled travel ball team, preparing for next year’s jump to showcase ball, a major segue into the college game. In his little league days, there was one black child on an opposing team, and one child of mixed race amongst the twenty-three teams that played in his division over those three years. Since moving into the travel ball arena, he has played more than 25 tournaments over four states. In that time, with an average of 13 players per roster,six teams per tournament, we have encountered a total of five African-American players, two of whom rode the bench for their respective teams, only seeing the field when their teams were up by several runs late in a game.  As I watched the MLB games on Jackie Robinson Day this year, it struck me just how few of the players wearing that revered #42 were African-Americans, and how the racial boundaries that Robinson once took so much abuse to break down were still very much in play today, from the demographics of Little League Organizations all over the country to the top of the food chain, The Show. While the African-American population in the U.S. is at approximately 13.7%, the percentage of African-Americans playing baseball on the world’s biggest stage stands at 6.7%. Not since 1957,a mere decade after Robinson made his major league debut, has such a low percentage been recorded, having been on a steady decline from it’s all-time high of 19.7% in 1986.(Statistics among NCAA Division I programs have followed the same path.)  As the speeches were made, the tributes to his tremendous perseverance paid on April 15th, I couldn’t help but think about how he would feel about the game he loved now, having witnessed the barriers being broken, and the subsequent rise in the number of African-American players during his lifetime to more than 16%, knowing that those same barriers were being steadily rebuilt, what he endured so much for, being undone year after year.  And then I thought of my son, and how he must feel, stepping out onto that field every weekend,seeing not another face that looks like his own. He loves the game. Its become part of who he is, a default part of all of his days. Every day he picks up a bat, a ball, and a glove, and gives another piece of himself to it, and I can’t help but wonder, if current trends continue, there will come a time in his young life, sooner, rather than later, when he is loving a game that no longer loves him back. Its been said that the purpose in studying history is so that we are not doomed to repeat our failures, but looking at the big picture in baseball, I’d say that’s precisely where we are headed. It makes me mournful,both for my son, and for the game that has had my heart for the majority of my life.  

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As we all do, I was often asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I always gave the answers that were expected at any given age and stage of intellectual development along the way... Wolverine (HA!), a mechanic, a pilot, a photographer, a nurse. As I grew older, and was able to look back on my life from a different perspective, however, there were two things I always wanted to be above all else...one, a parent, and two, my daddy's little girl.

My relationship with my father was always a complicated one. My parents separated at an early age, and the animosity that remained between them affected my interactions with my father to a large degree. He wasn't always there for me. In fact, there were times when he was blatantly absent, unavailable to me emotionally when I needed him the most.

It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that my father was battling his own demons, from mental illness to the fact that he had no example from his own family life of what a father should really be. His own father was an alcoholic, often absent from the home, and one I can only recall speaking a handful of times throughout the nine years I had with him before he passed away. I can only imagine what growing up, trying to become a man, and subsequently, a father, in a household like that was like for my dad.

It wasn't until I was a grown woman that I was able to let go of the pain and anger I harbored for what I perceived to be is lack of attentiveness, and realized that he had always given me the best of himself, the things that remained pure and untainted by a life that wasn't easy for him either. Whether it was stories of his time in the military, tales of fishing along the James River basin, or time spent playing the guitar and subsequently teaching me, I was getting the parts of my dad that didn't bring him pain. We spent hours driving long country roads together listening to classic rock and singing. We caught fireflies and crawdads in the creek near his childhood home. He always called me Sunshine, telling me I could light up a room with my smile.

These small things lay at the heart of who my father really is, a very simple man, and are gifts he gave me that I treasure every day. My love of music came from him, as did my propensity to want to be outdoors, my love for long drives with no destination in mind, and so many other parts of who I am. There are songs he would sing to me that I will hold in my heart for as long as I draw breath, and not once, when my father looked into my eyes, did I EVER have to wonder how very much he loves me. That look he always got in his eyes, the way he'd hug me extra tight and a little longer than I expected, always said more than words ever could. No matter how old I get, in his eyes, I will always be his Sunshine, daddy's little girl.

So, a few weeks ago, I spent five hours in my artist's chair getting another long-awaited piece done on my left shoulder/upper back. I'm was particularly excited about it, as it is a tribute piece for my father, depicting things that have made him who he is and memories I have of the two of us together. I chose each part of the composition of the piece with of lots thought and all the love I hold for him. It has been a couple of years in the making, as I really wanted to feel like it encompassed who he is, not only as a man, but as my daddy.

His own handwriting was worked into the piece, which I am particularly excited about. This is first tattoo I have ever gotten that I will not have drawn every single aspect of, but as much as I struggled with fitting all of the pieces together the way I wanted them to be, I just couldn't get out of my own way and allow them to fall organically into place.

