When I was a little kid in the ’70’s Title IX was pretty new.  It is a federal civil rights law in the United States which prohibits sex-based discrimination in any school or other educational program that receives federal money.  In other words, it means girls can play sports with boys, or at least they are deemed worthy of having their own teams.  Growing up I was very defensive about my folks, as they were sometimes called my grandparents.  Mama had me at 38, which was a pretty big deal in 1970.  My family life was so close and so happy; I always knew I wanted one of my own.  I never played with dolls or dreamed of a big wedding, but I ALWAYS prayed I’d find my soulmate (yes, I believe in them) and that I would be a mother.  When I was in college at SMU on academic scholarship my father made it clear I was there for an education.  No one ever handed me the memo which said you’re supposed to line up a guy before or during your freshman year in college and marry right after you are graduated.  I have since learned that “our” time is not always God’s time, I would not wind up getting married until I was a late 36, and I had absolutely no clue about the imperativeness of a “biological clock.”  Although there was nothing “wrong” with either of us, I would not wind up getting pregnant until I was 40.  We went through two rounds of in-vitro and God was gracious.  Both of my folks have passed and yet every single day I am gifted with a glimpses of them through our child.  So!  That is a long way to say I grew up on the edge of East Dallas across from a community college surrounded by a field of flowers.  My fair-skinned, redheaded mother burnt her skin to a crisp walking me to swim practice and gymnastics.  I wanted to play soccer but for some reason it never worked out.  Since I already skated competitively and sang in an elite choir, I did not wish to pressure them further.  To this day I view soccer as upper middle class, with parents able to take time off from work to make practices and to watch their childrens’ games.  My second cousins grew up playing soccer in Arizona.  The beautiful little flower girl at our wedding, who was missing her two front teeth, (my third cousin) is now on a soccer scholarship to a college in the South.  I feel incredibly guilty that since kindergarten I have not given our child the opportunity to play soccer.  She is now in the third grade and asked us if she could play.  I think I speak for the loner in both my husband and me when I say we were shocked but supportive.  And so, within the last week, we found ourselves attending her first soccer practice, trying to learn the basics of the game, and making sure our girl had the right gear to play.  Yesterday was her first game and she chose number 11 for her jersey.  The journalist in me could not help but to research what other females have worn that number.  I realize everyone else must know this, but I discovered Julie Foudy (just a year younger than me) is an American retired soccer midfielder and Olympic gold medalist.  For the first time in my life I think I am starting to understand the fun in sports’ statistics and trivia!  I have learned Foudy became a mother and has since appeared in the HBO documentary “Dare to Dream:  The Story of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team.”  I remember loving the movie, “Bend It Like Beckham” and I hope to watch it with my daughter soon.  I like the quote from the U.S. Olympic player Alex Morgan who said, “Whenever people say “women’s soccer,’ I want to correct them to say “soccer.”  Every girl has had their sport diminished because they’re girls.  All I can tell you, with great pride, was that Coach put my girl in the game some.  It was her second time on the field (one practice) and she managed to get a “steal” and a “pass.”  Their third grade team won against fourth grade girls!  I am so proud — and for whatever reason I never envisioned myself in the joyful position of soccer mom.

