THE SUNDOWN DIP by Corrie White

With a ripe undergraduate diploma in her hands, Corrie White is embarking upon her career as a budding writer with an enthusiasm for the natural world and a running list of potential pursuits. Currently, she blooms where she was planted, in her hometown of Gold Hill, North Carolina, but she waits for the call of adventure to wisk her where she has never been. She has dreams of clog dancing, writing novels, and exploring the sublime Iceland.

 

I lick the salt from my lips and toss my tangled hair, wet from the sea. I plop on the towel I laid flat, flex my sandy feet, and dig my fingers into the course earth, a pleasure that comes natural for a fidget.

I am alone today, and like most days spent alone, I engage and fine-tune the range of my senses. Books fill my bag, but I'll leave them there; sand will surely crawl into pages I haven't yet read. Before me today rolls an ocean, the playful mystery, and the recent thief of my bikini top.

My first instinct, of course, was to escape from public view and dive into the ravenous wave that forced me into helpless submission. Somewhere inside its gulp, my nylon suit swam into a tangle and left me bare.

I am a lady far from the beaches of France and even further from having a French physique, but in this moment I took ownership and said farewell to the covering of my breasts.

Forcing my hands by my side, I looked ahead and scrounged all the courage I could muster into a half graceful walk. Heads surely yanked my direction. Giggles sounded from the peripheries, but this was my day alone, and no longer was it in vain, for the audience had taken a sudden interest.

Winds carry the scent that brings me back each year. Faded pictures of my toddler legs toting pails of water for the sandcastle mote linger behind my resting eyes. Mommy would dip me down, swoop me up, and make me soar like a swan over the sinking kingdom. I'd cackle and ask her to do it again.

I look deep into the horizon where sail boats blur and remember pouring Mommy's ashes off the pier back home. The haze was too thick that day to see where they drifted.

The heat is rolling away, and the sky glorifies color. I promise myself I have never seen a pink so arresting, a purple so aroused. I shiver at the chill of sundown and remember my exposed chest. Skin, so untainted, shines through the dimming sun, and I rise to take another dip.

OF MEN AND A MACHINE By Anne Singer

Anne Singer lives in Washington, D.C. where she works as a freelance writer and communications consultant for political and public interest causes

You live in a city like New York long enough and you learn to ignore things. The urban cacophony – sirens, horns, music, and that relentless commentary on you and the body you walk around in. You know, those verbal flares men send up that illuminate you in the crowd and alert everyone to the woman over here with the audacity to unbind her feet and venture out into the public spaces men think they own.

I have been asked by complete strangers, men passing on the street, Why are you wearing that baggy jacket that covers you up? Where are you hurrying that's so important? Do you have a boyfriend? At newsstands and markets, men behind the counter have seized my hand, locked my eyes and smiled lasciviously while asking for my number. And I can't even count the number of times male passersby, store clerks or strangers in restaurants have asked me why I won't smile for them. Why are you so serious, baby? Smile!

Of course, the most celebrated hecklers, the men most likely to remind you most loudly that it's their world and not yours, are construction workers. I think it's the mob-like nature of their commentary that makes them notorious. Or maybe it's their primitive vocalizations of grunts and hollers and that thing they do with their tongues. But when a crew of them sets their sites on you and send up their call, you begin to feel like the sickly caribou at the back of the herd and you put down your head and pick up your pace. At least, that's what I always do.

Until the day I didn't.

I was back in my Midwestern hometown, a college town where intellect is prized, and gender, though endemic, is well controlled by healthy doses of liberalism. It's the kind of small city where a girl can grow up believing she is equal to men. I suppose there was a sensation of safety for me, being back in such a tolerant little place after fifteen years in New York where gender, ethnicity and wealth form a brittle template that defines all human interaction.

It was a balmy July evening, and I was strolling downtown with my old best friend from high school. Dating back to the ninth grade, I had walked like this with Wendy through shopping malls and high school halls and also these same downtown streets. And although I can remember both the drama and the joy of being teenaged best friends, what I remember most vividly is the reflections of our two selves in every window glass we passed: Wendy, the tiny, adorable and utterly feminine one with perfectly feathered hair; and me, the tallish, heavyish, lumbering one with her hair pulled back tight in a hair band or barrette. I saw myself as Big Bird and Wendy as the gorgeous guest host who makes Kermit swoon.

But now, in our 30's, that mirror image was reversed, and I was learning to enjoy the way I looked in a pair of black jeans. And, apparently, on that July evening, so did a crew of workers resurfacing a downtown parking lot.

