Winding our way through airport check-in and security in Tampa for a recent flight to New York, we sat in the waiting area to people watch, removed from the bustle of travelers.

We see a Coppertoned, six-ish-year old girl with blonde pigtails is somersaulting at a dizzying rate. Watching her is mesmerizing. All that's missing is an Olympian roar of the crowd. Her equally tanned brother, maybe nine years old, fixates on a video game and rolls his eyes at the continual near misses of her foot in his face. Their beautiful companion, whom I presume is mom, focuses on a cell phone call, then a cell screen read, before lifting her eyes to issue a cautionary frown at the little girl's antics. But, whiz, bang, the bouncing girl is soon at it again, head-over-heels over heels over heels.

It's hard for me to raise an eyebrow in disapproval because I was like that as a child. My two daughters were like that. My granddaughter is like that. Pigtails flying, shrugging off the hard falls. Going, going ...

This threesome sat directly behind us on the plane, and miracle of miracles, the children were statues during the two-plus hour flight. At first, I cocked an ear for potential spats and waited for a kick of the seat. Nothing. When we landed, I turned to lavish praise on the children's plane manners. "Make sure you tell your dad you were very good passengers."

                                                                                      *  *  *

Between any airport waiting room and plane, I can bank on one thing happening: As the attendant at the gate murmurs, "Have a nice flight," and I step into the corridor leading to the plane, my heart quickens with excitement. We all seem purposeful with only one way to go; whether rushing toward business or adventure or trudging home, heading for a kiss or wistfully touching a cheek where we felt the last one. No matter what my  circumstance, in that moment I always picture my big brother Jim. I swallow hard. How dearly I miss him. How much he taught me about living large.

James F. Morrisey, Jr. was a pilot for Trans World Airlines for over 30 years, flying domestic and international flights, and loving every minute in what turned out to be a flawless career. He was so careful he could cover for our present-day hero, Sully. Captain Morrisey, training to fly off a naval carrier and later in years as a naval reservist, made a name for himself as a supremely safe, dependable pilot. He also taught me to love to fly.

Fourteen years my senior, Jim had left home at 14 to study to be a Christian brother. When I finally met him, he was a lanky 17 year old in black brotherhood robe, and I was perhaps three. According to family lore, I gazed up and asked him with much confusion, "Whose mother are you?"

Jim left the brotherhood, hunkering down to concentrate on college studies in our bustling home - despite all my somersaults and twirls - earning an engineering degree and heading for the prized role of pilot. When he died in 1996, he was a husband, father of four and ever-faithful big brother. He taught us to strive, take care and savor. What a gift his lessons have been.

I invite you to listen to two audio poems in which I expressed what Jim meant to me and those knew him. (Note the raptor image to the right, a painting by another dearly missed big brother whose work is featured on my site.)

To hear a poem, click an arrow in one of the following audio status bars. 

Flying Home after the Funeral

John:21

I am an American, a Caucasian woman of modest means. Many people in the world may assume I am wealthy, and I think they would be right. But what does wealth mean to me, anyway?

Though the daughter of a carpenter, I have been able to live many days with fellow Americans in peace, health and comfort, maintaining my good name for gainful employment and experiencing the promise of a fulfilling life. I have been able to count on:

• Peace living in safe communities patrolled by reassuring peacekeepers in caps and uniforms
• Health due to insurance coverage and access to medical care
• Comfort in a home I could afford
• My good name in a society that acknowledges it, who I am and who, by my actions, I appear to be

Many black and non-Caucasian Americans live in unsafe communities patrolled by police who arrive these days in Star Wars storm-trooper gear. Some residents got health coverage only in recent years and have miles to go for care. Their attempts to flee to safer areas may be stymied by racial divides, mortgage hurdles and purchases burdened by high interest rates. Non-whites of all walks of life say their good names are challenged by virtue of the color of their skin rather than the content of their characters. Such crushing reality is at best disheartening and, yes, it keeps people down.

When resentful Americans protest that no one helped them achieve what they did, my first thought is, "Really?" No parent, no grandparent, no big brother or sister; no auntie or uncle, no neighbor, no teacher, no counselor, no coach, no doctor, no pastor, no friend, no employer, no loan officer, no cop? Nobody cut you some slack, gave you a break, lent you a hand; lent you money; forgave your foolish choices; guided you; issued only a warning; said, "Yes, you can?" Really?

When all hell breaks loose in our society, we see church and community leaders rise to heartbreaking challenges and counsel dialogue and peaceful protests. Police officers daily rise above fear for their lives to see people for who they are and treat them prudently - within the law. For most 320 million Americans, such exchanges are peaceful.

What is the disconnect that prevents an officer from accurately "Reading the room" in an encounter, correctly assessing the level of threat in a situation? How have we arrived at a place where a broken tail light leads to a hail of bullets live-streamed on Facebook and then to a madman assassinating police officers? I do not know.

But what a false choice we're given by some hard-nosed commentators: Silence all protests about questionable deaths lest we be seen as ungrateful to police, or condemn all police. That choice is senseless and divisive. Why not instead approach police officers and black people you encounter to speak of our grief in the midst of this terrible dilemma?

