Ogontz Book Club

Let's Talk About It!!!

Groups of people may get together to play games, sing, or watch their favorite sports team. Sometimes groups of people go to the clubs, concerts, or even shopping. 

On Tuesday October 8, 2013 a group of people gathered to talk about my book, Price Road. The Ogontz Book Club met at the David Cohen Ogontz Branch of the Philadelphia Free Library to discuss the book they had just finished reading. 

As the Author, I was honored to be invited to join the book club for their conversation… I could hardly keep my joy contained as the group shared with each other the parts of the book they liked. I found that my actual memories and factual research - which had become the collective storyline of Price Road, was able to touch the hearts and souls of the members. The sub-title of the book is Let’s Talk About It! And, talk is what happened for two hours – non-stop!!!

The special surprise for everybody was the Toffee Cookies one of the members baked from the recipe found at the back of the book.

 
I have added the events of that wonderful, fulfilling, and gratifying day to the collage of my life experiences that have given me great joy… 

How much is a good friend worth?








When I was young, and I heard my father talk about the friends he had had for more than 25 years, I couldn't conceive of knowing someone that long. Twenty-five years seemed to be such a long time when I was ten and looking forward to those years; however, as I look backward through seventy-four years, three times twenty-five seems to be as short as the blink of an eye.

This is a picture of me with my best friend. We met when we were in the 7th grade at Barrett Jr. High School in Philadelphia. We continued to Overbrook High School, double dated on our prom, laughed and cried through our teen years together. And, through it all we never had an argument.

Marriages, children, divorces, happiness, and sorrow - we were always there for each other, even when if it wasn't possible physically. Some years we did not talk to each other. We didn't take the time as life's pressures seemed to occupy every hour of every day; nevertheless. whenever we did contact each other, it was as if time had not passed... It was as if our last conversation had never ended...

We are both great-grand mothers now... Our memories are rich and deep... The time we share now is priceless... We laugh when we look in the mirror and don't recognize ourselves, but we recognize each other, and the time we share now is PRICELESS!!!


  

What Pace???

Commentator Charles Blow asked a very potent question last week on a panel led by Anderson Cooper following the Trayvon Martin decision. "What do I tell my son? What pace is safe for him, as a black man, to walk?
Mr. Blow's question weighed heavy on my heart, this poem came from that weighty uncertainty.

What Pace?   

                            

What is the pace that a Black Man should walk

in order not to seem a threat?

Strolling on a tightrope across the racial Niagara Falls  

Carefully displaying the measure of his soul…

Black fathers pass their history along,

Survival skills must be taught…

Be careful my sons,

Be careful to pace just right.

Don’t run too fast…

You might lose your life.

Don’t walk too slow…

You might frighten others.

Don’t skip…                                                                                

Skipping is too playful.

Something might be wrong with that.

You’ll be suspect!

“Why?”  The sons reply

Because you are born Black,

For reasons we do not understand,

Your beautiful, Black, God given skin frightens the White man.

Don’t let them know how smart you are,

You’ll be called ‘uppity’,

And you might not get a job.

If you are slow to do something you will be ‘lazy’.

If you react too fast, you’ll be called ‘crazy’.

Over educated…  Under educated…

Any excuse will be just right

When it is uttered by the Right White.

So my son, to save your life,

…. Pace Yourself…

Copyright 2013 by Elaine T. Jones

  www.elainetjones.com   

My sadness for the Martin family this week made me want to cry, and as I witnessed Trayvon's mother's strength I remembered this poem I wrote many years ago.

When Can I Cry?  ©  Elaine Jones 2005  (version 1)

When I was one year,
I fell and skinned my knee.
My mother hugged me. She said “Don't cry.”

When I was ten years,

I got beat up at school.

The teacher gently said “Don't cry.”

When I was twenty years,

I lost my true love.
Friends gathered round. They said, “Don't cry.”
When I was thirty years,
my mother, then my father died.
My pastor told me - they are in a better place “Don't cry”

When I was forty, my alcoholic husband [wife] left.

Everyone said - you'll have a better life “Don't cry.”

When I was fifty years, my young daughter took an overdose,
The social worker said, you did your best “Don't cry”

When I was sixty my dearest son was killed in war,

The president sent me a letter,
 it said I had a son who was very brave “Don't cry”

When I was seventy years, I was broke…

no money - couldn't buy oil for heat.

Wall Street journal said…

Things will get better, “Don't cry.”

When I was eighty years, I lost my home. I had nowhere to go,

I'm all alone… Can't cry
And now at ninety I lie here…
Waiting…

Waiting to be buried…

I just want to know...  When?
When can I cry???