the worst performance ever?

it's interesting to see what words people search that lead them to my blog. if you search "put on track pants" "didn't have any", a blog post of mine is the first to come up. why someone would search those two quotes together, is beyond me.

in an effort to not offend people in my city, who are members of a certain non-conservative church, that starts with U, i'm going to be a little careful with my words here. i would hate for them to come across this blog post in a search.

a couple of months ago, i had this feeling i've had in times past, when i feel like i should do something to improve my spiritual life. i did what i've done in the past; i found a place to go on a sunday morning. i told lauren about this and we went to the U's church. as i have in the past, i didn't get out of it what i had hoped. i would kind of zone out during the sermon, not remembering anything about it, and didn't get much of the socializing i attempted to do with people afterwards. lauren seemed to get more out of it than i did.

a couple of weeks ago, the minister invited people to attend a dinner and movie viewing, that was scheduled for the next friday. sitting there, i got the impression that the movie was a documentary about a famous scottish poet, whose first name is robert and whose last name rhymes with 'ferns'. did i mention that i zone out during the service? it was presented at the fringe festival a few years ago, so it must be reasonably good, right?

we got to the U on friday evening, and the dinner wasn't bad, considering it was free. we ate, had awkward socializing moments - including being told we couldn't sit in some seats, because some people knew some people who 'might' want to leave early - didn't seem very welcoming.

after dinner, the movie started. very early on, i could see it was not a very professional movie - there was a shot of the building we were sitting in, a zoom in to a pigeon walking on a sidewalk, the quality was at about the level of my flip camera - i would've thought a fringe movie would have better quality, but i would give it a chance.

soon after the pigeon shot, i realized it was not a documentary, it was a recording of a play that was done at the U, about the famous poet. the next shot was the cast 'behind the scenes' as the show was about to start. this seemed unnecessary to me as a viewer, because they were not saying anything backstage that seemed all that relevant - this lasted for about 5 minutes.

then they started walking out of the room, into the main performance room, which was the main hall of the U. ok, i thought, but why is the camera just following them, hand-held style, but not in a good way.

the play started. i thought the camera would be placed in a position centered, so the viewer would get a good view of the stage. instead, it was at the far right or left of the first pew - the only fancy tech thing of the recording was switching from one horrible angle to another.

now, the actual performance. picture a bunch of 11 year olds doing a play, where lines are forgotten, scripts are read on stage by cast members, and you have an idea of the performance. add to it the poor sound quality of the recording, the bad camera work, and we have a winner - the worst performance i've ever seen. i've seen my sister do performances when she was 8, i've worked at summer camps where kids put on performances, i've seen 'showgirls', but this was, by far, the worst performance i've ever seen.

after sitting through this for about 1 1/2 hours, watching a number of people doze off, the minister of the U looking bored/shocked with how bad it was, the woman in front of me take off her glasses for long stretches of the film, i started reading the program. the group was an inclusive one - no one is turned away. if you don't turn anyone away from your performance group, can you really expect strangers to pay to watch you perform (there was a £6 charge when they performed during the festival)?

the play came to an end. a sense of relief came over me, thinking the dvd would stop; it didn't. we then were given the opportunity to hear the thank yous from the director, from the performance on the dvd. to top it off, at the point, the camera was pointing at the director's knees. the dvd continued, the thank yous continued, i leaned into lauren - "i think we should leave". we got up, walked out, being the first people to leave.

walking out, lauren said something that made me laugh on the inside. she wasn't in the best of moods, so i didn't. she said "i can't believe i missed 'american idol' for this" - i should mention, this was the 'american idol' results show, shown 20 hours after the results are out because UK t.v. shows 'american idol' the day after it airs in the US.

so, if missing a show that is not particularly great to begin with, that you can probably find online, showing results you can definitely find online, that happened nearly 24 hours before. if this is something you regret missing, the thing you are missing it for, probably sucks.

i'm not sure if we'll be going back to the U.

525,600 minutes

my mother and I, at my wedding reception

I really thought I would be further along in the grieving process by now, a year since my mother's death - however, I feel like I'm in the same place I was last April, a month after she died.

I attempt to put on a good face when I talk to to people in my life, but they don't see me in my times of sadness and frustration, wondering why I'm 'stuck'. I do that alone, feeling like they have all moved to a place I haven't yet.

I live in a constant state of sadness, anger, and guilt over what I should have done for the sake of my mother before she died and what I should have done for my sake, in the year since.

Several months after she passed away I decided to write about what I was going through around the time of her death. I thought this would help in the grieving process, but it didn't.

I'm hoping in this post, that sharing a small piece of what I wrote will do more for me than writing it did. Below is the story of one day, the day I went home to see my mother, for the last time.....

March 18, 2010

As I was waiting to get onto the bus, Lauren asked me what my mother's full name was; Lauren wanted to dedicate the Twi book she was working on to my mother. I teared up, as I had done a number of times in the previous few weeks, knowing that I would be going back to Towson on March 18; knowing that this would be the last time I was going home to see my mother.

