CELEBRATE ?

I knew yesterday was September 11, the day New York -- America changed. I can't salute it, or even mourn it when I know what I have to do, what we have to do, is go ON. Live on with hope, not fear.

Yes, all that has been said, and adding my voice doesn't mean a great deal, BUT ... we as a nation losing the unifying force of what it means to be an American ... that scares me.

We've had enough with Birthers, town hall meeting shouters, and Joe Wilson calling the President a liar. And the Tea Party people partying!

I don't give advice to our president and his cabinet and advisors, who've helped shape his Health care plan, about what details --if any -- have to be re-thought, or re-shaped. I can't because I don't know enough.

I do know enough to feel and to say WE NEED TO SUPPORT OBAMA. He needs to get the sixty votes and go ON.

MICHELLE'S HAIR

In Time Magazine there's a three page article -- "Why Michelle's Hair Matters. For African American women, hair commands great interest and carries a lot of cultural baggage ... the choice every black woman makes to alter their hair's natural texture has been attributed to everything from a history of oppression and assimilation to media influenced notions of beautiful and personal aesthetics ..."

The article lists some hair-straightening tools -- "Chemicals, hot comb, round brush and dryer" and the big deal it would be, if Michell wore her hair "natural." And mentions the poll taken by NaturallyCurly.com, where "56% of the respondents say the US is not ready for a first lady with kinky hair."

Chris Rock (at the Sundance Festival 2009) introducing the premiere of his film Good Hair is quoted-- "Their hair costs more than anything they wear," and Rock quotes another comic who said -- "If your hair is nappy, they’re not happy.”

Researching Michelle's current hairdo, I read the blog in Blacksnob.com -- "Her hair is done, every day by stylist Johnny Wright -- not doing it isn't a option -- she'd look too ethnic." A follower wrote -- "I wonder if she'll ever let it be un-straightened, less straighted, or allow it to lie flat, be "natural" or "out?"

What does Em think about all this?

I never paid much attention to Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama's various hairdos. Her grace is what I see. Of course I notice what she's wearing, but my opinion has been -- not an opinion, a determination, a powerful instinct to support her husband, and everything to do with him.

Her clothes are often praised by fashion people doesn't excite me. But I'm petite, and wear clothes that DON'T attract attention. If I'm looked at, I want to be looked at because of me. In my dancer days, when I went to openings and opening night parties with my husband, I wore unusual, fantastical clothes, and unique, lavish-looking, antique jewelry as well.

Women's style nowadays, a lot of it "vintage," doesn't seem to have a "NOW" look. Kids have it -- girls are wearing flashy things to attract attention; boys are still in droopy, over- sized things that echo what their current idols are wearing.

Michelle's hair looks right -- straightened or ironed or processed -- she presents herself simply, elegantly, tastefully. Though I find myself studying female reporters who usually wear too much makeup, I don't study Michelle that way. If she were wearing excessive liner, lipstick, sculpting rouge, or fake lashes, I'd notice and be bothered.

No, we have a first lady who is a first lady --IS herself when she meets the Queen of England, is herself whenever she's functioning as First Lady and photographs are taken.

I don't often 100% nod, smile, or bow to anyone, but I do to Michelle Obama. I love the fact that she is our first lady. NO other first ladies have been a first lady to me.

HI-FIVES

I saw a tiny little kid in a group of pre-schoolers greeting his uncle, giving him a hi-five. Of course, I've seen that before -- kids greeting each other, teenagers hi-fiving, and women, girls, business-men as well as school boys.

It's become a commonplace "Hello," normal, natural, typical, like "Hey dude. Hey man!"

I have to admit, I've never GIVEN or GOTTEN a hi-five.

I'm uncomfortable, taking on the slang, or the style of the sports heroes who've been hi-fiving for years. Is it race prejudice that makes me uneasy with people who love borrowing from the blacks, and call each "Bro?"

I know "cool" is an acceptable form of praise. And "hang out," and phrases like happy-camper, bottom-line are constantly, used, over used, by just about everyone except me.

Am I square, a kook -- because I avoid saying "cool" unless I'm talking about the weather?

I tell myself that my big thing about the way people talk is from writing dialogue for different projects that take place in different eras. I look up words that don't sound right in the mouth of a lady born in the 1870's, or a woman from Harlem in the thirties -- or a school kid in the seventies. What they say and how they say it derives from what was happening when they were growing up.

Okay. I'm sensitive. Blame it on my writing. I worry about the new, younger generation -- the kids who text. Texting mixed in with rap slang sounds like a foreign language.

Will the little ones who hi-five and watch cartoons all day, every day, become the next generation of writers -- develop further the style that's already in movies, TV, and ads? The creative soul behind them seems as if it sprung from a reality show version of the end of the world.

Confession: Most of the latest hit movies make me wish for a translation line at the bottom of the picture.