As we passed their worksite, their call went up and the flares went off and sounds began to issue from the men as they turned away from their work and towards we two women in our summer garb. But amidst the unintelligible chorus came a string of words in the form of a question: You wanna' take a ride? One of the men was pointing at one of their machines. It was massive, easily 10 feet off the ground, with a shiny hot steel cylinder nearly as high that slowly rolled across the sticky black asphalt in a wake of tarry steam. He asked again, You wanna' take a ride? and gestured at a driver's seat high atop this mechanical monster.

And apparently, on that particular summer evening, I did want to take a ride.

I turned off the sidewalk and moved towards these hard-hatted men – to their utter delight, it seemed. They turned off their equipment, ceremoniously pulled back the sawhorse barricades, and cheered me on as I entered their hot, hard-working world. When I stepped onto the plywood planks that crossed the lot, I looked back and saw Wendy standing there, hands clasped just below her beaming, slack-jawed smile.

I don't remember how I actually mounted the rolling machine, but somehow I found myself sitting up high, next to its driver as it rumbled and jolted and began to move. We took a few runs across the lot, back and forth in the kind of pattern you see combines travel at harvest time.

I have to tell you, it was exhilarating. The sheer scale and power of the machine beneath me gave me a glimpse into what makes men and boys stop and marvel at cranes, bulldozers and concrete mixers at building sites. I also have to tell you, it was a little bit scary, so I remained firmly seated rather than stand up, as a different woman might have done, and wave my arms in some gesture of liberated abandon.

As I've shared this story with friends, however, I've come to think that a different woman might not have accepted this invitation in the first place – let alone spread her arms like Kate Winslet in "Titanic." And this surprises me.

It surprises me that I, of all people, the one with the baggy jacket and the Big Bird stride would seize this moment, defy expectations, and turn a sexual taunt into an invitation by saying ‘Yes.' Did this fellow in the caution-yellow vest and work boots really want me to ride his roller?

Back in my New York days, I was once walking along with a girlfriend, beautiful Lydia. An old, disheveled man passing by muttered that she should stop and give him some time. So she stopped. And then she yelled, You want me stop, old man? You want to drop your pants so I can give you a blow job right here on the sidewalk? Is that what you want? Well c'mon then! The man, however, just kept walking.

Men don't really mean it when they ask you, a total stranger, to stop and engage in whatever it is they're asking for – your phone number, a smile, a ride on an asphalt roller. Men with the gumption to make such requests of women they don't know are usually just singling you out for scrutiny and judgment, flagging you as a trespasser in the world they dominate. But it's also true that you can stand your ground and claim your place in this world by proceeding with confidence, acting with joy, and, sometimes, by simply saying ‘Yes.'

BEATING THE COLLYWOBBLES... By Ingrid Newkirk

Ingrid Newkirk is the co-founder and President of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. With over 800,000 members, PETA is the largest animal rights organization in the world. Major corporations, institutions and government agencies have all changed their treatment or use of animals as a result of PETA's campaigns.

I'm often on the road, promoting the idea that even for the simplest things in life—like choosing ingredients for a cake or buying a pair of shoes—you can make either kind or cruel choices. I urge people never to hesitate to speak up against outrages and to live their values to the fullest. It's my dream that everyone who wants kindness to be regarded as a key value and greed to disappear into the ether will be able to look back on their lives and feel good about having made a mark—having changed hearts and minds for the better.

In my talks, I urge everyone to relish the fact that we live in a democracy, that we really can seize opportunities to have our opinions count—that we have the privilege of being active members of an evolving society. "All that evil needs to triumph," I remind the audience, "is for enough good people to do nothing!"

I tell anyone who'll listen that even in a totally free society, you can easily find yourself behaving as if you lived in an oppressive dictatorship because it seems too awkward, inconvenient, or scary to stand up for what you believe in. It can be far more comfortable to repress yourself—who wants to risk looking foolish? And who wants to be the first to stand up for justice? So most people stay as quiet as church mice, even when they're aching to change the world or to right a wrong. That, I thought, couldn't possibly happen to pushy old me.

"If you care about suffering," I hear myself saying for the umpteenth time, "if you care about animals or simply about stopping injustice to those who can't defend themselves, never be silent when someone passes by in a fur coat. Say something. Anything. It doesn't have to be rude. Tell that person that you used to wear fur (if you did) until you found out about mother animals caught in steel traps who chew off their paws to get back to feed their babies. Tell them that they look great but that their beauty is ruined by the idea that they're the sort of person who is indifferent to cruelty. If you say nothing, you allow people to think that there's nothing wrong with wearing fur, and others will see them and—thinking that it's acceptable—contribute to the suffering and death of more animals by buying more fur."

