I have been one. I have known some. But now that I’m raising one, it all seems different.
When I was 15, I was in to boys—well, young men and their bourgeoning attentions. My friend—and since she’s a married, mother of three, I will not name her—and I strolled the Atlantic City boardwalk from one end to the other in attempts to capture their attention and hold it for as long as our fleeting moments of interest could last.
My mother—I think—thought we were exercising. Seasons before she had accused my sister and me of being ‘boy crazy.’
I wasn’t yet.
By the time I could have been positively diagnosed as boy crazy, my mother was ready to move to Germany—alone.
Today, I parent a 15 year old with no road map, no directions: with nothing but common sense, love, and my memories of wanting to be mothered at 15 to guide me.
]]>This week when my boys and I went shopping after work, it was to run in and out; dart as close to without going down the toy aisle as possible, and to leave with as many of the items on my mental shopping list that I could remember.
Not everyone was in a rush.
As we rushed into Wal-Mart, my attempt to bypass the McDonald’s in front of the store led us directly behind a very slow moving older woman.
Her hunched back, shuffling feet, and thinning hair caused me to pause. I often think about the days when my children are grown, when I am forced to shop without the chorus of “Can I have’s…” and “Ohhhh…I need that’s.”
We slowed down.
“What happened to all the chairs?” She asked the greeter, who didn’t greet her.
“They’re broken.”
“Want a sticker?” She asks the child behind us.
Maybe she thought dismissing the person would dismiss the problem.
“Do you need help getting anything?” I asked.
The woman and I glanced down at her shopping list.
Depends, the first item read. We both knew she’d say no.
One day, I will be an elderly consumer who either because I want to or need to will be out shopping alone. Someone needs to look out for me.
“One of your customers is having a problem getting around your store and your chairs are all broken.”
“Ummm…”
“Do I need to ask the manager?”
“Yes, please.”
“Are we going to help her?” My oldest son asked. It’s what we do.
“We have to.”
The next employee was more fruitful. He sought out the store manager to not just help the ailing customer winding slowly up and down each aisle filling her cart with personal items and dignity; but, to assure a younger shopper and her two future shoppers that this store cares about its consumers from as it claims, “cradle to grave.”
During our shopping trip, we ran into the older woman several times, each time as painful as the time before.
The employee assured us they had fixed a chair for her and were looking for her. We found her first.
“They aren’t looking too hard,” the woman laughed.
A few aisles later, I watched as the manager slowly helped the woman into the chair appropriately “ohhing” and chuckling at alternating times during the tale of her recent fall as he slipped item after item from her cart into the basket.
When we saw her again, the woman was making her way to a cash register and so were we. The last time we saw her she was making her way as slowly as we were towards are respective tomorrows.
“You know what’s great,” my 11 year old remarked, “she probably doesn’t even know it was us who helped her.”
My faith in commerce restored, I smiled as we walked slowly to our car.
This weekend I woke up to quiet.
Unexpected, somewhat jolting, my three children, dog, cat, presumably the leopard gecko were sleeping and so was—it would seem for a few more minutes—Lita Gibby.
Lita Gibby does not sleep. Or if she does, she is a light sleeper. Since she’s lived with us, she has become in tuned with movement, shifts in lighting, every whispered sound.
She detects everything.
She sings—or sang—to music, to silence, to footsteps.
Lita Gibby was Noah’s birthday present.
I should have learned you can’t give life.
The plump white and brown guinea pig, deceptively quiet in the pet store, uncharacteristically quiet today, is dead.
Because Noah was three when we got her, I spent more time than I thought I would talking to, petting, cleaning up after, feeding, and though I didn’t expect to, loving Lita Gibby.
There are just a few moments between now—when he thinks Lita Gibby is alive—and later when he doesn’t.
This is not his first death. Fish have died. This will not be his last death. I will die—some day.
When his fish died, I replaced them with new, brighter, more alive ones. I think briefly of replacing his guinea pig. But, what are the chances of getting one who whistles as commandingly as Lita Gibby?
I can no more replace his guinea pig than I can replace a dying grandparent.
Each death gets more difficult to explain, the reasons more artful, the reactions more tearful.
I can buy a new guinea pig, a frog, a toad. I can not give the gift of life and I'm not looking forward to talking about it why.
