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Fifty Fabulous-Fifty Free

Me in 1961

1961- A Very Good Year

My 54th Birthday this past Feb. 27th turned out to be much better than I had ever wished. I have to admit four years ago when I entered the fifth decade of my life that after the initial thrill of turning the Big 5-0 that if struck me that I had made it to the half century point in my life. Questions posed themselves in my mind as to what that meant to be a woman in her 50s. Then came a time of troubles—health challenges. Commands that my body easily obeyed at 25 seemed to take a hellava lot longer now. Suddenly I had a new “boyfriend” named Arthur Itis. He woke me up in the morning. Followed me around all day long and keep me company at night. In fact he was more attentive than guy I’d ever known. Creaking joints Snapped, Crackled and Popped more than a bowl of Rice Krispies. I qualified for the titled of middle-aged Transformer. However by communicating with Transformers I’ve found ways to lessen the effects of that ill-mannered fellow Arthur and one day I hope to banish him completely from my life in favor a lover who inflicts less physical pain.

A few days after my Birthday I learned that my former company The Reader’s Digest is undergoing a Chapter 11 Reorganization. I received a letter in the mail to this effect which indicated phone numbers to call for more information. I learned will be able to collect my Reader’s Digest pension next year when I turn 55. Also I will be able get my annuity from United Way of New York City. Suddenly getting older is looking better and better each day. Now I’m counting down to February 27, 2014!!

Let’s face it money is a tool that gives us access to more options. Retirement. Once something way off in the distant future is a short five or six years away for me now. Pensions, annuities, retirement, together all mean freedom to pursue my passions, goals, and my deepest heartfelt desires with the means and time to do so. Doing my Happy Dance! Perhaps depending on the amount of money I receive I will be able to stop working full-time and just take a part-time job. More time to engage with my writing, my art, and my photography. More choices. Life rapidly expands to 55 flavors, way more than Baskin-Robbins without the stomach upset!! LOL!! A new confidence has arisen within my soul. Hell yeah!! It’s time for another Tattoo maybe an additional piercing to celebrate this great Victory!!

Fifty-Five is the magic number for pensions, annuities and senior housing. I’m not sure if you knew this but you can apply for Senior Housing in New York City at age 55. I plan on doing this next year. Now all my dreams are doable. I see light at the end of the tunnel. Next year I could actually travel on my vacation instead of staying home. Hallelujah!!

 

Another blessing in disguise is kind of silly but I’ll share it anyway. I’ve finally gone one entire year without having a menstrual cycle which means I’m now officially in Menopause. No more periods. No babies. No need to use birth control, of course I stopped using birth control years ago, but if I do meet a nice gentleman I no longer have to worry about becoming pregnant! Yeah!! Hip! Hip!! Hooray!!  Naturally until I meet the right man I’ll continue to be celibate. Another good thing about being a woman in her 50s is that I’m no longer controlled by my libido or my hormones. I’ve become more selective and celibacy is an option that I will continue to embrace while still finding joy with my physical body and my enhanced sexuality as an older woman.

Financially Free, sexually free with time to engage in meaningful activities and relationships. Being in my 50s does not mean less than but more than ever. An elevation to a higher level of living. A greater share in life’s blessings.

 

Hello Kitty's Night Job

Hello Kitty’s Night Job

DeBorah Ann Palmer
Espiritu en Fuego — A Fiery Spirit Expressing Herself
http://dancingpalmtrees.wordpress.com

A Call to Witness

http://www.acalltowitness.com
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/dancingpalmtree

 


Jephthah’s Daughters.(Click here to read more)

Shall we regard our girl children as Jephthah’s Daughters?  How long will we continue to perpetuate the adage, “Women love their sons, but raise the daughters.”  Every child deserves the opportunity to succeed in life but success comes through accepting responsibility and learning to be accountable.  Any child male or female who constantly lashes out at authority figures in a bid to always be “right” is a child bound for prison or the graveyard.  Stop making girls the sacrificial lambs!!

Ladies, let’s love our girl children and stop putting them on the altar in order to save a son who does not wanted to be saved and does not think he needs help or worse some no account man who should not even be a part of our households to begin with. Let us not return to ancient times when girls and women were thought of as little more than chattel or commodities to be bought and sold. (See below for more details on ancient economies)

Girl Sacrifice

“One of the unusual things about the Bible is that it preserves some bits of this larger context. … It would seem that the economy of the Hebrew kingdoms, by the time of the prophets, was already beginning to develop the same kind of debt crises that had long been common in Mesopotamia: espe­cially in years of bad harvests, the poor became indebted to rich neigh­bors or to wealthy moneylenders in the towns, they would begin to lose title to their fields and to become tenants on what had been their own land, and their sons and daughters would be removed to serve as servants in their creditors’ households, or even sold abroad as slaves.

