Old at Forty-FourMichael Langford WhitlowMy children tell me that IÂm old. Forty-four-years-old and still not Âon line. Telling them I like to browse down aisles in the public library as if inspecting an autumn crop of vine-ripened tomatoes, only adds to their growing belief.
So I write them letters. ÂOff line I say. Love letters. Letters in praise of good grades. Letters asking what filled their lunch boxes that day in school. The same stuff that one would write Âon line, only my words come tucked inside a cardboard sandwich of a Van Gogh painting, or a comic from the Peanuts Gang. Stuff that comes from the Hallmark Store. And although my typeface options are a bit limited, they are mine. Even the face that blots from time-to-time; ink that spills over from holding too much love. I like to think of it that way anyhow.
They think I am old too because I donÂt own a cell phone. IÂm not cool like that. Both of my hands still manage to stay on the wheel while IÂm driving. But then again, thatÂs not cool either. With my land-locked phone, I call them from the island of paradise that is my bed. They call me from the prison cell that is their computer. Advantage old.
Once while taking them back for a visit to the old Chicago neighborhood, I pointed out more smells and sounds than sights. Like the train whistle that warned us kids to get off the tracks, long before the creaky old joints of the metal contraption ever snaked into view around the bend. And how one whiff of my motherÂs yellow cake with chocolate icing in the oven would remind everyone of a family memberÂs birthday without ever having to look up the date in that cheap-ass Seaway Bank calendar that came free each Christmas when you opened a passbook savings account.
Maybe they think IÂm old because I prefer James Brown to Bobby Brown. ÂWho is that? they ask. ÂWho is James Brown? I say with the dumbness of an atheist in a confessional. ÂNo, who is Bobby Brown?Â
They remind me, ÂWhy write when you can call. ÂWhy call when you can visit, I volley back. ÂWhy visit when you can never leave the house and still talk to all of your friends at once on line. There is just no way to answer that without being thought to be every one of those forty-four-years.
So I stay at home a read book instead. Shakespreare. Langston Hughes. Willa Cather. And Countee Cullen. ÂTheyÂre the Maters, I tell them. ÂTheyÂre dead. ÂYes, but they keep me alive.Â
When IÂm not reading, IÂm writing poetry. Like deference to an emperor, I prefer meter. ItÂs more challenging so it takes more time. These words spill forth upon my childrenÂs ears as if spoken in some foreign literary slang. Like them hearing an Âold school Curtis Blow rap album. On occasion, though, just for kicks, I dabble in some free verse. Just to remind them that I can still be young and foolish.
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