After all people have suffered to create our society, fragile though it is today, I would rather claim the crown of brotherhood as part of my wealth than ever forsake it to silence. 

by Reggie Morrisey

Anyone who's happened upon this blog since I launched it in March 2006 knows I've rarely venture into current events; although, as a former reporter, I am and always will be a news hound.

So far, my blog hasn't prompted any cyber bullies to insult my ancestry. Let's see what the future holds as I celebrate Hillary Clinton's excellent achievement in reaching the number of delegates to be declared the presumptive candidate for president on the 2016 Democratic Party ticket. Way to go!

This milestone is doubly exciting because the woman is supremely qualified and a certifiably decent human being with a lifetime devoted to the common good and service to our country.

Yet, as I watched Ms. Clinton's eloquent June 7 speech, I had to ask myself, "How do we explain to our children and grandchildren why it took so very long to reach this historic milestone? Even mentioning to them that women didn't have the vote until 1919 would cast doubt on what children may have innocently assumed to be the certainty of equality for women.

Dare we mention to them women fought for the right to vote and faced ridicule and resistance? Physical resistance. How about explaining  the continuing battle for equal employment opportunity and equal pay - tenets of the feminism so many of its fortunate beneficiaries distain as ... unfeminine?  

We risk facing a squirm-worthy moment with our young. Worse than admitting there is no Santa, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy. Do we say, "Once upon a time, there was a free country established for some people, and we aim to make it free for everyone?"

As our current, historic President Barack Obama ever advises, we must move on. Fast forward. Not cast too long a look back and risk turning us all into frozen pillars of outrage. Having endured more than his share of attacks and resistance, the president is acquainted with such forbearance.

As recently as June 10, Georgia's Republican Senator David Perdue quoted an Old Testament psalm to Christians at a conference recommending they pray the president's "Days be few." Surely those Christians, so well-versed in the OT, must know this psalm goes on to curse "His children be orphans and his wife a widow." Talk about inside jokes!  How about instead borrowing a line from an old hymn, "Grant him wisdom, grant him courage for the living of these days."

Seems we have a ways to go explaining what Mitt Romney termed, "Trickle down racism." Then, too, there is the despicable, misogynistic method of rating women. And homophobia. And xenophobia.

We have to advance beyond Hillary Clinton's major achievement to win an election. After November, let's, as they say, "Have that conversation."

Hillary Clinton brought us to this point and has paid dearly for it. Still, she envisions an America our children can be proud to inhabit. And, lucky for us, her mother taught her how to stand up to bullies.

Mine did, too.

by Reggie Morrisey

Just to wriggle my toes and think of all the shoes I wore! The baby booties to patent-leather Mary Janes, the oxfords and the tennis shoes; the furry slippers and yellow rubber boots, the flip-flops and towering heels.

And how I looked down at my hands in muff and mittens, cotton whites and soft calve gloves. Pictured my charm bracelets, bangles and rings - worn no more than three to a hand and that for only a decade. With eyes closed, I can almost feel the lengthy wool and silken scarves once wound around my neck and smell the scented bubble bath, the talc and lotions, lipstick and cologne.

And, oh, the jaunty hats that sat upon my head! From crochet baby bonnets to a dozen Easter straws. The darling velvet cloche and flapper hats that hid unfurling curls; pillbox and beret for my page boy, then longish hair; the wide-brimmed boater casting latticed shade upon my face.

I see the parade of Sunday dresses with their prickly crinolines; the sporty skirts with knife-sharp pleats; blouses, turtlenecks and preppy cardigans; the daring straight legged pants, the short, then shorter shorts; the lace-edged socks and leotards. And over all, the navy pea, the A-line, sweater and faux fur coats, the fleece-lined trench and poncho.  

I smile at the shimmer of each cocktail dress and full length gown, the magical appeal of a satin cape and evening clutch. Or frown before a mirror in my very last bikini. Then, slip on my flannel PJs or filmy baby dolls - those before I learned to sleep in sheets, reclining in my bed, thankful for so many threads to count ... instead of sheep.

by Reggie Morrisey

Greetings,
Near the end of winter long ago, some children thought they could count on a coming snow day.
Here is an audio poem about it.

Ides of March
by Reggie Morrisey
1980

Interlaken, 1976

by Reggie Morrisey

Windows swing wide open to the cool night air.
Cars triple park at Crestwood Station.
Sleigh trains go chugging down Toboggan Hill
as raccoons delight in basement hibernation.

Morning means a rush to catch a bus or train.
Prayers and incantations start cold cars as
icy paths and roads lead to a chancy game of
reaching destinations free of scars.

Brisk business for the pharmacists of Main Street.
Just hardy souls pm streets these chilly days
as colds and coughs and flu and sneezes
descend on us in must unsubtle ways.

An empty beach awaits the warming sunshine,
the children's voices and the grown up sighs
while courtyards in their gleaming crystal stillness
give pause and quiet pleasure to our eyes.

