In Love with the Pajauds

My association with the California African American Museum has brought me great joy and wonderful experiences in the last six years. One of those most treasured is meeting William Pajaud, the most imminent living black watercolor painter. These days I often go to the home Bill shares with his ball of energy--the lovely June. We sit around like folks of a certain age and talk about life as we know it and have seen it. When you hear stories like the one about Bill's mother who graduated from a university in Louisiana, but couldn't get a higher degree because the state didn't let Black people do that back then, you shake your head. They were a big family, roots sunk deep in Louisiana soil and so many of them turned out to be significant politicians, musicians, and of course some had to go away, like Bill's elegant, strong-willed mother. She went to GA, got her next degree and became involved with the Civil Rights movement there. Then there's Bill. If he never put brilliant brush to paper, he would still deserve a place in art history because he was the curator of the Golden State archives. If you never went into that magnificent building on the corner of Western and Adams, you missed something. That place is a repository of Black History, with works from the major artists of our time. Breathtaking murals and art hung everywhere. Right now there is a strange dance being done with the insurance commission, building owners and others to figure out what will happen with the art work left. I think about half of it has been sold off, auctioned away. The fate of these amazing works troubles the art loving heart of Ruth Adkins Robinson

The Rich Get Richer

Racial Wealth Gap Quadruples in Since Mid 1980s

The Institute on Assets and Social Policy published a report on Monday based on economic data from the same 2000 families from 1984 to 2007 (hat tip Michael Powell). Its sobering results likely understates the case, since it does not include the post financial crisis period. The study found that the median wealth gap between white families and black families rose from $20,000 in 1984 to $95,000 in 2007. As they say in my 'hood, 'what's up with that?'

Mother, Oh Mother

No one is neutral about the word Mother. It's a subject that is glorious and agonizing. Somewhere between the perfect mother "Margaret" on "Father Knows Best" and the monster who sticks her baby's hands in scalding water or stabs her son twenty times and throws him down the stairs to his death.--might be the truth. Mother is a designation that doesn't rest easy on my tongue. I stubbornly avoided using it for the entire time I lived with my Daddy and his wife. She soooo was not my mother. Yes, I got twisted as a kid because I didn't have a Mother. Ruth had abandoned me when I was about three or so. Mildly, I have always wondered if there shouldn't be a test of sorts to see if people are qualified to have children. What would the test contain? Would it be physical? emotional? mental? Who would decide anyway? Not me, certainly. No doubt before my daughter was born, I would have failed such a test myself. When she was born I was hysterical all the time because I'd never been around kids and just cried when she did. I struggled through it and on this mothers day, I will be surrounded by the loving children of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Don't get sick

If you've missed me here, it's because I've been sick. It's a miserable thing to be. When you are little and hear old people talk about whatever ache or pain they've got, it's a puzzlement. Why do they do that you wonder? Well, having hit the mark where talking about it jumps into almost every conversation, I finally have an answer. You talk about it because you can't believe it. When I was a girl on Rose Drive in Louisville, I could climb higher, jump farther and take more chances than any boy because I was dubbed "Tomboy" from the moment I could climb up on something. I have always thought of myself as healthy, the polio and other assorted childhood problems notwithstanding. Up until I was about 40, I still wildly did all those daredevil things at breakneck speed, plus I took dance class almost every day, so I felt good. What happened?? Part of it I offer for consideration is the computer. I sit here instead of running, jumping and climbing. And my body is complaining about it. Ray Charles used to say "The body rules the brain, not the other way around." I didn't agree with him then or now because if my body ruled my brain, I'd be up and out of here at a fast clip, instead of moving slowly from couch to computer. However, after this last trip the hospital, my grandchildren have decided to take charge of my 'movement' schedule. One twin has me at the gym Wed Thur and Friday. My guy JP has me on the Pilates Gym for 15 minutes a day. I'm trying to make myself walk in these silly toneup shoes at least a half a mile a day. We will see what we see in a month about the conditioning of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

A Childhood Gone

You know childhood is really gone when those who peopled your youth are gone. Two such left us this week: Peter Graves and Robert Culp. I had crushes on both of these guys because I love spy series. Graves was so suave and brilliant in "Mission Impossible." But Robert Culp represented a whole other dimension to me. I liked him when he was the cowboy, Hoby Gilman, in that series, I think it was called "Trackers." But when he became Kelly Robinson, the tennis player, in "I Spy," he became more than a hero. Of course, Sheldon Leonard who originally cast Culp and Cosby earns a big round of applause. This was in the early 60s -- still a time when TV Land was so ultra-white that people all across the country would yell at each other to hurry up and watch if there was anybody black on TV. The scripts were written to show the two spies as co-workers and perhaps pals, but Culp was so genuinely affectionate, he and Cosby really did seem like best friends. He always said great, insightful things about Cosby--for all the years afterward, he spoke with reverence of Cosby's talent. I think he was always an under-recognized talent and man. I am the admiring Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Who do you write for?

Somebody said, "Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self." So what does that mean for somebody like me who writes for the public, for a living? What it means is that I also write poetry, which nobody much has seen, nor will anyone else ever read. Those poems, some of which were written while I was in high school live in a box that I have carried around with me all these years. The fancy handwriting remains the same, but I can almost tell what I was going through at the particular time by the difference in the tone of the poetry. The top of that box says destroy if you are going through this because I am dead. There is another box that contains my autobiography. On its lid it says, take this one to my agent/publisher. I figure the thrills, intrigue and adventures on those pages cannot hurt the girlfriend of the Mafia don, the murdered Jose Mendendez or the Genius. But I don't want to share the poetic soul of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Save Me From Amateurs

Do I have a target painted on my forehead? Or my backend? I must. It must say, all amateurs who want to get in show business, hit this idiot right here. And that blow must trigger an automatic response from me. Sure, let me open up my head full of knowledge, my mouth full of advice, the whole kit bag of experience gained over the past thousand years. Let me take my time in the trenches, the all night 'get the magazine out marathons,' the rat infested backstages and other delights and give it to them for free. I get stuck, suckered by the seemingly innocent person who just wants a word or two of guidance. I know how hard it is to get started, I do. Nobody much wanted to give me a hand and I've tried to ease that for a whole lot of people. This most recent experience has cured me, though and now I'm done carrying people up the mountain on my back. So take note, if you know anybody at all who thinks they can write for print, produce a hit series, write a million selling song, be the editor in chief of something--all things I know how to do in the dark.....please tell them you don't know anybody named Ruth Adkins Robinson.