Recently I realized my little one had not had her hair cut in a year.  Long, shiny, and thick — it was running in waves just down to her behind.  I think she is the envy of any woman who ever grew up watching, “The Brady Bunch.”  I believe she has only had her hair cut three times in her tender nine years.  During this past year it has been remarked upon with a certain degree of shock that her 94-year-old paternal great-grandmother had never really “done” her own hair.  People my age with younger parents were stunned.  However I have distinct memories of going with my mother to the downtown Dallas original Neiman Marcus’ salon where she would get her hair shampooed and “set” on Saturdays before church on Sundays.  So I grew up seeing Weezie Jefferson’s type of hair dryers, with rows and rows of ladies sitting under them.  Back in the 70’s a kid had two choices:  they could read a magazine while waiting or just SIT THERE.  I remember one time I embarrassed Mama to pieces because I was circumspectly spinning in a vacant chair until it literally came undone.  To this day (and I still love to spin)  I never do more than three rotations on a barstool in the same direction without reversing it.  Growing up, to my knowledge at least, there were no “kiddie” hair salons around and my mother cut my hair at home.  My daddy may have joked about using a bowl, but Mama really did cut my bangs with Scotch tape.  To my perpetual horror, I always remember her coming at me with a long row of it, admonishing me to sit still.  The trouble is, she was never really level.  Not only did my bangs wind up higher on one side than the other — once she ripped that tape off, the double “cowlick” in the center of my forehead would then proceed to rise a good inch or two.  I know I have written before about my feelings on hair … both culturally and as a woman.  Although I was anxious, I have never cried when our little girl has had to have surgery.  However, I bawled last year when the guy took like seven inches off her beautiful locks.  Apparently he failed to understand the meaning of the word “trim.”  This time I took her to a (solely dedicated) children’s salon.  She was in heaven!  We picked up an INCREDIBLE detangling shampoo and my girl discovered the merits of an old school “beauty shop.”  I remember my daddy going to the barber shop (complete with spinning pole) and I think now I finally understand it.  I grew up in unisex salons (which are great!) but I believe I have come to understand the need for old school “beauty” shops for women and barber shops for men.  To the transgender community, I would like to hope that a man who identifies as a woman would feel totally at home with the girls.  Conversely, I would hope that my female friends who feel and identify as male would feel more comfortable in a barber shop.  Again, unisex salons are great; I just think I understand more the need/desire to congregate, socialize, and patronize with those who are “like-minded.”  Even more than race (which, in my opinion is a huge factor,) I see gender identification as an important “comfort” as well.  Afterward my little girl and I watched Queen Latifah’s “Beauty Shop,” which addresses both race and gender; all were accepted.  Circling back to my grandmother-in-law, in the “old days” ladies got their hair “done” once a week.  I can tell you my mama’s time at the beauty parlor was sacrosanct.  I suppose I am at the age of life where I totally understand that and yet can still snicker at the younger generation who, during the pandemic, has had to learn to do their own nails.  There really is no difference.  During this past year, with the whole world on lockdown, we have all struggled to not only adjust and survive, but to thrive.  My father always said that from adversity springs perseverance and success.  The French actress and model Laetita Casta has said, “Real beauty is to be true to oneself.  That’s what makes me feel good.”  I whole-heartedly agree with that statement.  Regardless of your race or gender identification:  whether you choose to shave your head or let your hair down … be true to yourself.

Swings:  although they’ve changed throughout the years I still believe they hold the same universal appeal.  My maternal grandmother loved to swing, as did my mother.  When they both were children they used to swing for hours, according to what they told me when I was little.  I think the most terrible thing I ever did was refuse to come off the swings once during second recess in first grade.  I can remember the hard wooden swings that were sort of precarious when I was really little.  Then I remember they switched to a sort of plastic sunken-seated swing.  I also recall the high metal poles got lower and lower, and regular dirt became sprinkled with woodchips, presumably in the interest of safety.  The thrill still remained of pumping one’s legs up, up, up; ready to chase the clouds.  My hands were sweaty and smelled of metal as the chains I gripped jangled.  Swings were an escape for me and also a chance to commune with nature.  Regardless of the season, I could fly.  I have very fond memories of my folks taking me to White Rock Lake on Sundays after church.  Daddy would nap on one of his grandmother’s handsewn quilts while Mama sat with him and kept an eye on me as I was swinging.  My little one recently told me she was on the swings for both recesses.  I told her that was not fair because someone else might like a turn.  With no small amount of chagrin I can remember hogging the swings myself.  Tire swings were always something I always found idyllic … particularly over a creek or river.  Growing up in an apartment we never had our own trees and our complex had no swings.  For Christmas this year I bought our little girl a tire swing, knowing how much she’d wanted a swing of her own.  Tire swings in our neighborhood seem to be both nostalgic as well as greeted with approval.  Before I picked my little one up from school this man walking his dogs caught me shrieking with glee as I spun about in her swing.  I stopped, embarrassed, and said it was really my nine year old’s but that I had never had one as a kid.  His reply was to stop and smile broadly; replying he had fond memories of his tire swing growing up and he encouraged me to make some of my own.  I am 50 years old and yet swinging on our tire swing makes me feel like I am ten again; that anything is possible and the world is mine.  The American founder of the tech organization “Girls Who Code,” Reshma Saujani said:

Most girls are taught to avoid risk and failure.  We’re taught to smile pretty, play it safe, get all A’s.  Boys, on the other hand, are taught to play rough, swing high, crawl to the top of the monkey bars, and then just jump off headfirst.

I want so much for my little girl.  While I do want her to get all A’s, I also want her to soar.  That is something for which I wish us all to aspire, without ever becoming tired.