So, I let Marc step in and I couldn't be more pleased that I relinquished that degree of control. He did say it was the most single elements that he's ever attempted to put into one tattoo, but his work is amazing, and he was definitely up for the challenge, knowing how important this particular piece is to me. I couldn’t wait for it to be done, and to share it openly on my skin...exactly how much I love my father and love, no matter how old I get, being my daddy's little girl. Tattooed by Marc Rainville of Art Attack Tattoo

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“Pussy has no face.”

Yeah, its crude, but let’s face it, the saying has been around for years. I heard a kid spewing that phrase today...a teenager, and it turned my stomach. Guess what? Pussy does indeed have a face, and a brain, and feelings. It has likes and dislikes, hobbies, interests. Unless that sucker is made of silicone, its attached to a living, breathing human being.  This is not a feminist rant. I don’t consider myself to be a feminist. There are certain traditional gender roles I embrace and others I discard for the sake of preference and/or convenience. However, listening to this kid talking about “bagging” a chick just so he could stand to fuck her made me want to take off my four inch heel and plant it firmly in his eye socket.  Everything inside me was screaming for me to give him a piece of my mind, to ask what pitiful excuse for parents taught him to think about women with such blatant disregard. I wanted to tell the little fucker to go take a look in the mirror, to honestly assess himself from a purely cosmetic standpoint, and then ask himself why he might be attracting girls he then feels the need to “bag”. I wanted to yell “Wake the fuck up you self-absorbed DICK!” But I didn’t. I was proud of myself.  Normally, my filter isn’t quite that strong. I have a habit of speaking my mind without restraint, tact, or even couth if I feel the occasion warrants a genuine unbridled tongue-lashing. My words tend to land like razor blades.  This time, however, I simply leaned over and whispered to my son “What a tool!”, tilting my head in the douchebag’s direction, and watched my son nod in response. When we got in the car and headed home, my son said “He keeps saying shit like that, he’s gonna’ end up jacking off into a sock his whole life.” Yes, my thirteen year-old curses in my presence. We have “grown-up” conversations. Since I’m both mom and dad, there are times we have “man-to-man” conversations about the uncomfortable nature of growing hair on your balls, the unpredictability of a hard on in certain circumstances, and the more important things, like how to treat women.  This is where my son has an advantage, being raised by a single female with two older sisters. There are pluses and minuses in all of life’s circumstances. The pluses in this one? The kid speaks “female” fluently. He thinks thigh gaps are gross, and will tell a female walking around with her ass hanging out of her shorts to “Go put on some clothes.” He knows a female with a concave stomach just isn’t natural. She needs a sandwich, or six. He carries tampons through the drug store without reservation, opens doors, unloads groceries, and has good enough PMS radar to know when to break out the chocolate and Pringles.  He also says things, like “Why would I want a girl to suck my dick when I don’t even know her name?” I know, I know. He’ll likely grow out of that one, but when he does, it will be nice to reminisce and remember a time... I guess my point is that I’m proud that my son isn’t THAT KID...the one I heard today and wanted to pummel. I’m glad that at some points in his life, he has heard the lessons I’ve been trying to teach, not only about women, but about valuing people in general, because all human beings have value and are deserving of respect. “Pussy has no face.” Utter that phrase, and you certainly aren’t worthy of running up in one.  