]]>Compliments are probably one of the fastest ways to get your comment approved on my blog. So, likely my ego will be my cyber downfall.
When I began looking for a full-time English faculty position, it seemed logical to post my resume and CV on my blog.
It still does.
Visions of people linking my CV to the hands of my future employer would have danced vividly in my head—had I thought of it that way. When commenters began asking to link, repost or refer the content from my blogs to theirs, I was giddy—until…
Though I still have the what’s the worst that could happen mentality when it comes to accepting comments, I still read each comment, email address, website, link, IP address—just in case.
The most recent request to link to my CV made me smile, in a what the heck? sort of way. The request looked sincere enough—though in retrospect most of the requests so far have been from spammers—the site potentially linking to mine was a porn one.
There are many ways I could and probably should take this offer.
Instead, I’m taking it as a compliment. Perhaps I’ve found my niche, Yvonne Battle-Felton, crafter of Sexy CV’s.
Having received many such emails, I can say they did not.
In an effort to remind me that the person emailing me is mid-something else, “Sent from my Blackberry, mobile, or other device” often concludes many of the messages I receive lately. This is probably meant to translate the actual message I receive: I’m busy, respond anyway.
My first impulse is to match curt for curt.
I seldom indulge this impulse—or, I try not to. I’ve found silence sometimes works better. Not responding to an otherwise rude email does force the person to pick up the call and actually interact as if I—like them—appreciate information neatly wrapped in bows of hello and ribbons of thank you.
Other times I prefer to respond the way I craft my emails these days (or attempt to)—as if they are little moments of delicious cups of Hazelnut coffee with French Vanilla cream (though tea is possibly more endearing) with dear and sincerely where the sugar would go.
I understand the urgency of time; the pull between wanting information and wanting information right now. I respect immediacy. It takes the same time for me to open a terse message as it does to open a crafted one, yet the message is better received when the message is crafted with me—not time—in mind.
]]>I look in front of me, around me, sometimes behind me, but I don’t look down when I walk. Probably, this says a lot about me: where I’m going, how I got there.
Last week I was helping a friend move—if we are still calling it that.
“You have to be careful about this,” I said, looking at the 6 inch (in my guess) black corkscrew nail sticking out from the floor.
This should have been my first clue. Even with my glasses on, I don’t see well enough to have known it was a six-inch black, corkscrew nail.
My concern was that my friend would walk out onto her balcony without shoes and step on the nail.
So, it turns out, the nail was not in the floor but was in the screen.
I found this out when I walked through it.
When I look down, I don’t see where I’m going, I see how I’m getting there. Maybe that’s why I don’t do it. In life, I often over analyze the steps it takes to get from where I am to where I want to be.
That should make my path more logical, my choices more coherent, my successes more certain. Sometimes, it does. Other times, analyzing the steps keeps me from taking them. Often, when I’ve tried, watching my feet causes me to stumble or slow my pace. I get where I’m going eventually, but mainly only once I look up.
As of today, the screen door is still laying beside, not on its track.
I don’t look down when I walk.
]]>While we are in the same network, have some of the same friends, and maybe even live in relative proximity: I’m not interested in seeing you bang your wife.
Or in clicking this link, checking this out, hitting you up, viewing this video, or trying this test.
You see, whether I remember you or not, I don’t trust you or your judgment. To be honest, I don’t even trust that it’s you sending me photos, YouTube links, tests or articles to read. Over the years our relationship--as I fear has your account—has been compromised.
I suspect you signed up for an app that mentioned --in the terms you didn’t read—granted permission to access your account. The document may or may not have mentioned contacting your contacts to invite us to try the app or one from their third party vendor.
About that…
The third party you is out-visiting, inviting, following and updating you. And, it’s going to get you blocked.
So, In the future, if there is an option to opt out—please select it before your third party you outs you.
Each time I read one, I vow to read a blog or two and post a comment in return: to leave my virtual calling card.
I sift through several blogs before choosing the one to respond to.
Reading a blog is sort of like reading the editorials. Reading comments is like asking people what they think about the editorials.
I don’t do that.
So while I peruse, sift and skim blog posts, I rarely glimpse or acknowledge the comments of others.
Comments are like undergarments. I assume people have them, but I’m not all that interested in seeing the general populations’.
