Any One of Us Words From Prison at Out of the Blue Gallery

Last night I was privileged to see the first show on Opening night of Any One Of Us: Words From Prison, a local production in honor of V Day, a global activist movement to end violence against women and girls. This work was compiled by Eve Ensler in her work with women prisoner survivors of domestic violence. The production was powerful, emotional, riveting, engaging and at times a little repulsive in what it revealed about the capacity for cruelty and evil from the people who we are supposed to trust to love and protect us.

The show was produced by Chanelle Doctor, and the ensemble cast is a group of Lesley College students who act out these roles with passion and ferocity, moving from the states of dream like reveries of disappointed expectations to the rage of acting out defending their lives, their battered souls and bodies. The men who abused these women were family members, husbands, lovers, and prison guards, both professional and blue collar. If these women had died they would have been viewed as innocent martyrs to domestic violence, but because they survived by becoming perpetrators of violence, which they saw as the only choice left to them, they are imprisoned with the memories of abuse they did not ask for, and subject to the continuing abuse of prison guards. They have escaped one patriarchal abusive situation to end up in another.

Knowing how little time they had to rehearse the production, it is surprising in its finesse and attention to detail. Harsh realities are made harsher by the contrast of beautiful singing, and dance like menacing stage choreography. Violence against women is pervasive in our society, and many of us have been victims of domestic abuse and violence, or know someone who has. One point that is often overlooked is that violence against women also has a devastating effect on men who grow up witnessing and experiencing it and being emotionally traumatized by it, often perpetuating the cycle of abuse themselves. This cast does a superb job of giving a voice to the voiceless, and driving home the point that no one chooses to be abused. I could happen to any one of us.

The production has 3 shows remaining at Out of the Blue Gallery, 106 Prospect St. near Central Sq.

April 26 7pm and 9pm

April 27 3pm


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Remembering the Marathon Bombing

Today I am remembering the Marathon bombing, almost a year ago. In the space of one week the bombing happened, my long term relationship ended, and the city was on lockdown. I suddenly felt very isolated in my own life, but connected to everyone by the thread of shared tragedy. In America we seldom experience such random and widespread devastation first hand. We only see it in the news in other parts of the world. It caused many people to reassess their lives because we realized how fragile and fleeting it could be.

Today I am meditating and praying for more compassion and peace in the world. It is a privilege to take it for granted that we can go out in masses with our families and celebrate athletic achievement at a world famous event, and even participate in it without fear, and without worry. We should be grateful that most of the time on Marathon Monday, our greatest concern is chilly gray weather, and the late coming of Spring, not weapons of mass destruction that might take our lives, our loved ones, and maim and destroy our bodies and our infrastructure within seconds.

For a few days we were forced to look beyond our own little microcosms and ponder the meaning of life, not just for ourselves but for others in the world who live with the threat of terrorism daily. Sometimes new life rises out of the ashes. What seems like the end is really a new beginning, a new era of compassion, and a new awareness to our connection to all of humanity.

Black and Blue Beatlemaniac or Rain on My Parade

One of the legacies left to me by my father is that I am a huge Beatlemaniac. Their music was the soundtrack of my childhood,

before I could speak or walk. Of Dad's 13 children, I am the one who has inherited the gene. I lost my father in the summer of 2012. Beatle music is one of the strongest connections I have to him. I didn't realize until I was much older that it was very unusual that he, as an African American man loved the Beatles so much, though his tastes in music were very eclectic.

Over the years I have collected Beatle music, swooned to their love songs, and evolved from favoring "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," to their later more complex psychedelically inspired music. This year I saw Paul McCartney in concert at Fenway Park, Beatlejuice, a tribute band, and tonight I went alone to the Citibank Center to see Rain, another Beatle tribute band. I had tried to round up friends to go see the show with me, but ended up going alone. I felt very proud of my independent spirit and fortitude, that I had survived so many emotional hurdles this year, including the loss of a significant relationship. I felt I had discovered a badass new me.

I managed to score a really great seat at the back row of the mezzanine, the perfect distance from the stage, not too far away,

but far away enough that I could imagine that I was really in the presence of the Fab Four. As I took my seat I observed that I seemed to be the only person of color there, and there were a lot of empty seats in the "good" section where I was, though the auditorium had a decent crowd. When the music started I felt transported to another world, the costumes were brilliant and well tailored, the sound rich and vibrant, the musicians almost doppelgangers for John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and the light show created a dynamic and engaging visual palette. I imagined Dad was in the seat next to me, or John, or George, and I sang and danced along with the music.

