I suppose that’s what high school reunions are, an interesting mix of the past and present. They’re a time to recall memories of adolescent relationships and to reconnect as adults with a lifetime of widely different experiences. For a period of time, we are, in the eyes of old friends, the people that we used to be. So we call each other by the names we knew 40 years ago.

I went to the high school reunion of a class that isn’t mine, officially. I graduated from a predominantly white high school just as the school system in my North Carolina hometown was slowly accepting integration. Most of the people I grew up with finished from what was then the high school for black students.

If it wasn’t for nametags, many of us would not have recognized each other. But we laughed it off, all the while looking for familiarity in middle-age faces that had lost the innocence of youth. We talked about the friends who have passed on and those who are struggling with illness. And we tried to capture, for the people that we shared our dreams with long ago, what has happened so far on our life journey.

It was a wonderful celebration. 

Do you have memories you’d like to share of a recent high school reunion?

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It is the reunion of what used to be the “black high school” in the North Carolina city where I grew up. During the years of segregation, it was a pivotal part of the black community and remains so today.

I graduated from a predominantly “white high school,” choosing to ride a city bus across town when school officials took their first steps to implement the Brown v Brown desegregation case. It was the late 1960s, nearly a decade after the United States Supreme Court decision, and the school system offered what was then called “Freedom of Choice.” It was a baby step toward equality in the schools; students could pick any school in the city but they had to make their own arrangements to get there. So integration began slowly, which was what the policymakers obviously preferred.

At the time, I was dreaming of going to college and thought the resources available at the “white high school” I attended might help me reach that goal. The black students and white students had to learn how to be comfortable with each other, but I had an interesting high school experience. While I was involved in school activities and clubs, most of my relationships didn’t move outside the school campus unless we were involved in a school-sponsored event.

By the time I graduated, my neighborhood buddies were finishing too, as the last officially segregated class at the “black high school.” The following year, busing began as a way to integrate all schools in the city.

Over the years, I’ve stayed in touch with some of my friends from the “black high school.” Some of us went to college together and I’ve run into others at various times over the years.

I’m looking forward to connecting with friends that I knew in elementary and junior high school, friends that I went to a junior high school dance with when the school principal banned Afros, friends who will always be a part of an extended family that helped shape who I am.

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At first, I thought she was joking, but then she told me it would be too painful for her to go to her beautician. She ignored my protests that I really didn’t know how to straighten hair, that I didn’t want to burn her hair or her skin, that my niece would do a better job. But she insisted and I agreed, reluctantly.

Straightening hair has created many memories in my family over the years and my three sisters and I still chuckle about some of our experiences. As a young woman, Mom had dreams of being a beautician but didn’t get any formal training. She did the hair of friends and then, she had four daughters. Bingo! Of course, our hair was always pressed and styled.

On Saturday evenings, we would wait our turn for my mother to wash our hair and sit us with our backs to the stove so that she could better reach the smoking and sizzling straightening comb. It seemed that she didn’t want even the smallest hint of hair to escape the heat. We were always uneasy that she would burn our ears or neck; a few times she did.

By the time I left for college, attitudes about black hair were changing and I embraced the I’m-black-and-I’m-proud movement toward natural hair. So I’ve worn my kinky hair since my freshman year, moving from the Angela Davis-style big Afro to shorter Afros and then to locks. I haven’t straightened my hair in 40 years. It took my mother a long time to accept my decision. So it was ironic that she turned to me to straighten her hair.

On Hair Day, I could hardly believe it when my mother pulled out the same straightening comb she used during our childhood. She sat in the kitchen, with her back to the stove. She gave me some instructions, and I went to work.

I remained calm. I didn’t burn my mother. I didn’t go after the tiny hairs around her ears and neck.

When it was done, my mother was satisfied. But as soon as she’s able to walk better, I urged her to go back to her beautician.

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Things didn’t go as well as hoped after the surgery and my 80-year-old mother had a few complications in the hospital. My sisters and I were anxious but we did our best not to convey our uneasiness to our mother. We had a few sleepless nights.

My mother made it through the crisis but is still being monitored by her doctor. At the rehab center, she worked hard with the physical therapists and was walking relatively well when it was time to go home. She’s facing weeks of physical therapy.

I can’t tell you how many hugs and kisses I’ve given her over the past few weeks. And how often I’ve prayed.

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Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY) is in the midst of a sexting scandal after accidentally sending a lewd image via Twitter to a college student. This week, he admitted other inappropriate online behavior and to having virtual relationships with at least six women.

I’ve been talking about these kind of issues with my 16-year-old daughter for several years now because they’re increasingly popping up not only among teenagers but unwise adults. At a time when our society seems to be losing control of good sense in using the Internet, it’s imperative that we help our young people understand the short-term and long-term dangers. That they understand how to exercise self-control.

“Those girls were stupid,” my daughter said of the students at her school. Her reaction to the congressman was “disgust.” “I’d never do anything like that,” she told me.