Here in the U.S., Northerners love to poke fun at Southerners who essentially shut down their cities when it snows.  I realize it must seem funny, but folks in the lowest half of the contiguous 48 are not very used to driving on roads with sheets of ice.  Usually, if we’re lucky, we get snow maybe once a year in Dallas … but it almost never sticks.  So this past entire week when everything was covered (for us) in a sizably thick blanket of pure white powder several inches deep it was a really big deal!  It felt like a combination of Colorado and Minnesota for me:  Colorado with the glistening, soft powder which sinks past your ankles and Minnesota with negative degree temperatures that just pierce your bones.  Everyone hunkered down, after having once again inexplicably bought out all the eggs, bread, and milk.  As the power grid was already taxed and Texas was nowhere near prepared, “rolling brown outs” were put into place.  From what I read on social media, neighbors were gracious and tried to conserve for others, just as we did.  Pipes dripped as many were plunged into frigid darkness.  Traditionally, our house is ALWAYS the one to have no power … even when others on our own block are OK.  Like a general I drilled my little family about the importance of keeping our electronic devices fully charged in the event of a power outage.  By some miracle, this is the ONE INSTANCE in which we were blessed to have retained our power during the entire time.  Each day we marveled at the additionally new-fallen snow, and how bright and quiet it seemed to be.  One of our wolfies skidded over our koi pond and slid with her young legs out like the scene from Bambi.  The waterfall was still running underneath layers of ice but it was completely frozen over.  Since we are not a big ski family, I realized we had no proper gear for even going outside.  Mittens and gloves became sodden fast.  The last time I sent our little one out she was wearing socks on her hands.  I have a few vague memories of my folks doing the same to me and then putting my hands in plastic bags and wrapping them together by putting electrical tape around my wrists.  In this picture you can see my little one is rocking a hooded puffer coat.  Oh how I hated coats with hoods!  I was forever removing them and I’d wind up with ear infections.  Thankfully my little one harbors no such qualms.  The late English poet, philosopher, and theologian, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, once said:  “Advice is like snow — the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind.”  I would say that is very much reminiscent of how this past week’s snow was:  it fell softly, dwelt a long time (for Texans), and sank deep into our minds.  A bit like my favorite childhood show “Little House on the Prairie” we were well and truly “snowed in.”  Not only did it reach -10° in some of my friends’ homes, they had to melt snow to boil water, read by candlelight, and use clay pots for heaters.  I believe man-made climate change will impact us all more and more in the future with regard to weather.  My precious family and I were SO lucky THIS time!  However, like the giant piles of snow I gawked at here in parking lots the first time I can ever recall, for next winter my husband and I are thinking of perhaps investing in a serious home generator,  as we were banked.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. day is tomorrow.  Now that our little girl is nine, I am going to start sharing more stories with her about how I was reared.  I was in the fourth grade when they introduced busing, and I remember my homeroom teacher Mrs. Williams emphatically saying, “I AM BLACK!”  She did not like the term “colored” because she said it brought to her mind stripes and polka dots.  Teddy Roosevelt was far ahead of his time when he said, “There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism.”  He went on to say that “it is a matter of the spirit and of the soul.”  Hence, why I have never cared for the term “African-American.”  I had the opportunity to speak with a lovely man recently.  Our fireplace screen has always been flimsy and not closed, and after fourteen years we were able to splurge and get it replaced.  This man has been in the business of doing wonderful custom iron work for over 40 years.  We got to talking and I told him my father was bi-racial.  I saw the disbelief in his eyes.  I do not believe he had any intention of being rude … he was just looking at my strawberry blonde hair and green eyes with doubt.  This incredibly smart, talented, humble man reminded me of my father and I found myself shadowing him like a puppy.  We got around to segregation (he is black) and he mentioned that in Dallas desegregation did not happen until 1967, I believe.  My half Choctaw father was born in 1934 and as a young child he grew up in a small Texas town with a sign that prominently boasted, “The blackest land and the whitest people.”  As a little boy, he had a fishing buddy who was an elderly black man.  Daddy told me when they came home one night there were crosses burning on the old man’s lawn; he said it was the most frightening thing he’d ever seen.  My father fought for the United States in Korea, serving two terms, which is eight years.  My gently bred white mother waited for him, despite pressure to marry “well,” aided by her family’s connections.  I did not know until my father’s funeral when I was 28 and men showed up from all over the country how respected and revered he was.  They said he never lost a man on night patrol, crediting him with saving many of their lives.  My father received a full military burial, as was his right, but in the middle of his 21-gun salute, a hawk circled slowly overhead three times.  I remember the black and white pallbearers all being shocked, but our American Indian friends just stood unmoving, quietly allowing tears to stream down the sides of their cheeks.  When I was a little girl in the 1970’s I would accompany Daddy on Saturdays when he worked painting houses.  I do not exaggerate when I say we got pulled over EVERY SINGLE TIME.  I believe this was in part due to economics (our station wagon was old, had no air-conditioning, and there were paint ladders on the top) and in part due to race (my father had very dark red skin.)  Once a cop thought I might have been kidnapped and I was terrified of being taken away.  Daddy was a staunch Republican, and I am often reticent to try and speak for him when my husband asks a question about how my father might have felt about something.  If I had to liken him to someone, I would say my father was similar to the late Senator John McCain.  Both of them were captured in war, both were Republicans, and both of them clung to certain ideals of what this country should be.  America needs an immediate return to civil discourse as well as actually LISTENING to each another.  I believe our very democracy depends upon it.  We have all been influenced by how we have been viewed and by how we have been treated by others.  My father never let those things define him.  The more I think about it, the more I believe America’s complex, diverse history makes us ALL “colored.”