I usually give an encouraging example of why each person needs to try to overcome his or her fears. One of my favorites is the story of a university study in which a researcher and an accomplice went out to try and persuade people to sign a petition. The researcher would approach someone walking across the quad and say, "Excuse me, would you like to sign a petition against racism?" He would explain that someone on campus had received a letter containing a racist slur. At this point, the accomplice would sidle up and say either, "I'll sign," or, "Wait a minute, how do we know that the person who received that letter didn't make a slur themselves?" The study showed that people were far more likely to sign if the decoy signed the petition first and quite unlikely to sign if she raised doubts. My point, of course, is that if you sit quietly, someone else will come along and lead the crowd.

So there I was, waiting to change planes on one of these talk-circuit trips, when it happened: A huge, intimidating, muscular fellow arrived noisily and sat down a little way away from me. He threw the newspapers from the seat onto the ground and let them lie there for a lesser individual to pick up. He was wearing camouflage pants and a shirt with a picture of a deer's head on it. The deer was obviously dead, her tongue protruding from the side of her mouth. Next to the head was a picture of a rifle and the slogan: "Let's go hunting!"

Of course, I am no stranger to speaking up—but on this occasion, for some reason, it was different. I was dog-tired, the seating area was crowded with strangers, and I was in a town where hunting was so popular that children got off from school on the first day of deer season. To make matters worse—perhaps from lack of sleep—I felt really nervous.

"Why did he have to sit down here?" I fumed. It was obviously a test. I could never again tell people to speak up at every opportunity if I remained silent while this man advertised to the world that blowing deer to smithereens was perfectly natural behavior. I had to weigh in and say something, but what?

I sat there thinking. I felt that he'd never listen if I tried to explain that geese mate for life, that all animals are protective and loving of their young, and that all animals feel the pain of the arrow, the bullet, or the knife; fear pursuit; and cling to their lives. I wished that he would let me tell him the story of the noble buck who stayed by his blind partner's side to guide her through the woods to escape from hunters and was finally killed beside her. But that all required an investment of time that he wouldn't allow.

Just then, inspiration hit me. "What do men care about?" I stashed my PETA bag and went over to him.

Really loudly, so that everyone nearby looked up, I said, "Hi! I just had to say that I think you are SO brave to wear that shirt!" The hunter looked up at me, not quite sure how to take this.

"Why's that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Putting on my best smile, I said, "Well, after that TV special, I'm sure you realize that everyone is talking about how hunters may shoot animals to try to compensate for their own sexual inadequacy." Somehow, I kept smiling.

The hunter glowered. "Well, that's a bunch of b**s***!" he said.

I kept smiling.

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "I had a hunter boyfriend once, and he was definitely compensating for being a big fat zero in bed!"

You could have heard a pin drop. It was so quiet in that waiting area—you might have thought I was giving stock tips.

I walked away, sat down, and left the hunter to his thoughts.

If I had to bet, I'd say that it's doubtful he'll wear that T-shirt to advertise hunting again, unless he's with his buddies deep in the woods in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn't the best thing I'd done, and it wasn't the most brilliant or persuasive argument, but I had been true to my own advice. The deer couldn't stick up for themselves, so I had given it my best "shot."

SOMETIMES IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS... By Sara Arason

I am a child of the ’50s, which puts me in my 50s. I am lucky to have had a shot at several careers—and I’ve had a blast at all of them. After college, I worked my way from the selling floor to the buying office in a department store. After that I was a Russian linguist for the National Security Agency. From there, I moved to a small division of the Library of Congress as a Soviet Specialist. I’ve been in the Library for almost 25 years now. Early in my career there, I completed a two-year degree (night courses) in computer science and moved into IT, administrative, and project management work. Writing this down, I feel like I “dared to be fabulous” in my willingness to try new careers. But that’s a big thing. I’m talking about a small thing today.

I “blame” the ’50s view of women for my steadfast belief, lo these many years, that part of my job is to be accommodating to everyone else’s needs and schedules. Until recently, if someone wanted to have a meeting or needed something done, I would change my leave plans, doctor appointments, lunch dates, etc., to be available.

That is, until I discovered “The Manicure.”

