Buddy.

Life never ceases to surprise us, does it?

Just when we automatically thought our government would always be run by aged, white men and occasionally enjoyed entertaining the notion of some day having a female commander-in-chief, our friends and neighbors surprise us completely and Bam!
Today there is a serious young black man whom we call "Mr President, Sir."

I feel so honored to have witnessed the swearing in of two monumental presidents, Nelson Mandela and now, Barack Obama. Almost fifteen years ago, many white South Africans looked into the face of Nelson Mandela and saw a reflection of their own greatness on a different colored skin. This week, it seems many white Americans saw their hopes and lives depicted on the strong face of their own black man. He hasn't promised them the world, but merely his very best effort with their help, and that seems to be more than enough for them.

What is it exactly that makes people look beyond race, age, and appearances and reach out to one another in trust when there doesn't seem to be any real common ground?

We were an oddly incongruous pair, Buddy and I.

I was an invigorated, energetic, mini-skirted fluffy blond twenty-four-year-old with a shiny new job and matching shoes. A rotund, kindly-faced, continuously fatigued black man sighed in the office next door to me. Buddy greeted me with polite good morning good humor for the first week or two, whilst I scurried about getting acquainted with a brand new set of politicians, staff and procedures.
Then one day, when I began to feel secure enough to drink my morning coffee without the accompanying frenzy, Buddy popped in and gently placed his crumpled morning paper on my desk.
A morning ritual had begun, along with an interesting friendship.

Forty-year-old Buddy had a traditional African marriage, and a small collection of knobbly-kneed children. We never worked together on any projects, or discussed any technical or work-related issues. Rather, our morning conversations were of our lives, of growing up and out. We chatted easily and openly, and the vast differences in our realities, perceptions and experiences never failed to delight and entertain us.

He relished my horror in his childhood descriptions of trapping and skinning squirrels for food -the very same type of squirrels which tourists fed overpriced peanuts in the parliamentary gardens. He was intrigued by my independence and education as a young white woman, and listened to my reasoning and ideas on social issues and legalities with an open heart. I in turn learned to better understand his passion for the poor, his support for affirmative action, and how his paternalistic culture dominated his reasoning on many levels. We seemed to learn that we did not have to agree with one another to understand one another. Life experiences had made us completely different people and yet we loved the same jokes, loved walking, and a fine whiskey on the rocks.

Mostly, I remember we laughed a lot.
What a fine memory to have of someone so different from me.
Finding a jewel of common ground and purpose with another seemingly so different can change your life.

And as my five-year-old calls it, "Rock Obama is President. Rock Obama."

Plastic Houses and Pretend Money.

This Christmas break, we spent some time up in our house in the Sierras, and we played Monopoly every night.

I think the last time I played I was about twelve, perhaps thirteen. One needs a crowd to play a decent game, and usually our little family of four falls horribly short, with Sarah having the Monopoly attention span of a fruit fly. But not this particular week. We had two grandparents, a boisterous uncle, an even tempered girlfriend, two parents and two kids in the mix.
Throw in some fairyland snow, a tiny house, a wood stove, a generically carpeted living room floor, a sagging Christmas tree and a frazzled cat, and one has all the elements needed for a challenging game o' Monopoly.

Everyone dives for their favorite piece - a shoe, horse, "lucky" wheelbarrow, or ship. Paper money gets laid out in careful rows or wadded up in a sticky hand, hot and clammy from carpet wrestling.

At first everyone feels flush. Many streets are purchased. Then, money gets tighter, rentals received on owned streets seem trivial, and the sighing and discontent begins. Players start compulsively counting their dwindling funds. Baleful glances are exchanged.
Initial complicated negotiations and exchanges begin to be discussed in short bursts. Money gets less, deals get complicated and arguing commences. Within a short period of time, someone is protesting loudly about being bankrupted, or cheated. Soon, discontent reigns, and one person,-- in our case, my brother Francois -- is winning hands down with hotels, houses and everyone else's money. Every time.

No-one can quite understand it. He crows with delight, strokes a non-existent scrooge-like beard, and relishes his successes. Everyone else is just fed-up. Some losers go for broke, take huge risks and lose everything. They end up depressed and homeless and wander off to seek solace in chips and dip. Others try negotiation, pay-back schemes and clever, conservative methods of getting back on their feet and into the game. Sometimes it works, and they hang on a little longer. But eventually they too end up hunched over the browning guacamole. Sometimes the winner falls for the charms of the pleader, especially if beloved eyelashes are being batted at him. His charity keeps her going longer, but eventually she too succumbs and ends up with nothing, having squandered not only her money, but personal charms too.

Winner takes all. The shrewdest, most focussed, most ruthless seems to prevail in Monopoly. The young and stupid are quickly thrown out. The soft-hearted negotiator loses out, and the distracted with half a brain in the game is almost always gone first. The winner owns all their assets in a bewildering flash, and no-one really seems to know how it happened. Yet the all powerful winner seems to know exactly what he did and chortles with satisfaction, refusing to share his secret to success, albeit seemingly complicated. Just keep your head in the game, he tells me knowingly. Think rationally, and don't scare easily.

I guess I'll try that this year. Think rationally, and don't scare easily. Perhaps even season my days with a dash of optimism. There sure is enough to get depressed about. We read and hear about it every day. The dark, papered-over store fronts increase in number every time I drive to the store, and the browning christmas trees toppled into gutters and awaiting the wood-chippers give me that distinct morning-after feeling. Visual reminders of endings prevail. But now I am seeking out some inspiration to fuel motivation. Yesterday out my window, I saw a misguided tree had burst out into its feathery pink blossoms. What an uplifting spectacle of new beginnings in the middle of winter, and compliments of nature, not the media or the economy.

Perhaps I shall try to shift my focus from plastic houses and pretend money to real flowers and sturdy trees. At least, for now.