Day 1,549.
It is time for a party.
I would ask for your forgiveness in the lateness of this writing, however, I know it will be understood how I’ve had to take the time to teach manners, respect, and the importance of priorities. It is more important than some ill-claimed, teacher’s task list.
Tell me I’m wrong. I dare you. Tell me I am wrong when I see greatness. I dare you. I fucking dare you.
When I see a man, I see his town, his village, his people, his community, and his belief in his people and town that it is great and important so much so that it makes me want to tell the world. If this man believes in his people, then I am interested, and I want to share with you.
When we lived in Gresham, Oregon we used to have block parties and International parties that my mother used to organize. We had parties where we used to go from house to house, each house having a different international dish, national origin, and course. Why do we live in a world where that does not exist anymore?
Do they still have sister cities anymore? There is a sister city to Portland, Oregon in Sapporo Japan? I thought it was in Nagoya. We had, hosted, entertained so many Japanese it is beyond a notice to me. I remember visiting a home when I was still single digit young that was apart, yet off a lumber yard property that was in Japanese style and function. It was so unique, I so admired the function of this home and garden it is still present in my mind.
Both my mother and father were teachers, as far as I know my father is still teaching. My brother is a teacher. They were and are teachers that their students liked, admired, and wanted to be in their classes. Do you know, understand, and appreciate how difficult a job being that kind of a teacher is?
My family has nothing to do with the “teaching” that has been done to me these years in this house. None. There is a difference.
My father worked with main-frame computers and taught ESOL. My mother had more jobs than I can remember. One of them being working with refugees. I don’t know how many times I’ve told this and written this story – this is how I grew up with Internationals as though they were no stranger than a neighbor. It is the best way I know how to be brought up in this world.
For reference and understanding, when working at The Container Store, Marvin and Rene talked about the show Duck Dynasty. A great burden and heart-break to my mother who arrived in this country through legal means, worked her way nearly starving to death broke for years had difficulty from personal experience trying to reach refugees who arrived at this country, the United States of America believing what they saw on television as real.
Dynasty was a television show, not real life. Having to convey to refugees the difference was – to say the least – a strain upon my mother. See if you can catch the difference, see the meaning, and connection.
True story, my mother was approached by an animator wanting her to be a model for him. If you saw her photos from that time you could understand. My mother, I am sure was uncertain of his intent or she would have accepted.
My father who worked the night-shift with the main-frame computers when I was growing up, I was grateful when he moved to Florida and started working a dayshift. There is a difference.
When I was a teen-ager walking up the stairs of our home, my father who was in the kitchen listening to a tape recording turned the corner to look at me. A tear running down his face. I had never before seen him cry. He was listening to the recording of his father’s funeral in South Africa.
My father, I have always seen as a man who identifies himself as a black man. If you know South African white men, you would understand. I told this story to Denzel Washington, or who I believed was DW at the time. There is a bond unlike any other I have ever seen or witnessed between South African white men and South African black men. It is as great as any brotherhood, it is a bond and friendship so special it cannot be denied. It is not the same as it is here in the States. It is different. It is great. It is spectacular. I am so grateful that my father – if he was unable to share anything else – provided me with the knowledge that color knows no difference in the hearts of men.
One family we knew from my mother’s work with refugees was from Sri Lanka. The mother made a tomato salad dish, I have not forgotten. Simple, tomato wedges, red onions, parsley, and salt and pepper. I would add a splash of EVOO, I would make sure the salt and pepper were freshly-ground.
Let’s have a block party closing the streets down, or a park, or a theater, or a beach, or a pool, or anywhere. Around the world everyone have a party. Neighbors, families, friends, strangers, people uniting to create a moment and moments that will last a lifetime, and hopefully beyond.
Let’s everyone bring a dish. Let’s everyone join in bringing light, happiness, joy, peace, understanding, love that passes all understanding, join hands in prayer or silence. Let us all have a party bringing our own dish. Let us all share in joy. Let us all share in the big boom that is greater than any weapon man or woman could think of – the love of man-kind.
Bring the dish if it is only in your mind, mind’s eye, or thought, the thought that brings man to the brink of his greatness – the strength and bigness of his heart.
And, let’s party.
Let’s party with Internationals from around the world if the only way that is possible is in our own mind for one single second!
Let’s enjoy man-kind through food, hearts, and mind’s.
Let’s all of us believe if only for one second that man-kind is greater than his circumstances.
Let’s all of us believe in the importance of the moment.
I, myself want to believe in moments for the rest of my life…
And, you?
WE - DO NOT AGREE! 