Several years ago, a friend of mine became legally blind from macular degeneration. Although she has some sight, she is unable to do things like her nails or eyebrows. I started having an occasional manicure with her, in lieu of lunch, just to spend some catch-up time. I have never been too concerned about my nails in the past outside of making sure that they’re clean and somewhat well-shaped but, after a few manicures, I found that I positively LOVE having my nails done. This is a two-fold “having my nails done”: I love the act of having my nails done and I love the results of the act.

My manicures were sporadic at the beginning, always at the mercy of someone else’s schedule at work. One day, though, it occurred to me that what I want might matter. What makes ME happy might be important, worthwhile, acceptable, or, at least, OK. So, with more than a bit of trepidation, I refused to schedule a meeting that would have forced me to cancel my manicure. On top of that, I told everyone—including my boss—that the reason I could not come to the meeting in question was because I had an appointment for a manicure and, in fact, I had a manicure every Friday!! Faces blanked, faces blanched, brows were raised, furtive looks passed between the interested parties, but nothing was said and the meeting was scheduled for another time.

And the sun rose and set as scheduled as the world continued to spin on its axis—

And my nails looked great.

Since “Freedom” Friday--the day I chose to do something for myself for no other reason than to make myself happy, my “Kyoto Pearl”-ed nails remind me that I am not merely a circling spoke in a great bureaucratic wheel. I am a real person—a woman, and a fabulous women at that.

Sara Arason, or Sally, as her friends and family call her, is indeed a fabulous woman. Besides her Library of Congress career, she is an accomplished singer, having performed in concert and leads in several operas such as Don Giovanni and The Marriage of Figaro. She also has spent a lifetime rescuing homeless and suffering cats and dogs, fostering them and placing them in loving homes. Sally has lifetime season tickets to Washington Redskins games, at one of which she was chosen to sing The National Anthem. And if all that isn’t enough – she also makes gorgeous pottery!

HOW DOES A FLOWER DARE TO BLOOM by Ilse Noir

Ilse grew up in a small town in New Mexico where there is only one traffic light. She says, "listening to rock and roll saved my soul". She dared herself to move to Los Angeles and to form her own band, Zeitgeist Auto Parts. ZAP plays Ilse's original songs, with Ilse on lead vocals and bass guitar. Only one year after playing their first gig, Music Connection Magazine listed ZAP among the top hot 100 unsigned artists in southern California.

How does a flower dare to bloom a million times over in a million strange places to a million different faces? And how is it that I see you and me, abloom in every new face on the street? How is it possible I’m here at this moment a whirling manifestation of choices I’ve made long ago and far away, and choices I choose this very day? The face of who I am. The heart burgeoning red with desire and fire. The heart bloody with rhythm and beats. The heart, my heart, broken upon pavement in the sunlight days. My heart shared with affection to closed ears, to countless fears. My heart, my rhythm. And yes, I’ve been to crossroads where I was pitted fiercely against a me of who I was and the me of who I knew I was supposed to be, two opposites, asking to be the road I walked upon.

Allow me to share a simple story of one of those moments of crossroads divine. A day I surrendered upon a lake.

It was a hot summer day, a vacation day with one of my best friends. We were to commune with nature in the woods of Montana for four glorious days. The trip, as most, was not what we expected and we were forced to live in a new understanding of what “godliness” meant to us. There were challenges every day, and it was most certainly not a laid back, easy nature, soaking in the all glorious divine weekend we expected.

On one of the days we hiked to the lake near where we were camping. My spirit was a little down, I, hoping to gather some much needed inspiration and guidance from the saturation of nature, was feeling low that life hadn’t already jumped out at me and sung me all the answers I was so desperately seeking. Along the walk, we were trying to be in good spirits, my friend, our guide, and my pitiful, dreary self.

I was feeling insecure because a week after we’d get back I was going to be seeing a guy who I hadn’t seen in months and who I dug intensely. My mind was already fully occupied with scenes of impending disaster egged on by premenstrual insecurities, quickly turning into monstrous negative thoughts. The part of me inside who was still hopeful of some drastic change of mood was looking forward to the lake. But, when we finally got there, we soon discovered mosquitoes and less than idyllic surrounding. I mean, it was beautiful, just not pleasant.

My friend wasn't gonna let it get her down, she stripped down and jumped into the lake before I could lather on repellent. She seemed so free, yet, I could not get past the muckiness and bugs. I was growing deeper and deeper into a funk. I stood there, wanting so badly to just jump in the lake. What was wrong with me? Why was I frozen with inaction?

I was turning into a black hole of doubt and fear. Nothing felt right. I felt so out of place. My friend finally surfaced. We all talked a bit and decided to head back, the mosquitoes were getting worse.

