NAPOWRIMO APRIL 3 Crashing

 

 

Crashing

Couldn't remember my password

for my retirement account

perhaps the universe protecting me

from seeing the damage

from a financial tornado

combined with a falling star

leaving shreds of money in its path

 ©2025 Noreen Braman

 

NAPOWrIMO 2025 - A delayed start, but for good reason

 

 

 

April 1, 2025

 

NAPOWRIMO 2025 has begun!  But first:

 

Time to Blow My Own Horn

Recently, I’ve been gathering all my Poetry Month poems from my blog, to attempt to put them all together in one place, from childhood forward. What a project it is going to be – but, with a landmark birthday coming up, I feel the burden of time.

 

I got an inspirational kick in the butt by Herb Alpert, and his performance we attended at Lincoln Center this week. He recently celebrated his 90^th  birthday, on tour, and not missing a beat. We attended the second performance of the night for him (and never mind the many many performances he has been giving non-stop for several years now). It was the first time I have ever sat in a box seat, and it was perfect, because I could not stop moving. The on point music was memorable, the backdrop videos amazing, and Herb’s anecdotes in between were refreshing, humorous, and honest. To me, he epitomized “taking the bull by the horns” (so much meaning just in that phrase!)  and living life joyfully and generously. 

 

He represented, to me, the resilience I so often talk about in my well-being presentations, and how you need to cultivate resilience for the times when life is not so much fun. He not only brought me back to some of the best times of my life, especially the days of playing baritone sax and singing with a swing band, but also the idea that there is more to come. 

 

Thank you, Herb Albert, for the years of delight, the inspiration to keep moving forward, and how music helps build our resilience.

 

 

 The Music Never Dies, It Just Changes the Tune

 

My father, who died too early, loved the sound of Goodman

and a clarinet would be my companion for many years of learning

leading to orchestral bass clarinet, and then the swinging baritone sax.

While I listened for trumpets in rock-n-roll,

and I heard trombones in movie soundtracks,

I loved to find the baritone sax way down at the bottom

on every new type of recordings,

still feeling the vibration in my hands

humming along the bass line,

finding the notation for “Blue Champagne” 

so many, many years later,

hearing every deep note in my mind.

©2025 Noreen Braman

 

 

 

 

As a Landmark Birthday Approaches, A Blast From the Past

 

Reprinted from July 18, 2013

40 Years of Running on the Hamster Wheel

Greetings to all of those 1973 High School graduates out there. Ours is a class that graduated at the dawn of the Information Highway and many of us helped pave the first miles of the road. Some of us took other roadways and now look at the proliferation of electronic mayhem in confusion and distrust. However, the classes behind us have increasingly embraced this new world and fly around in cyberspace like the Jetsons in their space car. For me, grabbing onto the tail of this dragon has allowed me to put a roof over my head and food in my stomach for many years, despite the best efforts of the American economy to starve and de-shelter me.

In the 40 years of my adult life so far, the amount and cost of consumer goods and living expenses has accelerated at an exponential rate.  And I know that I cannot be the only one who feels she has been on a giant hamster wheel all this time, running at top speed and getting nowhere.

It is true that we have an “embarrassment of riches” in this country. I own a house and a car (well, as long as I keep making the monthly payments). My house is an electronic playground that includes several computers and a large television. My smart phone is my constant companion, and I am entertained by an assortment of music players, eBook readers and digital cameras. In many ways, I am living in the bright, shiny future portrayed at the 1963 World’s Fair. Yet, not too far from my front door chronically jobless people are hanging out on a corner, there are transient homeless people in the woods that border my town, and the abuse of drugs and alcohol continues to destroy lives right in my neighborhood. To complain that, at 58 years old, I am still living paycheck to paycheck does pale in comparison, and I cannot even comprehend the more horrendous conditions in other parts of the world.  But aren’t there big, important people who deal with that? Great minds focused on improving life for all? More often, it seems that those in powerful positions are fighting with each other like, Godzilla and Mothra, and we are the tiny people on the streets of Tokyo, trying our best to not get stepped on.

My children are grown, and having children of their own. They are embarking on their own years of adulthood.  I wonder, after 40 years, will they look back, wondering where the time and money went and worrying about the next 40 years. Will they have broken out of the hamster wheel existence or just traded it in to become drones in a giant hive of worker bees?

Yes, it sounds like doom and gloom, and we can give in to that.  We can, and will, bemoan the fact that life is difficult, plans don’t always work, bad things happen on a daily basis and the money is never enough.  It is therefore, incongruous to see people smiling, to hear them laughing, to watch them dancing and generally acting happy. Or is it?

Look at it this way. That hamster wheel is the only one you are going to get. You can paint it black and let it squeak until the noise drives you insane. Or, you can decorate it with shining moments of your life, open it up to family and friends, and laugh in the face of its unproductive movement. You can run on and on, waiting for happiness to fall down on you from the sky, or you can actively seek and create happiness. You may have to start off by fooling your brain by acting happy before you actually feel it. You may have to smile even though you don’t feel like it. You may even have to find some other people to help you wrench that happiness back up from the hole it has fallen in, but do it.  The future generation of worker bees is depending on you to show them the way.

Using Humor At Your Peril

What is humor anyway? just something silly to make us laugh, or can it be biting satire the reveals that the Emperor has no clothes? Here is a previous article I wrote, published by 360º Nation.