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Seven Months One Summer

More than a decade ago, one January afternoon, I was given a diagnosis that would change my life forever. I had a grade IV anaplastic astrocytoma, and given 6-18 months to live. I was devastated. As a single mother of three small children, the youngest of whom was barely a year old at the time, I didn’t know how to cope. I’ve always been a fighter, never one to lay down in the face of a challenge, but in that moment, I felt completely defeated.  I was in a constant battle with the two sides of myself, the one that was determined to fight tooth and nail to win a battle that I was told was futile from the start, and the one that simply wanted to give in and cherish the time I had left, living it to the fullest for as long as possible. Both sides were equally justified. My life had been far from easy, and I had never afforded myself the opportunity to live in the moment, yet do so responsibly. At the same time, there was more on the line for me then. Giving up meant orphaning three children who deserved nothing but the best life had to offer, including the best mom I could possibly be for them.  Flashback 14 years I had always been a lover of music. It was a common ground I found with my father, where there was little common ground to be had. My childhood wasn’t an easy one, painted with animosity, the heartbreak of a broken family and a mostly absentee dad, and a feeling that I simply didn’t fit in, no matter how hard I tried. I felt lost ninety percent of the time. I had escaped from the confines of my mother’s home for the weekend, and headed with some friends to a beach in New Hampshire for the weekend. We had exhausted ourselves on the beach that Saturday and headed to a local bar for some food. It was crowded, and service was slow. I’d had a couple of soft drinks to make my stomach stop growling as we waited, and around 9:30 or so that evening, a guy, not much older than I was, set up a mic and a stool, and began to play a bunch of cover songs, ones I had grown up with, and others that had come in the years since. His voice was distinct, with a raspy quality to it, particularly when he ventured into his upper register. It was one that held a subtle angst that reverberated somewhere in my soul, and I found myself drawn to it.  Maybe forty-five minutes later or so, he played a song that pulled at me, the words ones I had heard myself speak over and over in my head for the majority of my life, feeling like my special talent was fucking things up, feeling like I couldn’t hold my head up, surrounded by people I simply didn’t measure up to, and how a lot of the actions I took in my life at that time were simply about trying to numb the pain I felt inside. I sat there, feeling like everything inside had somehow been exposed in that moment, and the tears filled my eyes and fell. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t even attempt to fight them.  By the time the guy had took a set break, I had composed myself, and, summoning all the courage I had, because he was hot, and I wasn’t exactly confident, I went and talked to him, thanking him for his song, telling him how, in those moments, as he sang, that I felt like someone “got it”. We all left a few moments later and the remainder of the weekend passed as most did, ending in a screaming match with my mother over yet another disappearing act on my behalf.  Flash Forward 2001 I was sitting at my desk, studying as my baby girl played at my feet. I had gone back to school, pursuing a degree in nursing, determined to get my life together, to give her a mom she could be proud of. I had the radio on, as I often did when I was studying. Music not only soothed my soul, it brought me a level of focus that nothing else could. There I am, buried in Anatomy notes, more than a hundred notecards spread out in front of me, separated into various piles, when I heard that voice. I recognized it immediately. It was the same guy I had heard in that beach bar all those years ago, singing the same song that had touched my soul. My jaw dropped in awe, and the only discernable thought I could put together was “Good for him!”, because someone who truly deserved a break had gotten one.When it was time to take a break from cracking the books and get some dinner ready for the wee one, I set a pot of water to boil on the stove, powered on my computer, and did a google search for what I assumed was the title of the song. There he was, plain as day on my screen, looking all badass with his band behind him, their record sitting atop the charts. From that time on, I followed the band and found solace in their music. I could tell he did the writing. The feel of it was the same it had been all those years before. It was a balm for the wounds that life seemed determined to inflict.

In 2006, when I was at my lowest, with some intervention from a family member of his, and one of mine, a meeting with him was arranged. I traveled several hours from home and spent an evening talking with, listening to that same guy I had seen all those years ago, and there, found the same sense of hope and identification I had found so long ago. I was invited to attend some shows after that, and I spent seven months intermittently going from city to city across half of the country, spending time with him, soaking up the music, and feeding on those feelings of hope. Those dates gave me something to put on my calendar, something to look forward to when my future seemed anything but hopeful. I held onto that, making it past the 18 month expiration date my oncologist had given me.  The picture? I found myself reminiscing this Sunday during my son’s baseball practice, thinking about that summer. My foot was stuck out the window in a familiar pose, and I felt compelled to capture the image that was still fresh in my mind from all those hours I spent on the highway when I would do much the same. Driving from place to place, I would throw one foot out the window and enjoy the peace of the road of hope in front of me, the music pounding through my speakers.  I haven’t seen him in years, but that hope remained in my heart, and fueled a battle that included seven surgeries, two rounds of radiation, and 29 rounds of chemotherapy. But on October 11, 2016, my battle was over. On that day, I won. Hope won. A death sentence was beaten back for good. A team of surgeons at John’s Hopkins spent nine and a half hours removing my tumor and disentangling all of the involved blood vessels from the structure underneath. Three and a half weeks ago, I got clear PET scan results. For that, I owe this man. I always will. He gave me hope when I felt nothing but hopeful. He gave me the will to fight, when all I wanted to do was throw up my hands in surrender. There is no way for me to ever repay that debt. I can only hope that my sincere gratitude is payment enough. I will watch my daughter graduate this year. I have watched my children grow, mature, and change into admirable young people over the past eleven years on borrowed time, experienced milestones I never thought I would see. There are no words to describe what a gift that is. And for that, I owe, and I always will. All because seven months one summer, a single person was gracious enough to give me something to hold onto.  