I had missed my chance. As we began to put our layers back on, I felt like crying. What was I scared of? Maybe I'd be sucked under with some weird dark demon of my own making and drown? What if some weird flesh-eating fish was in there, just waiting to gnaw on something? What if the thoughts were driving me further into a pit? It was useless. We started to walk away and then it hit me, this knowing that I had to jump in the lake, no turning back. I quickly threw off my clothes and just dived into the water, fast beyond the murky edges and was engulfed in sunshine and the cool peace of the lake. I floated for a while, feeling no more agitation, no more worry, just a oneness with myself. With my own inner knowing, my own breath of life.

When I felt my head return to daily thoughts I swam back to the edge. Renewed. My friend, with a knowing look in her eye, just smiled.

A week later, when I saw that guy, it was difficult, but I know that if I hadn't faced fears back at the lake, I never would have been able to face him with the full force of who I was that day. Everyday that we make a choice to be who we wanna be and not let fear freeze us, is a day we get closer to god, the universe, all living creatures, and pretty importantly, our own selves. I also learned that there is no wrong answer, or wrong path, if there's a lesson you need to learn, you can be sure the universe will continue putting forth the quizzes. And if you fail, no worries, just remember, there's still time to change the road you're on.

TALKING TO THE DEVIL by Dianne Reeves

Recognized as one of the pre-eminent voices in the world of jazz, Dianne Reeves has won the Grammy for Best Jazz Vocal Performance for each of her last three recordings. Dianne has the distinction of having been awarded the most consecutive awards in the history of the Grammies. Dianne has also been the Creative Director of Jazz for the Los Angeles Philharmonic for the past three years. She has been in charge of their jazz programs at the Hollywood Bowl and the amazing new performance venue Disney Hall in downtown Los Angeles. Most recently, Dianne has been acclaimed for her featured performance in George Clooney's film, Good Night and Good Luck. Like the great vocal jazz divas she is often compared to -- Carmen McRae, Sarah Vaughan, and Ella Fitzgerald -- Dianne continues to enthrall audiences all over the world. Here, she related one of her many DTBF moments to Dare To Be Fabulous co-founder, Patricia Howard.

 

I look at my life in seasons and chapters. I was blessed by growing up in a nurturing, close, extended family, full of amazing personalities, strong and beautiful women and all kinds of characters. We were always able to laugh at ourselves, keeping a sense of humor and perspective through both good times and hardships. I was secure in the midst of a strong mother, aunts who were as close to me as second mothers, uncles and cousins – all with wonderful stories of their own to tell – and all the natural beauty of Colorado.

It was in junior high – a very difficult time of life for most girls – that I discovered I could sing. Not only did I discover that I had a voice, but the discovery of how it made me feel to sing was even more significant. Even then, like now, I thought of my own voice not just as sound, but as something deeper that was uniquely mine.

A few years ago I came to a crossroads in my music – my livelihood.

I had a great relationship with my then record label – a label that had given me total artistic freedom to explore and express my music, the freedom to reveal through my music who I was as a woman, as a spirit, as an artist.

A subsequent merger with another record label threatened to change the idealized situation I had with the jazz label. My current release, Art and Survival, was not being promoted by the head of the new label who did not like the album nor understand my art. This album contained many songs that not only expressed me artistically, but changed my life in the process of recording them. Ironically, one song in particular Endangered Species, which I wrote with a good friend, seemed to sum up the situation with which I was now faced – recording for a record executive that not only did not understand jazz, but had no affinity for my personal artistic style of jazz. “Jazz is just three musicians on stage, nothing more,” was his opinion, with no view to changing it. I knew I was facing a moment of truth here – at a crossroads in my career. Would I take a stand, dare to be who I am, or would I comply with the mandates of the powerful record executive who wanted me to knuckle under and record music that fit his somewhat narrow definition of what I should sound like to be able to sell records for his label?

I am an endangered species
But I sing no victim's song
I am a woman I am an artist
And I know where my voice belongs

His office was clearly designed to intimidate. I remember a huge, high desk that made him appear above it all, like a judge or an inquisitor. The chairs facing his desk were small and scrunched together, designed to make the visitor feel small and unimportant, lucky to be granted an audience at all.

I listened to him explain to me how I would have to adjust my musical vision to be considered an asset to his label and worthy of promotion, and to receive the monetary rewards I would be able to reap by doing it his way and only his way. There seemed no room for negotiation. It felt like I was having a conversation with the devil; he was dangling a carrot in front of me, waiting for me to sell my soul.