 

 https://www.bizcatalyst360.com/using-humor-at-your-peril/

Finally, a Mystery May be Solved

 

 William Johnston Braman 1931-1955

 

 Tomorrow, documents will be sent to the Brooklyn Veteran's Administration Office, to finally start an investigation about my father's death. I am hopeful that records will be found, and we will know if he died for his country.

 

 

 

 

 

Memorial Day - 2024

As Memorial Day approaches, I realize that it is 69 years since the day in May when my father died. A USMC Corporal, who served his country in several places, including Camp Lejeune, who died mysteriously at age 23. He left behind my grief struck grandmother, my devastated newlywed mother, a brother, a sister, and me, a 3-week-old baby. The pain and trauma was so deep that I grew up learning very little about my father, and what little came my way was mostly inaccurate. I was told he died from inhaling airplane exhaust. I was told he died from tonsillitis. I was told he died from a cat scratch.

I found a drawer full of memories when my mother, then my stepfather, passed away in 1988. The drawer had photo albums, receipts from a young couple’s married life, wedding cards, and many, many, cards expressing sadness and grief over William Johnston Braman’s untimely death. His death certificate, typed on paper so thin you can see through it, revealed his cause of death – Uremia. The dictionary definition is “a raised level in the blood of urea and other nitrogenous waste compounds that are normally eliminated by the kidneys.” The origin of the word means “urine in the blood.” The National Institute of Health states that uremia “develops most commonly in chronic and end-stage renal disease.” Those words would become important to me.

But Uremia was not a final diagnosis. Below, as a contributing factor was written “pending chemical.” No matter how much I searched, I found no report of what those chemical tests revealed. I closed the box, confused, but I was a busy young mother, with 3 active children who would all have to deal with our own trauma in the years to come.

But when I began to see solicitations by lawyers, looking for persons harmed by contaminated water at Camp Lejeune. I submitted a request to the Veteran’s Administration. Yes, he had been at Camp Lejeune in the 50s. His death occurred at the Brooklyn VA hospital. His death certificate was incomplete. Something felt wrong.

I asked the City of New York for another copy of his death certificate and checked the box to included cause of death paperwork. What I got back was a clearer version of what I already had. No chemical testing reports.

The TV lawyers were not interested in helping me figure this out. Did my father die from contaminated water? Renal failure is listed as something caused by this contaminated water. Did he actually die from serving his country? How in the world could anyone ever compensate me and his last remaining sibling for his loss?

I called and called the Brooklyn VA Hospital. Calls were misdirected, voice mails never returned. As a government hospital, it could be possible that records from the 50s were still in some rusty file cabinets. But no one even called to say those records had been destroyed. Nothing.

I approached my Congressional Representative, sending copies of everything I had, service records, death certificate. No answer, no answer, no answer. Finally, in late 2023, I was told that a request had been made to the Brooklyn VA Hospital, and to allow 30 days for a reply. No answer came. Not from the Hospital, not from the Congressional Office.

Meanwhile, there is a timeline ticking down to make the government aware of those who were harmed by this contamination. Currently, staff at one of my state senator’s offices has stated they will try to get info from the VA, to find out if the records still exist. And if they don’t, what does that leave?

Should I go on without ever knowing, or should I start believing that the words on his death certificate are proof enough that his death had a “chemical” cause?

I was born in April 1955. My father died in May 1955. Thanks to his 14-year-old sister, who snatched me out of the baby carriage while my mother argued with nurses who refused to let a baby into the hospital, my father was able to hold me. He wept uncontrollably and died soon after. My eyes fill with tears as I write this, just as they filled with tears when my father’s last remaining sibling, his sister, told me this story, just a few months ago.

And now I am desperate to fill in the blanks. To pass on the story of a man who died young, but whose genes live on in me, my three children, and my seven grandchildren. A man who may have given his life for his country.

 

2020 Revisits

 

Overcoming

To
talk without speaking
listen without hearing
work without producing
 
and
rule without leading

Creates
words without meaning
sound processed without understanding
jobs done without purpose

and
orders given without conscience leads to
gibberish
silence
failure

and
revolution.
 
©2020 Noreen Braman

 

Because I Have to Repeat Myself

 

 

©2017 Noreen Braman

 

 

Because

Because of the priest who told my mother she was doomed to hell

for a tubal ligation after life threatening childbirths,

and almost leaving three daughters motherless. 

 

Because of the man who cornered me in the boathouse

attempting to remove my clothes while laughing,

knowing my adolescent self would be too ashamed to tell anyone.

Because of the knife held to my throat

at the workplace where I was the only woman on the floor,

working too fast and making the men “look bad.”

 

Because of the men in the office addressed as “Mr.”

while women were addressed by first names,

and paid significantly less for doing the same job.

Because those same men felt entitled to grope women in the hallway,

make job security contingent on sexual favors they demanded,

or withheld them to punish your noncompliance.

Because of the insurance providers holding the key to healthcare

denying treatment for my children and myself,

until a protracted fight was engaged.

Because women who came before me fought so hard to get here

bequeathing me a country where I can raise my voice,

continuing to demand that we don’t go backward.

Because it is too easy to get comfortable

allowing erosion to do its deadly work,

destroying the firmament under our feet.

Because the women that come after me should never suddenly find themselves

back in the dark places that exist in cultural memory,

but rather go only forward,

reaching their hands down to pull other women up,

and with them humankind as a whole.

©2017 Noreen Braman

 

©2025 Noreen Braman