The yards disguise themselves as private skate rinks
where hockey games are played each afternoon.
And mothers doomed to bouts of cabin fever
dream of winter's end, of springtime and sweet June.

My dream life is so lush I look forward to going to sleep. Realizing the stuff of dreams arises from waking life, I tend to steer clear of media that churns audiences into a permanent state of post-9/11 panic. I would rather watch paint dry on an HGTV Macmansion.

Imagine my dilemma at being swept up one night in the harsh reality of an Independent Lens film about undocumented immigrants. Within minutes of watching East of Salinas on PBS, I identified with Oscar Ramos, a Salinas, California elementary school teacher, and I ached for Jose Ansalda, his young student followed by the camera for three years as his migrant worker parents struggled to keep him safe from gang violence and keep his tummy full enough not to cramp or growl all morning in his classroom. On days when nothing but milk was in Ansalda refrigerator, they failed in that department, and Jose fretted his way to school lunch.

Their story haunted my dreams, drifting into Salinas lettuce fields where Jose's asthmatic mother labored within a mist of pesticide. She bent low with a sharp knife to lop off lettuce head after lettuce head grown in seemingly infinite rows, tossing the lettuce onto a conveyor belt, all but her face covered to ward off the scorching sun. And that was on a good day, when she managed to work and feed her children!

I returned in dreams to the cramped, sparsely furnished apartment where Jose' little sister sat, perseverating to and fro on a loveseat, her body attesting to the family's excruciating tension, TV cartoons her mode of escape. I saw how Jose attacks his math homework, reveling in the conquest of solvable problems. Proving he is smart and tenacious, and despite his status as Mexican born and lacking documentation to stay in the United States, picturing math leading him to a college education. Just as Oscar said he had aspired and entered University of California Berkley, given a bygone era when such students were ultimately welcomed.

Oscar is my idea of a dreamy man, wielding his success to lift up the children in his care, introducing them to the larger world - such as the Pacific Ocean 20 miles from Salinas. And leading them to experience wonder in the classroom and in field trips. Oscar does not abandon children. He see their wounds and does not turn away.

What to do with these wounds? I can tell you and anyone who wanders to this site: Dare to watch this film. Perhaps we can pierce the shield around our collective hard hearts long enough to speak humanely about strangers crossing borders without required papers. At least, speak humanely.

Borders do not seem able to sustain their raison d'être to keep strangers out. It is so last millennium a concept. We see desperate people land on foreign shores and create mountains of life jackets. People slip through border gates, climb over and under fences, burrow underground tunnels. With or without authorization, they will tell you they have good reason to flee their homes, and international law allows for exceptions to border rules. They may not tell you how harsh life is when they succeed, harsh as it was for the first flood of Irish, Italian and Eastern Europeans after their ships sailed past the Statue of Liberty.

Generations moved up through a society excoriating their ancestors for their foreign food, accents, music. Generations became Americanized and cultures absorbed, more like frozen TV dinners than savory melting pots. That experience has proven just as true of Vietnamese, Cambodian and of other Asian, African and Latin American immigrants. Once settled in, we hardly recognize our former foreign selves. That being true, in a lucid moment of the next collective dream, can we uncover a path for new strangers who would be us?

In the following poem, consider the sage who pleaded this cause 50 years ago.

Little Notre Dame - 1966

by Reggie Morrisey 

Whirling in her black and white habit,
Sister Anita Marie, O.P.
stood for everything she knew.
Red-faced, ignited,
her fingers clutching chair backs,
she shot data attacks
at have-no-care America and
prophesized near doom,
footnoting a future that loomed
in a small women's college.

Defensive,
doubting her knowledge and
passionate certainty,
we squirmed in desk sets
rented by part-time dollars,
wry eyebrows raised
like flags for veteran fathers
at the Third World riot
conditionally guaranteed
by the white-robed sage
of upward mobility.

"Rising expectations
cannot be hosed,
beaten or ignored.
Acres are torched
as one tyrant
overthrows another.
A solitary soldier
will not stand
between you and
scores of raging
Old World sons.
How can we fight
every fight?
Instead, we’ll watch
the globe burn
on our color sets at night."

Some scoffed at her vision
and laughed in the hall,
dismissing a century's
global brawl.
Inclined to devise
sweet Rockwellian schemes
for manicured lawns and
upper class means.

Wars later, the good sister's
new world turned.
Between the commercials,
her precious globe burned.
Veiled Arabs hurled
not-so-veiled
car-bombing threats.
And Asians lost years, gripping
storm-tossed decks.
Nicaraguan reformers drew
blood and land deeds.
Apartheid purveyors bowed to
equal right creeds.
No continent of color untouched.

And rare the woman of color untouched,
in each village and city depraved.
Still, our Yuppies gained eager maids
that Immigration missed.
Standing on manicured lawns,
they cradled our upward dreams.

A high price mobility means.
Yet in the world class - First to Third,
"Free" is the operative word.
I heard, wise Sister.
I heard.