And then he said:

“Dianne, I have tamed the best in the industry. I can tame you too.”

With that one sentence, I had immediate clarity.

I chose my soul.

Endangered Species

I am an endangered species
But I sing no victim's song
I am a woman I am an artist
And I know where my voice belongs

I am a woman I exist
I shake my fist but not my hips
My skin is dark my body is strong
I sign of rebirth no victim's song

I am an endangered species
But I sing no victim's song
I am a woman I am an artist
And I know where my voice belongs

They cut out my sex they bind my feet
Silence my reflex no tongue to speak
I work in the fields I work in the store
I type up the deals and I mop the floors
I am an endangered species
But I sing no victim's song
I am a woman I am an artist
And I know where my voice belongs

My body is fertile I bring life about
Drugs, famine, and war, take them back out
My husband can beat me his right they say
And rape isn't rape you say I like it that way

I am an endangered species
But I sing no victim's song
I am a woman I am an artist
And I know where my voice belongs
I know where my soul belongs
I know where I belong

FEAR CITY by Penny Burk

The traffic going up Route 81 was a little heavy but pride kept me on the highway and passionately directed. I was scared to death, an introvert flying down the road trying to function in an extrovert's world and heading towards a destination almost too frightening to talk about.

After a recent divorce and a very quiet spring, I decided to challenge my still winterized mind and body to an impromptu trip to New York City with my two kids. It represented some of my worst fears, ones that my ex-husband alleviated by taking complete control. For the past ten years he was the one to drive in the city, find parking, ward off strangers, negotiate the subway, and then pay for everything. This left me with the awesome responsibility of, well, tagging along.

Over the years I had become totally dependent on him and now that he was gone, I had spent the entire winter and spring immobilized by my fears. I had to get out of the house, cabin fever was setting in and I wanted to see my dear aunt and uncle. We lived a solid five hours from them and they lived in the heart of (tremble, shudder) mid-town Manhattan.

Monday night Uncle Milt called to announce his departure from the city to his retreat in Maine, where he and Aunt Molly have been spending summers for years. "But Milt," I complained, "I really want to see you, it's been ages."

"So, come up," was his answer.

"That's it, come up? We would have to leave," (first checking the calendar and then panicking), "Tomorrow."

I heard Molly in the background snickering, "She won't make it, she's stuck in the country without a man - she couldn't even make it to Maine last year without him!" That did it. "Milt, I'll call you before I leave." I slammed the phone down while I cursed Molly for knowing how to push all my buttons.

I searched frantically for reasons not to go, but couldn't find a single illness, gas shortage, or flat tire. But, just because that's the way the cookie crumbles (especially in the back seat of our car), we found ourselves hurtling down the highway into the unknown.

The children watched Mommy quietly from the back of the van while she strangled the steering wheel with pale white knuckles. "It'll be fine," I told myself over and over again while periodically looking over my shoulder at the kids. "Hey, guys, don't look so scared, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fineÉ ."

Pennsylvania was okay and to my surprise New Jersey wasn't too bad either. Even the dreaded New Jersey Turnpike offered no obstacles. There was hardly anyone on the road and my eight-year-old daughter noted the color coming back into my hands. We were three exits away from where we needed to be but for me, the tough part was just coming up.

The Holland Tunnel looked like any other tunnel, but being in a paranoid state of mind I imagined it turning into a giant spiraling sliding board going much deeper than the harbor and of course never ending. However, it was the other side that scared me even more.

What happens if I get a case of amnesia and forget which way to go, or no doubt I'd get cut off and miss my turn and be lost driving in circles forever and then get accosted by some psycho-killer just waiting for a mom with two kids from West Virginia to attack.

That thought got to me.

"Lock the doors, guys."

"But Mom, we're only four blocks away!"

"I don't care lock 'em anyway!"

For some mysterious reason the garage was right where we left it one year earlier and hadn't been replaced by a sky scraper or 12 new one-way streets. We had arrived, with nary a wrong turn and without the use of husbands, boyfriends, or any other adult.

Now if we could make it to Milt and Molly's storefront apartment, shlepping pillows, clothes, stuffed animals, and five ears of corn, life would be perfect. To my amazement, one foot fell in front of the other and in no time I was a functioning independent person knocking on my aunt and uncle's door.