After intermission the show started again and I was again transfixed by Beatle magic, when suddenly my reverie was disrupted by a old woman usher standing over me demanding to see my ticket. I started searching my purse frantically realizing I was missing the performance. I couldn't find it. I said to her, "I paid for my ticket, this is my seat." She again demanded to see my ticket, saying, "This whole row was empty,I didn't see you here before." The song ended and "The Magical Mystery Tour" began, I said again, "I PAID for my ticket, you are making me miss this song." She said "I'm going to have security escort you out, and you will miss the whole show." The awful truth dawned on me. "You're racist!" I heard myself shout. She continued standing over me demanding I produce proof that I had my ticket. "I don't know where my ticket is," I said finally. She stalked off, to get security I thought. I looked in my backpack, and found it. I clutched it trembling for the next two songs. Then I consciously tried to make myself relax and enjoy the rest of the show and put the ticket away.

What about me made her think I didn't belong in the good seats at this concert? What about me made her feel entitled to disrupt a show I had paid my hard earned money to see, and that she was probably seeing for free as an usher? I suddenly felt very alone in the world. I thought to myself, "Next time I'll need a white person to accompany me to legitimize my presence."

Fueled by righteous indignation I went to find the manager after the show. When I found the usher captain's station, I recounted

my story to the three people standing there. One of them, a young white woman said "she probably didn't mean anything by it, she probably checked everyone's ticket." I insisted, "no, she just came to ME." The house lights had already gone down, and I was grooving to the music and she popped up next to me like an angry spectre. I started telling the story again this time beginning with how much I was enjoying the concert until she ruined it for me. I inexplicable dissolved into tears, though I had been filled with rage. I felt it was my duty to tell my story, to make my voice heard, so that it would not happen to another person of color.

The usher captain asked to see my ticket and asked for a description of the woman. Then he offered to let me come to see the show again free of charge. I accepted the offer. I hope the second time I see it will erase the bad memories of the first.

In Search of the Holy Kale

Since I started my 30 day fitness plan about a week ago, which includes monitoring my activity through FitBit, keeping a food diary, exercising when I can find the time, and juicing almost daily,including a good amount of kale, which is packed with vitamin K, I discovered a wonderful dish at Highland Kitchen in Somerville called Shredded Kale salad. It was dressed with a lemon vinaigrette, pomegranate, and shredded parmesan cheese, and other delectable ingredients that made me forget I was on a diet. It was so good, I wanted to repeat the experience at lunch yesterday.

I eagerly looked up the menu for Veggie Planet, no kale salad. I googled kale salad in Harvard Sq., and saw rave reviews for the kale salad at Tory Row. I bundled up, braved the bitter cold, and rushed out to the restaurant to put in my order. What they brought to me was a plate of a substance that closely resembled green confetti, and tasted about as good. On the menu it was described as a combination of roasted and fresh kale with spices. It tasted like bitter ashes, and had a gritty, sandy texture, and didnt seem to have any dressing or other vegetables in it. I tried to brainwash myself that it was so good for me, as I choked it down. I inhaled the wrong way, and a piece of ash went down my windpipe. The bartender politely offered me a glass of water. Then I decided to order some chicken on top to improve the texture, so that I could at least swallow it. The grilled chicken was quite good, but at that point, a boiled egg would have tasted delicious. The chicken cost an extra $5. My barely palatable lunch came to a whopping $19 including tip!

Normally, I would have sent it back, but the wait staff were so nice, and it really wasn't their fault. I told them they should tell the chef to pay a visit to Highland Kitchen and try their kale salad.

Now I'm just biding my time, until I can hit up Highland Kitchen again...

Electronic Heart Blues

I'm tired of city boys
with their electronic toys
Tryin' to find their inner child
'Stead of driving me wild.


Need to find a country boy
With music in his soul,
a guitar strapped to his side,
and his heart open wide.


We'll have a laugh and a beer
take the dog for a walk,
Corn and catfish on the grill,
and more action than talk.


Take the truck out for a ride
Dry out boots out by the fire,
As the sun sets in the west,
Our spirits raise even higher.


Let's put down the tailgate,
and settle down for the night,
dance to nature's song,
and love each other right.


--Desiree Goodwin
November 30, 2013

In Love There is No Eternal Sunshine

If you could erase the memory of an entire relationship just because it ended painfully would you? The movie The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is based on the premise that you can alleviate pain by erasing the memory of the person, and the relationship you had. But if you really think about it, would this be truly desirable? In some cases I would have to say "yes, my life would be perfectly fine if I could just erase the memory of the short lived relationship I had with so and so."

Other relationships that last longer define an era of growth in your life. Many times the ending is painful because though you could not sustain it "forever" you still shared many positive things, you established routines, and rituals, and maybe even traditions, and you came to define your identity even as being part of a couple in your social circle. You might have taken on new challenges together you never would have attempted alone. You learned to assert your boundaries, and what was most important to you. You shared your hopes, fears, and dreams with this person. You had the chance to see yourself through another's eyes. You learned what you were capable of giving, how loyal and loving you could be, and no matter how that was reciprocated, you learned what you had to offer another person. Even if you can see nothing positive in the relationship you shared, you learned what mistakes not to repeat, and how strong you really are.