“[This is what the biblical book of Nehemiah is referring to in the passage,] ‘Some of our daughters are brought unto bondage already: neither is it in our power to redeem them.’ One can only imagine what those words meant, emotionally, to a father in a patriarchal society in which a man’s ability to protect the honor of his family was everything. Yet this is what money meant to the ma­jority of people for most of human history: the terrifying prospect of one’s sons and daughters being carried off to the homes of repulsive strangers to clean their pots and provide the occasional sexual services, to be subject to every conceivable form of violence and abuse, pos­sibly for years, conceivably forever, as their parents waited, helpless, avoiding eye contact with their neighbors, who knew exactly what was happening to those they were supposed to have been able to protect. … http://www.delanceyplace.com/view_archives.php?2009

Donations to this Ministry for the Housing Fund can be made in U.S. Funds via money order or bank checks made payable to Rochdale Village Inc. 169-65 137th Avenue, Jamaica, NY 11434, Account No. 083-11G-16924 or directly to deborah.palmer280@gmail.com via Paypal.  Thank you and God Bless.


The Cruelty of “Christianity”

 Tekahionwake

“Oh, why have your people forced on me the name of Pauline Johnson? Was not my Indian name good enough? Do you think you help us by bidding us forget our blood? By teaching us to cast off all memory of our high ideals and our glorious past? I am an Indian. My pen and my life I devote to the memory of my own people. Forget that I was Pauline Johnson, but remember always that I was Tekahionwake, the Mohawk that humbly aspired to be the saga singer of her people, the bard of the noblest folk the world has ever seen, the sad historian of her own heroic race.”

Nobody knows my name or the real me except Jesus and him alone. Some ancestors unwillingly pulled from the breast of Mother Africa the others walked the “Trail of Tears”. Both had forced upon them the indoctrination of Euro-centric Christianity to the detriment of each noble culture.

A few months ago I traced my maternal ancestry back to Mozambique. When I made that discovery something in my spirit clicked and I knew that one day I had to return to the birthplace of my Great, great, great, great, great Grandmother, her birth name lost to time and eternity. Other ancestors born in this great land have yet to be revealed. Many times I wonder, “What was my African and/or Native American name.”  The names of Finney, Halstead, Gordon, Palmer were all given by some distant slave-owner. Who were they and who were they 500 years ago?

Like Tekahionwake I live my dichotomy every day even in my spiritual life wondering about the respective faiths of my African and Native American ancestors. Thinking about how their own unique worship was torn asunder only to be replaced by a Euro-centric “Christian” god who relegated them to a lesser status, below that of their European captors.

Children of an accursed Ham? (Genesis 9:20–27) I think not for the descendents of the great Realm of Ethiopia have risen again to the rightful place in the Diaspora.

Matthew 12:42

New King James Version (NKJV)

42 The queen of the South will rise up in the judgment with this generation and condemn it, for she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and indeed a greater than Solomon is here.

The cries of my people would not be extinguished. The voices of my Native American ancestors called to me for redemption. Through an experiment called Carlisle Indian Industrial School History, really internment in re-culturalization concentration camps Richard Henry Pratt sought to erase the cultural identity of Kiowa, Cheyenne, Arapaho and other tribes through forcing children into complete immersion in Eurocentric culture and identity, effectively erasing their own. Take away a person’s language and belief systems, telling them that how God created them was wrong and had to be fixed only serves to create indwelling images of self-hatred within those lost children. If eradicating my indigenous and African American culture, traditions, ethnicity and exchanging them for dominant white culture will I be closer to God?  Will Jesus accept me in this new form?

As I gaze in the mirror as many Native Americans did 150 years ago neither my face nor my features as God made them can be erased. The efforts on the part of European conquerors failed. Nor were the colonizers able to erase the connection to the Great Spirit as he was known long before the white man touched our shores.

White man you tell me that only your version of Jesus can save my soul and deliver me from sin. And just what is my sin? Being born with a brown face, high cheek bones, full lips, long flowing Jet Black hair or locs that rise to kiss the sun. Does my sin lie in the dances my people perform to honor my ancestors and Mother Earth who gives us all sustenance? Am I or my ways at fault because we revere Nature as opposed to destroying the land, fouling the waters, polluting the environment in a never ending obsession to conquer, convert and control? Now who is the savage? Who is the so-called heathen?

Oh European who comes bearing the sign of the cross who is this God of yours that lifts up your customs and traditions but disparages mine? He is not the Jesus depicted in your Old Master paintings from Italy, Spain, France or the Flemish Masters. No, more than likely he was a swarthy man with kinky dark wooly hair, skin darkened by constant exposure to the sun. Jesus was someone whose looks paralleled the populations most of the indigenous tribes of Africa, North and South America.

 

Revelation 1:14-15

New King James Version (NKJV)

14 His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and His eyes like a flame of fire; 15 His feet were like fine brass, as if refined in a furnace, and His voice as the sound of many waters;

We Sisters and Brothers from what you named the “Third World” now know that Jesus came for us just as we are. God accepts us in all the richness with which he created us. We Black and Brown followers have redefined and returned Christianity to its original intent and meaning.

No longer do we walk the “Trail of Tears” or the Via Dolorosa. Now we stand together arm in arm marching onward to Zion that beautiful city of God taking our place among those who have been redeemed.

 Female Ancestor from my Dad's side, Name lost to Time

 

 

 

 

 

 

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