I don't remember much about the bus ride to the airport, or boarding the plane, or what movies were playing on the flight, and what movies I may have watched. I do remember that the flight was delayed for an hour in Heathrow, because of some kind of technical problem.

Two things stick out for me on this flight. I had developed a fear of flying at some point in my 20's, but had no fear as I sat on the plane. I remember thinking that no amount of turbulence on this flight would even begin to compare to what my mother had been going through over the last few months. I remember thinking that I was so much luckier than so many people who, like my mother, were suffering in that moment as I buckled in to fly across the Atlantic.

The other thing I remember is the guy from Kenya I was seated next to. He had no bags with him, which worried me a little - who doesn't carry anything on a transatlantic flight. After we were in the air, he borrowed a pen from me, and we started talking. He showed me an old picture of him with dreadlocks, which he no longer had; he told me about his turbulent flight from Nairobi to London, and how he had lived in Baltimore for a few years, but wanted to move back to Kenya.

He seemed like a nice guy, and when he asked if he could get a ride into the city after we landed, I didn't think much of it, and said I would ask my sister after we landed. He used my phone once we were on the ground, and then we both went through customs. After we met up again, we both complained about the treatment we got from the customs officers at BWI - they took a bunch of spices he had hoped to bring from Kenya; I was asked "How did that happen?" to my being born in Nigeria - I considered going through an explanation of how it happens that children are born to the officer, but I was nervous about seeing my mother, knowing she was in bad shape.

I talked to my dad soon after landing. He seemed to want to talk about everything but my mother - the flight, the customs people, the delay we had in Heathrow. To this day, I don't know if he was doing this because he didn't feel comfortable talking about it, or if he was trying to shield me, for one last time, from the shape my mother was in. Part of me would have liked it if he would have been a little bit more graphic about her condition; a bigger part of me is glad he never did. I can't imagine what the experience was like for my father to go through that with my mother, and in the months since I have grown to admire my father more than anyone I know. We've always kind of teased my dad about his geekiness/nerdiness but, because of what he went through, I have come to see my father as the toughest man I know.

Emily picked me and the Kenyan guy up, and we dropped him off at a parking garage his cousin worked at. We then headed to Towson. Emily had not said anything about our mother until after we dropped him off. She tried to prepare me for what I would see, and said she was worried about me, because I hadn't seen the slow deteriation of our mother. She said she would rather be in her position than my own, because she had seen my mother on a daily basis, slowly get worse - I hadn't seen our mother in two months.

I now think of Emily much the same way I think of my dad. I wrote a blog once on how, even though she was the youngest of our clan, during the last months of my mother's life, you would've guessed she was older than her big brother and sister, who are 5 and 16 years older than her, respectively. I remember thinking on that drive back how much I admired my little sister, and how much braver and tougher she was than me. I don't think I could've handled taking care of my mother the way Emily did and for that, the rest of my family will be eternally grateful.

I got home, but I didn't want to go upstairs. I was scared to see my mother in the condition she was in. I talked briefly to my dad, but then had to go up there, to see my mother. I went upstairs, not sure what what to expect. It was not good; she was lying on the bed in an L shape on her side, mumbling incoherently, her eyes were somewhat glazed over, kind of staring into nowhere. She was tiny compared to the person she was last Summer, the last time I saw her completely healthy. She was lying in the bed, seemingly unable to move much.

Emily and my dad said "Jeff is here, Jeff is here". Her sister, Mary, who had arrived from New York that same day, said to her in Twi "Jeff is here, Jeff is here." My mother, in the midst of her mumbling, then said the last word I would ever here her say in English - she said "Jeff".

Many people have said to me over the months since she died "remember the good times you had with her", and I do, and remembering those times bring some level of comfort. But every single day, I see what I saw that night, sitting on the edge of my parents' bed, my mother, not the person she was, and we, unable to do anything about it. I hear her saying my name that last time. And every time I remember that night, I am filled with unbelievable sadness.

my mom and my niece, Maya - Summer 2009

It's hard for me to think it's been more than 525,600 minutes since my mother took her last breath. I still feel her around me all the time, hearing her voice in my head multiple times a day, when I'm doing something in the kitchen that's not the best idea, or when I'm feeling alone in the world. It's a nice feeling, but it's also a reminder that I won't hear her actual voice again, just her voice in my head - that feeling is not so nice.

In the past year, music has affected me more than it ever used to and I've been brought to tears every time I've heard this song. It makes me miss the nearly 34 seasons of love I had with my mother, but also makes me happy. When the soloist breaks out her powerful voice, I think of my mother. No one would call my mother a powerful gospel singer, not by any means, trust me. But she shared love, gave love, and spread love - she always wanted everyone around her to be happy; to be loved. If lives are measured in love, Alberta Ohenwah Shirley lived longer than anyone I know.