Ode to the "short month"... Otherwise called Black History Month

Pleasantville-My Home-The Place I Knew

It’s funny how my father always called this “the short month”:  Not February, or Black History Month... the short month.  It was a standard joke.  February was his busiest month because EVERYBODY needed someone to speak for their “Black History Month Programs”.  By March 1, he was always exhausted.  After some time he just started saying: “No thanks.”  Well, I’ve had a lot of “No thanks” moments this month.  Mostly about moments in MY history which I don’t care to memorialize in a Hallelujah kind of way, or relegate to a sale week or a time set aside to “think” about what was, in a place where I was.

For me, history is of no value unless you do something with or about it.  You can count me out of the “short month” if our lives are not a CONSTANT struggle to figure out how to live and grow in community and evolve into the fullest of human beings God intended.  

I grew up in the small town of Pleasantville. I could/would walk it.  From one end near the mental hospital to the far end where the pool was concreted in so “coloreds” couldn’t swim there.  As a real young kid my community was quite smaller and everyone watched.  It’s funny that no one needed special training.  We all just watched out for each other. 

I remember a hurried breakfast on school days and running around the corner to school--Park Avenue School.  A short walk down the street, around the curve in the corner, past my grandparent’s home a few doors down, a left hand turn and a couple yards down the street.

Birthdays were special because it was also my grandfather’s birthday.  He was always on the porch that morning.  He’d greet me with a “Happy Birthday, girl” and I’d always say the same thing: “Same to you.” 

I come from a family of teachers.  My grandfather taught 6th grade at Park Avenue School, as did his neighbor Eliza Mack and my brother’s godmother Marianna Hunter.  It was a safe place for me...  and most I suppose.  But that’s not a part of this story except that Park Avenue School is no longer standing.  For the most part, it’s an empty lot.

On Saturday morning, breakfast was always special.  I could walk out the back door, through the back yard, and down the dirt road to Mr. Brownridge’s Fish store.  He’d be back from fishing by 8 or 9 AM.  I can even remember what we usually got:  Spots, porgies, whitings, head’s off and split.  And of course some conversation that always started off with a question about school.  By the way, that dirt road is still a dirt road but Mr Brownridge, nor his store, are there anymore.  It runs a paved bike path, too often littered with broken glass.

I grew up in a community where I could go out my back door, cross the railroad tracks and walk two blocks to a local library.  It was one room, filled with heavily handled books.  There was one large table and quite a few chairs.  I never knew, ‘til I was quite older, that there were only children’s books and young adult books there and that the Library was her home.  All I knew was there were tons of books that I could take home and bring back the next week.  And I did.  I grew up in a community where the constant message that I heard EVERYDAY from EVERYONE was:  “If you can learn to read, you can do ANYTHING.”  But, that’s not why I learned to read.  I learned to read because I was a dreamer with a huge imagination.  I learned to read because books would transport me to another time and another place.  I learned to read because I loved the pictures it helped me to create about unimaginable tales and live them out in my mind. That library is no longer there, nor is the house, and I can’t remember “my librarian’s” name.

I grew up in a community, in a church that consisted of one large room (the sanctuary), a bathroom and a kitchen.  For celebrations that required “feasts”, the sanctuary became the dining hall.  For children’s pagents and plays:  it became a theatre.  For important discussions:  it became the town hall.  We kids were always there, packed shoulder to shoulder, licking our lips and listening to grown folks.  I listened to grown folks talk about the challenges of the day, debate the solutions and organize to solve the problems.  Whether the issues were about schools, or parks and recreation or how to get together to build on addition to the building, we were there.  And on Saturday afternoon, when the men came together to build on that addition, we were there.  That’s how we learned.

So what is my point.  My point is they aren’t there.  Our children are not there and neither are we.  Many in our communities work too hard away from our homes and the responsibility to parent and build community has been left to the street.  There’s no income for nannies, (sometimes no nanny), we don’t know our neighbors and are afraid to do anything but mind our business.  We haven’t learned that we need to fix this particular issue somehow, and not with an i-Whatever, x-Whatever, or the newest PS- Something.  That’s not to say that the world of electronics and it’s importance in building the world and our minds has no place.  Our “gadgets/tools” are not the enemy, and in many cases they are not even a luxury, but we need to define how and when they are used and useful, or they will define us.

Bigger isn’t always better, nor is faster.  WHAT WORKS?  Not what works next door or in the next town.  WHAT WORKS HERE?  What is it that we know about the past that we can use to inform the future?  How do people learn to create, learn and live together in community?