Still, what’s the worst that could happen, tends to be my approach when I publish comments I’m not too sure aren’t from scammers waiting to hack into my network of employees, clients and…ok, so I suppose that’s the worst that could happen—assuming I had a network of employees.
I understand why news sites publish comments seemingly with little moderation. Freedom of speech accounts for more than a little bit of the racist, sexist, and general asinine comments otherwise known as opinion it often publishes.
Still, the Baltimore Sun would not post a comment from Dating While Drunk that says Dating in Baltimore, Baltimore Date Sites, Baltimore Live…or 2p890 43 aoeia j;oai9 aopiera o @#()%&_!)(
Would it?
Then why does it post comments to run alongside an article about a murder? Readership may be down, but in the months that follow this trauma, at some point, a family member, neighbor, friend, will be looking for information on their daughter, cousin, classmate, and below the headline, “Body of Local Woman Found on Campus…” will be comments intended to hurt.
Not specifically meant to hurt them, but anonymously poised at the general population.
If you moderate comments in moderation it should be possible to maintain integrity of the publication as well as integrity of the article.
Otherwise, maybe not all articles deserve comments and not all comments deserve to be posted.
I don’t envy them.
Still, as I prepare to date seriously—with the intent to commit (at least) to dating—I find myself reconsidering what I once considered spam.
Every two weeks I receive email about how to promote love and happiness in my marriage. Which would be great if I had a marriage I wanted to save.
Up until recently, I deleted these messages with regularity. Today, I pause before I click delete.
Would I—in the right circumstances—ever marry again?
I no longer know the answer. I don’t mind not knowing. And, truth be told, I’m kind of glad I’m asking.
]]>University of Maryland University College, August 2006
Bachelors of Arts in English 3.32 GPA
Minor in Communications
PRINT PUBLICATIONS
“Other Side of the Pond” Penn Union, 2008
“Nine” Penn Union, 2008
“Lover’s Rock” (series) Posh Magazine, 2006
“EXGirlfriend.com” (series) The Kimball Mountain Observer/ Chimeras, 2004
“When the Dead Come Marching In” The Kimball Mountain Observer/Chimeras, 2004 “For Baltimore City Teachers” The Kimball Mountain Observer/Chimeras, 2004
“A Typical Day” Anthology, The Kimball Mountain Observer/Chimeras, 2004
ONLINE PUBLICATIONS
“Riley.” The Chesapeake Reader. ed. Spring 2008
Review of Jim Hansen’s “Fatal Law” Crime and Suspense. 1 June 2007.
“Baltimore Picketers Protest Unfair Wages.” The Student Operated Press. 16 Dec. 2005.
“Baltimore the City that Leaves (if necessary).” The Student Operated Press. 10 Oct. 2005.
“Something to Think About.” The Student Operated Press. 12. Sept. 2005
EDITING CREDITS
“Traveling by Jehn” World of Possibilities Lifestyle Magazine
“Janette N. Brin Bio” Posh Magazine
“Now That’s Posh” Posh Magazine
“The Long Reign of the King of Lover’s Rock” Posh Magazine
“10 Ways to Cater your Caribbean Man” Posh Magazine
“Employees with Disabilities Help to …” World of Possibilities Lifestyle Magazine
“Arthritis Information Bits” World of Possibilities Lifestyle Magazine
“Soca Diva Jadine: Montserrat’s ‘Little Lark’” Posh Magazine
“DJ Hypness in the Building” Posh Magazine
“Sexyback, and Front” Posh Magazine
BLOGS
“This Baltimore Writer”
Personal essays, creative nonfiction, and fiction written
by Yvonne Battle-Felton
“Yvonne Battle-Felton”
Personal essays, memoir and fiction as hosted on Open Salon
WORKSHOPS
Iowa Writer’s Workshop 2008 (Fiction) Instructor: L. Samantha Chang
Bread Loaf 2008
(Fiction) Instructor: Lynn Freed
Iowa Writer’s Workshop 2009
(Fiction) Instructor: L. Samantha Chang
Accepted to program, unable to attend due to financial reasons
Bread Loaf 2009
(Fiction) Instructor: Lynn Freed
Accepted to program, unable to attend due to financial reasons
Sewanee 2009
(Fiction)
Accepted to program, unable to attend due to financial reasons
INTERNSHIPS
Wolfmont Press/Crime and Suspense, Assistant Editor 2006-2007
Tony Blount, Publisher: tony@wolfmont.com
Review manuscripts for content, recommend manuscripts for
publication, communicate status and feedback to publisher
and authors, review books, and edit for content and style.