I want to stay current without losing what I am. Maybe what's not okay is growing older, and no longer being able to identify with what's in vogue (wrong word), what's hot and chill out about it.

All right, hi-fives are okay. What's not okay is speech that I don't understand. Muttered, slurred, endless strings of vile words, that is passing on to the kiddies an American way of talking that isn't English, that's often bad, really lousy grammar, and sloppy jabber that's isn't communicating anything, but limited intelligence.

So click this. It kind of cheered me up, about talking black.

LICENSE

It was time to change from being a California driver to being a driver in New York.

The red tape ladies who answer the phone at the California Department of Motor Vehicles are real people, cordial, California sunshine friendly. Even sympathetic when you're, adjusting to bad news -- "I'm sorry, ma'am -- I'm afraid you can't renew by mail. Next time you come to L.A., give us a call, and we'll set up an appointment for you."

The red tape guys who answer the phone at the New York DMV are brusque, bored, unfriendly. They talk fast -- list what ID you'll need. "Go to the DMV at Herald Square, 9 a.m til 9 pm, first come first served."

I downloaded (from a huge, confusing list) the 44-1 application; wearing glasses on top of my contact lenses, filled it out in pencil before re-doing it, carefully, in ink.

Using my best brain, (the noggin of Em who can comprehend and conquer computer software instruction books), I assembled the required proofs plus 4 extra proofs, just in case.

At the entrance to the DMV office, below a sign saying "Applications,"there were two lines at 9:15 a.m.-- (36 people) waiting for the man at the desk.

Just beyond him was a line behind ropes, like a bank on pay day. Just about everyone was clutching 44-1 application. The sign overhead " Driver Licenses."

I stood. I picked out a man in a yellow T, who was approximately 55 bodies ahead of me, with about 80 bodies ahead of him and the desk where people got their photos taken. For two endless minutes nobody moved. (135 people, 2 minutes per person means 3 hours, I was thinking, when we moved again, and started moving a little every minute or so.

Trying not think about my aching back, checking my watch -- mentally reviewing my Thomas Tallis Dance, counting how many people dropped out, watching yellow T till he disappeared, two hours and seventeen minutes later, I was 5 bodies away from having my picture taken.

I dug for my hand mirror, didn't take it out -- I was too tired to do anything but smooth my hair with my hands.

After I handed the picture guy my papers, he scolded me. I mean scolded -- "You didn't sign this? What are you doing in this line?" (I tried to explain that I'd been told not to sign legal papers without an official seeing me sign.) "No, no! he snarled, and shoved a pen at me. While I signed he ruffled through my proofs. "No no, this isn't proof. No no, this is no good. No no, we can't accept a copy of a bill -- it's gotta be an original. No no, this envelope isn't proof. (It was an un-opened envelope with my name and address.) No no ... none of this stuff!"

I managed to say, "You mean, I have to get more proofs and stand in this line again?"

"Gotta have proof, lady -- you don't have proof, like a credit card?"

I handed it to him. Trembling (the card doesn't have my address on it), I watched him slide it through a charge machine. He started shoving my papers into a transparent plastic sock. He made a brush off gesture, and pointed -- "Go on, get back there!"

Glory be -- he was going to take my picture! I backed against the wall, stood on the mark on the floor, a light flashed. He handed me the plastic sock. "Sit over there, lady. Wait for your number to be called."

There were 5 wooden pews where people who'd been in line and the yellow T shirt guy were sitting. Looking up, they were watching the large electrified bulletin board that was flashing red numbers.

I'd stood in front of the picture guy for 12 minutes. It was great to be sitting while I waited 47 minutes for my number.

I had plenty of time to figure out that applicants had to proceed to the huge desk (it was fifty feet long), behind which stood an official person, with your number flashing above his desk.
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I was aching, nervous, too tired to be angry or think about finding a rest-room. My number was flashing at the desk of a Latino woman who was sitting in a wheelchair. I put my papers down on the desk and pushed them forward. .

"No! Stay back!" She ordered me, not friendly, not smiling.

Frozen in front of her, I watched her take each paper from the plastic sock, and check it. She used a magnifier. She studied both sides of each paper. (Birth certificate, eye exam, application 44-1, a note stapled to it from the picture guy, my credit card, the top page of our 2005 tax return that I'd brought along "just in case."

Six items. With bated breath, I stood there watching, waiting for ten endless minutes for her life or death decree.

She had trouble sliding my credit card into her machine. (What's she checking? Oh my God, she's using it, charging me -- for what?)

She hit the machine. A paper typed out. She pushed a page and a pen toward me and pointed to a line. I signed. She handed me the typed paper.

TEMPORARY LICENSE

"Oh thank you, thanks, thanks a lot," I gushed.

She nodded, and a teeny, tiny smile appeared on her mouth.

206 minutes of agony -- 3 ¾ hours -- if we were shooting a movie, you'd have noticed my hair turning grey, my face aging not 3 years.-- 30 years.