After hugs of greeting and surprise at the great time we made driving up, we talked briefly about family, dinner, and then our plans for the next day. In order to get the kids to go along so easily I had to bribe them with a visit to the Statue of Liberty. My four-year-old son called it the Statue of Levity and couldn't wait to go. As we sat around discussing plans, I cheerfully asked who was going to go with us. Molly said she would be at the dentist and had other appointments through the day. Milt immediately said no, not even waiting for Molly to finish listing her excuses.

"You mean no one will go with us?" I was beginning to panic (again). There was no way out of this one. I had promised the kids and of course they just had to go by subway, otherwise known (at least to me) as the underground-snake-maze from hell, which devours innocent country people like us. I was trapped.

Milt and Molly told us where to go and when to transfer. Transfer? Oh great, the snake pit maze was going to swallow us whole and we'd never come out again except as raving mad people, with torn clothes, matted hair, and drooling.

"Then what, Milt? I didn't hear what you said, you're not sure of the stop? Not sure of the stop?"

Could it get any worse?

"You mean I'll have to look at a map, which I won't understand because they're all written in a foreign language, so then I'll have to ask a New Yorker who will sneer at me and he'll speak so fast that if I ask him to repeat the answer he'll knife me?"

"Bowling Green, Molly? What's that? You mean the subway doesn't go right to the ferry and we'll have to walk through Battery Park," (major freak out), "with the kids?"

Swallowing became an audible event and my heart quickly sank into my stomach. "Is there any other way?" I asked hopefully.

"Sure the bus on Broadway goes right there."

"You're kidding," (visible relief). "Did you hear that, kids? We'll be able to see everything - above ground!"

"We want the train - we want the train!"

Milt and Molly were already discussing eggplant lasagna at Ray's for dinner while I slid deeply into my chair wondering if I could feign some illness like irreversible brain damage. I ate lightly and decided this looked just like the kind of fear that needed to be faced head-on. Okay, I'll do it, I thought, and if we wind up in Newark then I'll never have to mow the lawn again. Sounds good to me, I told myself and made the deal.

The next morning I asked again - just to make sure. "No." was the simultaneous answer. The directions were repeated for the emotionally handicapped, the front door opened, and there it was, the kind of concrete nightmares were made of. "Bus, right, guys?"

"We want the train, we want the train."

"Okay, okay."

I don't know what happened, there must have been some happy gas sprayed in the tunnels the night before. The token man smiled and a lady showed us where to transfer and in Bowling Green, the sky was blue and the sun was still shining, as it had been when we started.

I was beginning to get the hang of this: adult; two legs; two eyes; most of a brain. Hey, no problem, I could do this in daylight. Did it matter that my daughter complained she had no more circulation in the hand I was holding?

The Statue of Levity was filled with people like myself, that really did speak a foreign language and I was ready to help if asked.

"Okay, guys, you've seen the statue, now let's go explore!"

"Can't we just go back to Uncle Milt and Aunt Molly's?"

"Sure, let's take a different uptown train."

"We want to take a cab."

"Forget it; it's cheaper to take the subway."

Did I just say that? I went through the bowels of the city and came through unscathed and, in fact, feeling more confident than I had in years.

Back at the apartment, the sun was setting on a beautiful summer day in the most exciting city in the world. I grew up around here you know. I know the city pretty well, I walked the length of it once, years ago and in the middle of the night...yeah, I used to hang out in Washington Square Park and St. Marks place, back in the late '60s. We were up in Harlem once and...

It's amazing how I'd finally grown up enough to be as independent as I had been 30 years ago.

About me… My name is Penny Burk. I am an artist/writer living in the Northern Virginia area. I've worked for many years in the film and TV industry which serves to keep my art alive.

I SAW MYSELF IN THE MIRROR...IT CHANGED MY LIFE by Michele Maggiora

I made the decision to stop, many times. But I kept at it; the ritual of dying my hair. I have colored my hair since my twenties even before I started to gray. I used cellophane rinses, colors of eggplant, red, and burgundy until THOSE telltale hairs began to show. Then I began to wash that gray away and continued until my fifty-eighth year.

This monthly ritual escalated into a bi-monthly project in later years to hide the silvering roots that glared from the crown of my head. I never questioned my need to dye.

Everyone does it.

My older sister never dyed her hair. Often we share the same soapbox on women's issues but I just kept dying. After all, I'm still young. Why shouldn't I look young for as long as possible. My sister looks great with her wild hair but not for meÉI was convinced I needed every tool to survive! My husband is completely silver -gray. "Don't dye your hair for me," he kept saying.

"I'm ready to go natural," I answered. But that night he came home to a reddish-brown head of hair and was disappointed.