Student Operated Press, Reporter 2005-2007
Judyth Piazza, Publisher: judythpiazza@gmail.com
Write and Edit articles. Research and interview sources.
Caring Communities Lifestyle Magazine, Associate Editor 2006-2006
Mona Freedman, Publisher: mona@caringcommunities.org
Recommend and edit content for print magazine, solicit writers,
communicate with writers and publisher regarding deadlines.
PROFESSIONAL ORGANIZATIONS
The Association of Writers and Writing Programs
Public Relations Society of America
References Available Upon Request
I admit free is part of the fantasy.
And, there is a fantasy. The moment I read about the Book Thing—a warehouse stuffed easel to easel with books of all topics, languages and genres—ok, so I don’t think such a description existed, but surely it was implied—I fantasized about finding the perfect book. The book I absolutely needed, right then.
I’m a believer that when I need to find something, I find it. This is not the same as believing if I lose something I will find it. It’s better. A lot of things happen by chance, by design, or divine, and some things—like the right words at the right time—just happen.
At the Book Thing, my 3 children—a teenager, a middle schooler and a preschooler—pick up books indiscriminate of subject matter (more or less). I pick up books I had long forgotten, like the Bobbsey Twins (after reading it with my 4 year old, I remembered why I had forgotten it), a mystery or two. My daughter finds a Spanish book; my boys find books on space and antiquated books on culture around the World. For my little one we all find something.
To the 18 books we leave with that day, there is little thought given. One book in particular I pick up because it’s a children’s book written by Lucille Clifton.
It isn’t until evening, my 4 year old ready for the evening’s literary adventure, when I find the words I didn’t known I was ready to speak.
I talk a lot about dating—with my friends, my family, online. But, not with my children. Until now.
I struggle with balancing dating with raising a family. As I figure out what is important to me in my relationships, I don’t want my children meeting multiple men I may or may not want to know well. So they don’t meet anyone and of the men I date, I rarely speak.
Common sense tells me when I am ready to introduce them to someone, I will. Until then—though I have no one in mind to introduce them to—I worry about it.
Usually, my children know when I am going out on dates. We have discussed dating in obscure terms, without absolutes.
Lucille Clifton’s Everett Anderson’s 1-2-3 is a poem/story about a young boy’s perceptions when his mother starts dating. He is worried about sharing their time with someone else. He’s worried about someone else taking his place. He is worried.
I sit with my little one explaining why the little boy in the story might feel this way. I call to my oldest son, he listens. We talk about how he would feel in the boy’s situation. I call to my daughter. We talk.
We talk about dating in terms of absolutes: in terms of me.
Maybe that’s my fault.
I haven’t always been clear about my relationship words.
The time I spend writing is not leisure or spare. Writing is not an act of decadence. It is my need, my want, my pursuit—my addiction.
And, not in a flattering way.
The deeper the snow, the lower the temperature, the icier the air, the more texts, instant messages and emails I get from men who for whatever reason, I chose not to pursue relationships with.
I have never responded with, ‘while you weren’t good enough then, I’ve recently lowered my standards…’
That they think the cold temperatures might drive me to desperation is either a fault of theirs or one of mine.
That I think, ‘hmmmm’…. when I receive these unwelcome e-memories is a fault of mine. I have—but do not suffer from—selective memory. Still, each time I get a text from an unsaved number that I seldom recognize as a deleted number, I typically resist the urge to respond, “who are you?”
Because, I know.
While I may not remember the name, the face, or the exact reason. I know for whatever reason, I didn’t like the way I felt when I was with the person, or the fact that we didn’t share the same definition of ‘single,’ or that we did not then (and presumably still don’t) want the same things from life, relationships, experiences.
I understand, not because the media tells me so, but because I know, that dating is challenging right now. I know that we all have varying definitions for attractive, funny, single…
I know my standards will change, grow and adapt.
I also know they won’t lower, I can’t afford for them to.
So, before you send that ‘am I good enough now?’ text to someone you weren’t quite compatible with last year, just anticipate the response.
Silence.
Translation: No.