Ouch.

"Mom, if you are going to get a new car--get the color you really want. It might be the last car you ever buy."

Note to self: Spend my children's inheritance faster.

Sugar Beets & Spinach

Within a five-minute span, my mind jumps from sugar beets to spinach to cities in St. Louis County...and then stops with Malcolm X. Names intrigue me. When I think of sugar beets, I picture huge, bright magenta sugar cubes lined up in neat rows in a field. Not exactly. Sugar beets are a root vegetable, not much more exciting than a turnip.

Spinach isn't a name issue, so much as a bait-and-switch. As a five-year-old, I begged my mother to buy canned spinach. Popeye ate it. When she caved in and bught a can, then served it--I scooped up a big forkful, tasted it, and then cried.  I didn't understand "sell-out" then, but I do now. I hope Popeye is still picking that nasty green goop out of his teeth. Though if he'd been gnawing on a sugar beet, I would have wanted one of those, too.

And now--cities in St. Louis. When Big Guy and I came here searching for a house, the real estate agent handed us a St. Louis map, and said, "Where do you want to live?" On the map, Riverview, Cool Valley and Huntleigh read equally delightful. One is home to millionaires--the other two are pockets of poverty. We didn't look at homes in any of those cities. Eventually, we rented a home in Manchester-an o.k. sort of name. Eventually we moved. Now we live in St. Louis County--surrounded by cities we don't belong to.

To belong, or not to belong, reminds me again of Malcolm X. I can't begin to know the mind of Malcolm X--and if he lived in this time, and perhaps were my neighbor, he probably would make me nervous. But I think that "to belong" eluded the man. He was born into a black family in Nebraska, his father died young--and, some speculate, was murdered for his racial activism. Malcolm's mother ended up under psychiatric care, and Malcolm and his siblings bounced among foster homes. Islam grabbed Malcolm's attention, but religious and racial turmoil haunted his life until its violent end.

The X of Malcolm X intrigues me.I wonder about the moment when Malcolm X, born Malcolm Little changed his name. It is said that he viewed Little as a legacy of slavery and choose X to be in place of his lost African name. Was it in a quiet moment that he made the switch? Did he agonize? Did he consider options other than an X?

In any moment, how much power does a name carry to say who we are, what we believe or what we'd like others to believe about us?

Malcolm X

I remember the name Malcolm X scrawled in spray paint on downtown building walls in Durham, NC. The angle of the scrawl exuded anger. The name plastered where it wasn't meant to be. As a white girl, riding cocooned in our white Dodge Dart, I felt the anger directed at me.I didn't know that Malcolm X, the man, had already been dead for several years.

In the turbulence of the Civil Rights Movement, names carried power. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of pulling together and creating a future of all men created equal. Malcolm X --as I gathered from the graffiti--didn't play by the rules, wasn't interested in peaceful change and--in his perfect world, Malcolm X had no use for white people.

Although Martin Luther King Jr. is now honored with a national holiday and Malcolm X is reduced to a footnote, I intertwine the two men as twin sides of penny. One side may be more familiar, but both sides are necessary to make the penny whole.

Malcolm X told white people that no matter what they called black people--colored, negro, or anything else--his race wasn't going to wait with infinite patience to sit at lunch counters, drink from water fountains or ride the bus. Malcolm X carried rage, distained white people and increasingly advocated violence. He provoked fear. He got attention. Eventually, he was assassinated by a group of disillusioned followers. 

Without Malcolm X, would we have recognized how mad black people really were? Would we have understood that their demands for a better life weren't going to go away? Without the threat of a violent future, would Martin Luther King Jr have spoken as fervently? And would we have listened?

Christmas Pen Pal

Big Guy has a pen pal. For the second year in a row, he has received a Christmas card addressed to him, alone. Pen Pal includes a chatty little note and a photo of her family. The only problem--she is sending her card to the wrong "Big Guy."  My Big Guy isn't the one that used to work with Pen Pal. Somewhere there is someone with the same name that Pen Pal knows and cares enough about to keep up with, once a year. But it's not my "Big Guy."

When Pen Pal's first Christmas card arrived, Big Guy double-checked and triple-checked his memory. He doesn't know Pen Pal. I sent a Christmas card--signed Big Guy and the Girls--back to her. I figured she'd sort through her mistake and move on to the right Big Guy.

That didn't happen. About a month ago, Big Guy received Pen Pal's annual Christmas card along with a fresh photo of Pen Pal, her husband and her toddler daughter. They are a cute family. Again, she included a Christmas catch-up note. Once again, Big Guy searched his memory--he doesn't know her. And neither do I--except sort of, I do.

I used to be Pen Pal, juggling a toddler (or two) with laundry, writing assignments, and the nitty-gritty of life. Most of the year, I did well. Then Christmas slipped into the mix and I went into over-drive. We bought the fresh tree, crafted hand-made gifts, slapped the girls' paint-embellished hand prints on sweat shirts, ornaments, cards and anything that stood still long enough. We did the Santa scene. And we drove with the girls strapped in car seats through neighborhoods lit up like Las Vegas. And, without fail, I'd come up with a perky Christmas letter and photo to stuff into cards. I wanted perfect bliss for my starter family.

I got memorable. Inevitably, Birdie or Daisy would catch a cold; a snowstorm would slow our 11-hour drive home or I'd run out of ribbon--after a while in the Christmas chaos, it didn't take something large to put me off my cheery overdrive pace. But year-after-year, the Christmas letters went out without fail.

Then one year, I didn't send out cards--and it felt so good.  

I love the Christmases we have now--but they aren't as sweet. Birdie and Daisy are in college--and gift cards are their version of a box with a book. I ditched the real tree as no one helps pick up fallen needles. And until midnight mass moves to 9 p.m., I'm not going. But there was a time when I did it all, kind of like Pen Pal.

As I look at her card, addressed to "Mr. Big Guy," I feel a tickle of the do-it-all days of Christmas. Big Guy and I will send Pen Pal a card--soon because it's OK to send a card in January. And next December, if Pen Pal sends a card, maybe I'll revive my Christmas letter. If she can do it, with a toddler, I can do it without one.