"Why?" he said. "You said one thing and did another."

My stomach tightened. "I can do what I want to do, it's my hair," I screeched. "I'm tired of trying to please everyone else all the time. I'm going to do what I want to do!" I burst into tears. "I'm afraid!" I cried. I'm afraid of losing something, of losing the power of beauty and youth. I'm scared of getting old!" In that moment, I refused to see that "doing what I wanted" was more attached to survival programming than to my authentic self. In the world today, most cultures hold fear-based attitudes about women and aging. I found relief in the exquisite photos of Native American women; faces that expressed beauty, intuition, and power. They were the gray-haired, the elders, and wise women whose faces, carved deeply with lines and surrounded by gray, proudly told of their lives. They had achieved wise woman status. They were part of a cultural reality that revered the elders and their medicine.

While living in Oaxaca, Mexico, I worked with indigenous Zapotec women from around Salina Cruz. The older women grayed naturally, tying their hair into long braids woven with strips of brightly colored cloth -- luminous faces, luminous hair. The non-indigenous Mexicanas were as raven haired as I, so I kept dying.

I remember my mother, a beautiful and creative woman who did her best to give me the tools she had used for feminine survival. Once, after expressing resentment about the annoying invasion from construction workers with their hoots and whistles, my mother replied, "You'd better start worrying when they stop whistling!" Other "tools" included her suggestion to fake orgasm to protect the frail male ego and the constant evaluation of my hair, my make-up, my figure.

I have forgiven my mother because she was giving me the same tools she was given: the legacy of female survival as it is passed through the ages from mother to daughter. The intention of this survival training was not to stifle the spirit (although it often did) but to help one survive in a male-dominant culture. The sad reality tells of the limitation of available power for women. Historically, women have been taught that access to power is through their connection to those who hold it, men.

There is change. Women have more access to positions in the world although it is still defined predominantly in male terms. What I see, even in young women, is that although they have more access, there remains a deep need to be loved by a man in order to be validated. When we as women limit our spirit in any way in order to be validated, that is, to survive, we maintain and perpetuate this limited and distorted model of reality. We are left with few alternatives. As young women we can indulge in our sense of power using feminine wiles to manipulate, coax, and get what we need. Then as youth begins to fade, we can scramble to the plastic surgeon or to the salon for color and try, desperate as it may be, to uphold this illusion as long as possible. We can continue to believe (and therefore uphold) a reality where we access power by being objectified, competing against other women, paying billions to the cosmetic industry, growing empty and powerless as we age and never take the courageous step to shift this old paradigm to a new one.

Or É we can begin to unravel this limited core cultural reality, and see it for the illusion it is. Is it easy? No! Does it take courage? YES.

It happened a few months ago. I was visiting my sister. I was telling her of my intention to mentor younger women.

"So you are going to mentor younger women? How can you do it with that hair!" My sister went for it. I looked in the mirror and saw the faded red-brown hair; hair I always disliked on old women. I was that woman. I was trying to prop up an illusion and was losing the battle. I looked harsh and faded. I saw fear in my eyes.

When I got home, I called my hair stylist. He gave me an appointment immediately. Perhaps he felt my fear and my resolve. Carlos began to strip the color from my faded red hair. "Michele, it's not about looking young it's about looking good," he said. And now after some months, I know it's not only about looking good. It's about embracing our MEDICINE, the Medicine of the elder, the wise woman.

So how do we do this? What does it mean? It means being willing to become aware. It means beginning to unravel our thought pattern and the programming that creates it. It means listening to how we feel about ourselves and seeing how these feelings come from the programmed thoughts. It means being ruthlessly honest and courageous even when we are shaking in our boots. It means beginning to redefine age, beauty, power, value, and what brings self love.

I realize why I love the old faces of Native women...because they are truly beautiful! These are faces filled with personal power. They respect themselves as they are honored by their people. Getting old holds no disgrace. On the contrary, it is an honored era in a woman's life, a time of wisdom, beauty, authenticity, and personal power.

We have a duty, an obligation to shift the legacy, to break the chain. As we begin to take ownership of our beauty, our wisdom, our relevance, and our substance, we open the possibilities of a new reality for ourselves, our daughters, all women, and all humanity.

About me…
I just turned 59 years old and I stopped dying my hair almost 5 months ago. I have always championed women's issues but feel that this one took the most courage for me. It brought up all of my fears and showed, without a doubt, how my actions perpetuated the lie of cultural reality. I have worked as a designer, visual artist, poet, and chef …