For everything there is a beginning and an end, and in the middle there is a transformation. The seasons change, and day becomes night. There is no eternal sunshine, but there is always the promise of a new day.

Looking for Home

Growing up I lived in at least 15 houses. I was born in Philly, then my family, which was very small at the time: my Dad, my stepmother, Marilyn, who we called Mommy, me and and my two younger brothers Dedgie and Danny, moved to the West Coast, and along the way lived in Albany, NY, Albion, NY, in a tent on Fancher Campus in Brockport, NY, a brick house on Oneida St. in Denver, Colorado,and in an Airstream trailer in the Rocky Mountains. We eventually ended up living in Bellingham Washington. I still remember the names of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Cronkhite, who was young and pretty, wore mini dresses, and had a blonde bouffant, and my second grade teacher, Mrs. Mellon, who was also young and equally pretty and had a brunette bob. Both were teachers at Columbia Elementary School. My parents were an interracial couple, and I was in an all white school, but my teachers doted on me, and didn't make me feel that looking different meant I wasn't as good as everyone else. I remember the route I walked to school, and that is how I finally found the house I lived in when I was 5 on Google maps. I confirmed that it was the correct address with a librarian at the Bellingham Public Library, who found my Dad's name in the phone directory for that year.

It was 1970. I still believed in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I knew all of the neighbors on my street.

Next door to us was a newlywed couple with rhyming names: Sandy and Randy, they had an artificial gold fish pond in their back yard, the "mean man"was across the street, the "fat lady" Margaret two houses down, she always let us run in her house and play in her backyard, and at the end of street in the biggest house on the block: the Thompson family. They had 8 kids. I thought it would be really neat if we had big family too. I longed to have a sister, and more playmates. They seemed to have a lot of fun at their house, and my parents were good friends with them. I remember some of their children's names: Heidi, Valerie, Laura, Jeff, and their son, Bobby, who was my age. The teenage daughters in the family danced to Roy Orbison's "Sweet Dreams My Baby" on 45" one day. We had dinner together sometimes, but their family was very strict, and ours was more happy and carefree.

We were only allowed to watch a handful of tv shows: Batman, The Wonderful World of Disney, Wild Kingdom, Kaptain Kangaroo, Sesame St., and one in the morning: Romper Room, where the host would look into her magic mirror and say, "I see Tommy, and Bobby, and Tammy..." I waited in vain for her to see "Desiree"! We had to be in bed by 8. Dad would give us 10 minutes to brush our teeth and run upstairs to our beds before the monster came. Then he would come roaring up the stairs, punctuating the roar with the sound of his metal crutches hitting the stairs, then his foot thumping as he ascended. Dad was an amputee with one leg. We would be giggling under the covers. Then he would tell us bedtime stories like the "Three Little Piggies." He would tell us two or three stories before going back downstairs to his room.

Looking back to those times I can recall some very minor encounters with racism, but Dad shielded us from it. When we first moved in someone wrote the word "nigger" on the sidewalk in front of our house. I asked Dad what that meant. He just said "it's a bad word" and wouldn't explain it to us. He washed it away. I think he had an idea of who did it and took care of it himself. Another time a girl from school invited me to her house to play. When her mother saw what I looked like, she sent me directly home over her daughter's crying pleas. I was able to brush it off because most people there were very nice and I had a lot of friends. In that house I discovered my passion for art. Mommy took me to the YMCA to take ballet classes. I threw a tantrum and absolutely refused when I saw all of the little girls in frilly tutus pouting at me. She then enrolled me in art class, which I loved. I learned tie dye, and candle making, among other things.

The house was painted white when we lived in it, and now it is blue, but other than that it looks just like I remember it. We had prickly holly bushes in the front yard, and plum trees in the back yard. Dad used to take us on crabbing trips to Gooseberry Point. You had to catch a ferry to Lummi Island. Researching Gooseberry Point, I remember the ferry trips, and Dad driving his car onto the ferry. He would sit on the dock and drop his crab trap, while us kids played on the beach and collected shells and sand dollars. Dad had a pink 57' Plymouth with fins on the back. One day when I was playing in the yard, I put dirt, rocks and grass in his gas tank, and ruined his car forever. I did it very innocently. I didn't know it would ruin his car. I'm surprised he didn't put me up for adoption! My Dad passed away last year. I guess that makes me long to reach back to the days when I felt safest and happiest as a small child. I still have yet to find two other houses we lived in after that, but when I do, I will be sure to write about them!