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Finding a Balance

Its tough being a single parent. The demands of day-today responsibilities seem to pile up endlessly, leaving little time for anything else...including myself. I love my children dearly, and will do whatever is necessary to ensure they are loved and their well-being remains top priority, whether its preparing meals, cleaning up behind them, making sure homework gets done, or schlepping them all over the area to take advantage of one opportunity or another. That’s my job, and being a parent is the toughest job there is.  At the same time, I have to find some balance in my world, between taking care of my children and taking care of myself. Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost myself in the shuffle, the hustle and bustle of schedules, errands, household responsibilities, my son’s sports, and my daughter’s jobs. I stopped making time for me to simply be a person and a woman, and became a one-dimensional human being whose sole focus was being a parent. At one time, that was necessary. Severe illness left me with barely enough energy to perform the necessary tasks of our day-to-day lives, and I was determined to keep my illness from effecting my children as much as humanly possible.  Now, however, those circumstances no longer exist.  I’m cancer free for the first time in eleven very long years. I am relatively healthy. Although I still have some recovery ahead of me, I’ve been cleared to resume normal physical activity, and my energy levels are on the rise. Now its time for me to heal my mind, to shift my mentality from the mode where I have remained focused on survival into one where my focus is on living life to the fullest. For me, that means that I have to find time to do things that I enjoy doing, and setting goals for myself that further my own personal growth. It also means that there are times I am going to have to say “no” to my children’s wants and say “yes” to my own. That’s a big adjustment for me, and for them as well.  One of my personal goals is to get back into shape. While I don’t have significant body image issues, I do have a desire to rid myself of the looming aftereffects of my disease. I was on dexamethasone, a corticosteroid, for more than four years to lessen the swelling around my brain as my tumor grew. That resulted in not only significant weight gain, but an overall alteration in the speed of my metabolism. Now, when I look in the mirror, while I actually like the addition of some curves in my figure, I still feel like I’m seeing the sick version of myself, a body that doesn’t feel like my own. I want to change that. My other issue is that physician-ordered lack of activity, combined with some damage to my heart muscle from the long-term chemotherapy has severely lessened my level of cardiovascular conditioning. Add to that my lingering low red blood cell counts, and it makes it very difficult to get back into doing things I once loved to do, like hiking and running. I want to change that.   Last week, I joined a gym and hired a personal trainer. I’ve been diligent about going to the gym, doing consistent cardiovascular exercise. I attended one class, that was centered around core strengthening as well. Its hard, and at times very frustrating, but I’m doing it. I had to stop a couple of times during the class to catch my breath, but I pushed through. There were moments on the treadmill when a minute felt like ten, but I didn’t stop until I had completed whatever time or distance goal I had set for myself on that particular day. If I can kick a tumor’s ass that was supposed to have killed me by mid 2006, I can do this. My first session with my trainer is tomorrow. My fingers are crossed that I leave feeling encouraged and motivated. The other part of my life that needs some serious attention is my social life. In the past few years, my social interactions were limited to other parents of my son’s teammates, or my daughter’s friends. Interactions were on a surface level at best. That’s not enough for me. Although I am very picky about those I choose to involve myself with on any significant level, I am human. Humans were not designed to be solitary creatures and I am no exception. I have long-term friendships that I value to my very core. When I truly connect with others, the bonds that are formed are both strong and lasting. Unfortunately, however, the majority of people with whom I share those bonds are spread all over the country, rather than being from my local area, though there are a few exceptions. I went out alone (meaning without my children in tow) Saturday night for the first time in three years.I met up with a couple of close friends in an an environment that I have truly missed and had an absolute blast. I interacted with ADULTS, ya’ll! Without being constantly interrupted by my children! It was invigorating! I felt like a ton of weight was being lifted off my shoulders as the moments passed into hours. Time flew by for the first time in a long time, and the next thing I knew it was 1:30 in the a.m., and I was exhausted, but pleasantly so. By the time I got home, that rundown feeling I always seem to have at the end of a long week was nowhere to be found, and I had to take the time to wind down and get some sleep. It was awesome, and I have to do more of it, not only for myself, but for my children as well. I have found over the past couple of days that I am much more pleasant, slower to react to negative behavior on the part of my children, and much more patient than I have been as of late. I’ve had more energy and motivation to do the things I need to do to make a household, and my children’s lives run smoothly. The benefit of me taking care of me is one that spills over, allowing me to be better at taking care of them as well. Its going to be an adjustment for all of us. My life has completely revolved around them for so long now. That’s what they are accustomed to, and change is never easy for children to adjust to. They thrive on consistency and routine. At the same time, having a happier mom will be a blessing to them. As I get us all into a NEW routine, one where taking care of myself is a part of the equation, they will adjust, and have a much more pleasant mom in the process. There will be struggles. There will be times when I fall back into old patterns of self-neglect and forget to make myself a priority. There will be times when I catch flack from them, because they are used to me sacrificing all of my available time for them. But I have to remind myself, and them, that this is a process that benefits us all. Its a change for the good, and I’m not giving up, or giving in, without a fight. If that was the type of personality I possessed, one to be easily discouraged or defeated, I wouldn’t be here today.    

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First Post

I haven’t been one with a notion to share my thoughts in quite a while, but I’ve come to a place in my life when there is so much going on in my brain its getting crowded. The past is weighing on me, the present is stressful, as I try to balance my responsibilities with my own individual needs, and the future is a mystery I can’t imagine.  I need an outlet, and I suppose this is just as good as any.