Repunzel's Mother

There's an (in)famous story that I've told over the years, that when reminded of a particular childhood game my mother and I played—I say my mother conveniently forgot about it while others have said she blocked out the horror—can be said was the beginning of my creative life. It goes like this:

As a child I loved fairy tales. Castles, witches, evil-doers, beautiful damsels, dashing princes, wicked demons and fabulous (yes fabulous) dragons. I cherished the books my mother bought me. I still have a copy of a 1962 edition of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and a now battered Grimm Brother's Fairy Tales that I still read every time I visit her. But my all time favorite story was Repunzel. Okay this is where the tale gets dicey. My mother's house has a curved staircase that descends from the second floor and opens onto a foyer. My room was on the side of the house the directly overlooked the entrance hallway. I used to sit tingling with anticipation in my room with the door closed, a yellow sheet tied around my head awaiting my mother's call. She would stand at the bottom of the staircase and shout. "Repunzel! Repunzel! Let down your hair!" I would immediately rush from my tower cell and throw my fabric-cum-hair over the railing so that my Mother, the Prince, could climb my cotton treses to rescue me! I still laugh every time I tell that story. See the above sentence and draw your own conclusion on why my mother does not remember that game!

Now I've always said, indulgence not withstanding, that you can not be your true self until you are otherwise inspired. Now it helped that my mother is a musician and writer herself. But imagine being able to completely be yourself in your own self-appointed world and it be alright with whomever is important to you. Clichéd as it may sound—but no man is an island. We are put together from strings of experiences (both good and bad), peppered with a dash of youthful hope and inspired by some one who is nice, encouraging and forgiving of our foolishness and mayhem. When I first started writing seriously I envisioned myself the Grandma Moses—who didn't turn to painting until her seventies—of the literary world. To take my maturity and circumspection and produce a world class novel and at 43 years-old become my generation's Toni Morrison. I wrote several authors whom I admired seeking novice advice. Out of the five that I wrote only two responded. Looking back on it I probably seemed like a deranged fan, but both of these gifted and special people gave me their personal contact information and invited me to call them at anytime. Could you imagine that response now (this was 15 years ago) what with digital identity theft, online bullying and e-stalking at its zenith. Over the years I've come to know them in professional and somewhat personal fashion. I congratulated them on their successes and asked them many, many, many, many (can't say many enough) many questions about writing, publishing, etc. They took the time and patience to answer my questions and provided me with the encouragement a fledgling artist needs. James Earl Hardy told me to stay true to my work and Octavia Butler schooled me that I would be "rejected again and again and again". I can't tell you how many times she said that AND and how many times I have since been rejected. Again and again and again. But they both inspired me to be a better writer and to hold on and persevere.

It should be one of our purposes in life to inspire others to do greater things. 2011 has been a tough year for me. You can read my desultory rant here. Suffering self-diagnosed dysthymia I wallowed in the torment of self pity. Helen Keller once said:

Self-pity is our worst enemy and if we yield to it, we can never do anything wise in this world.

She was a miraculous worker to me. Recently I was speaking with my mother and she said something shocking. She said I had inspired her to be more diligent and passionate about her own work. She wanted to put together a book of her poetry and songs. Then a few days later two other friends mentioned they too were inspired by my pushing through tough times and adversity to find the strength to carry on. Then came the kicker. A young man whom I met via the internet who happens to be a special needs individual said I inspired him to be more open and fearless when dealing with life. He said "I am outgoing, but its nice to have friends to move me to be better and greater then i have done on my own." He's in college and now there are plans to make a documentary and write a book about his extraordinary life. 'Amazing' I said during an instant message chat. All this time I had no idea the affect on him I had or other people for that matter. And that's the point. Just a little kindness and encouragement goes a long way. Roseanne Barr wrote on the fame monster in a recent piece I read in New York magazine. Read it. She discussed how fame can make you proud and vacuous. She stated, without a shred of immodesty, that she knows she was a feminist pioneer. She has indeed inspired many to understand that being different does not connate being less-than.

I thank all those who've inspired me over the years like old friends: Keith Randall, Javan Wakefield, Anthony L. Carter, Michael Luongo and even that evil Trini spectre Martin Arnold; and new friends like L. Michael Gipson who (though we have never met) radiates light and sage knowledge from the pages of his facebook profile so much so I can't wait to read his next update. I acknowledge all of the many mentors I've had over the years that challenged me to do better: Gerotha Gentry (North Forsyth High School), Dr. Peter Radcliffe (Johnson C. Smith University) and Alexander Plata (my old manager at Lechter's Housewares) to name a few. We should all follow in these first-class footsteps. Not great big giant Neil Armstrong steps but just everyday, ordinary, plain folks footsteps; to help each other become better people. To treat each other with respect and kindness. Not be dismissive or abusive. To push each other harder than ever to not settle for anything short of extraordinary. So if you happen to see a little boy running around with a yellow sheet tied to his head. Don't ridicule or bully him. Just tell him to let down his hair.