These are tough times for our kids. I’m not naive and know that my daughter will be facing many critical choices as she moves through adolescence. But I believe in the power of the parent echo; I can still remember the words of my parents from those “lectures” during my teen years. I try not to be preachy to my daughter and open myself to hear what she has to say. We talk, a lot. We role play.  But more importantly, we pray together.

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I ate tomatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I experimented with various types of tomato sandwiches. I ate them like apples.

My daughter and I were touched by gardening magic last year, when we moved from deck gardening at our former home in the Washington area to the small plot in our neighborhood here in Charlotte. Last year, I waited too long to stake the tomatoes and so I had a tough time controlling them. Still, they were juicy and delicious.

I was successful, though, using red mulch film so I put it down again around the plants. The plastic film, developed by the United States Department of Agriculture, helps warm the soil, prevents weeds and promotes growth of tomatoes and other plants.

I’m counting the days until tomatoes appear on the vines. Are you gardening this year? Share your stories.

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Recently, we celebrated by going to a yoga class and then having a picnic lunch of turkey sandwiches, a mix of broccoli and cherry tomatoes along with strawberries and blackberries. After a bit of window shopping, we walked into a popular bakery and ordered a dessert.

Overall, I reduced my middle by three inches; Nzinga lost a half inch and Patrice lost an inch. But while our waistlines were stubborn, we lost more inches in other areas.

I started on a wellness journey over a year ago with fellow We Are Black Women blogger Yvonne Shinhoster Lamb, but I struggled. Last fall, I invited Nzinga and Patrice to join the effort, creating a local support system that each of us has come to rely on when we stray from our goals or when we reach them. We meet at least once a month to exercise together, and usually prepare light lunches at each other’s homes. We’ve had fun. Nzinga recently pulled out some old exercise tapes by Richard Simmons and after we sweated to the oldies, we moved to her backyard to double dutch. Of course, we did more laughing than jumping rope.

For me, many of the lifestyle changes are beginning to feel more comfortable. I wanted to eat some ice cream recently, and instead of going to a favorite creamery where customers can mix in lots of candy and cookie toppings, I stopped by a neighborhood frozen yogurt place for a small cup of a fruit-based, low-fat flavor.

There is no salt in my kitchen. Instead, I use a variety of herbs and spices to season my food. I don’t buy sodas or bring any junk food into the house — cookies, candy and their friends. A good side effect is that my 16-year-old daughter now eats less of it and is accustomed to grabbing fruit or crackers as snacks.

I visit health and wellness internet sites at least a couple times a week and subscribe to a few that send out weekly emails with low-fat recipes and stories about such issues as the new federal dietary guidelines and the perils of eating too many energy bars because of the high levels of sugar.

And, I exercise, at least five days a week. Nzinga and Patrice similarly workout often and have changed eating patterns. Patrice decided for a while not to eat any meat, fish or dairy for a while. But that didn’t work for her so she now eats fish and everything else sparingly. That’s what I do, too.

The three of us feel we’ve got a good thing going so we’re going to go another six months, with goals to reduce our waistlines even more by Thanksgiving. We’re committed to maintaining our healthier lifestyles.

How are you doing on your journey to melt your middle? Join us, create your own support team and share your experiences.

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Richard Gregory “Greg” Lewis and I met more than 30 years ago when we were hired for our first newspaper jobs in North Carolina. We were young, idealistic and eager to become full-fledged journalists. But those early years were sometimes tough as newsrooms –and the communities they served — adjusted to having people of color telling the stories of the day. So we worked hard and talked, a lot. We fussed. And laughed. And became lifetime friends.

Greg passed away May 17 from complications of prostate cancer. He was 57. His career as a self-described “strictly old school” journalist took him from the East Coast to the West Coast and back. He most recently worked at the South Florida Sun Sentinel and previously at the San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle and with the Robert C. Maynard Institute for Journalism Education. His mission, and passion, was to write the stories about the black community that too often were ignored.

Greg was the kind of guy who walked into a room and instantly filled it with his warmth and laughter. He was charming, and with his easy-going, playful manner attracted friends the way moths flock to the light. Greg liked people, and he liked to talk.

But he was also a family man. Greg deeply loved his wife, Chandra, and children, Gina and Desmond, whose namesake is South African activist and cleric Desmond Tutu. In the “Strictly Old School: Gregory Lewis on Black Culture and Politics” blog he did for the Sun Sentinel, Greg wrote about his wife in 2009 on the day of his 26th wedding anniversary. “With me,” Greg wrote, “Chandra says, there’s never a dull moment. That could be good and bad…. We love each other and we’re in love with each other.”

Greg and I talked a few times over the past few months. Despite his illness, he was always cheerful and upbeat. During one of our last conversations, we reminisced about the good old days — the way we worked to become good reporters and writers, the battles with difficult editors, the pride in getting a good story. And we talked about the future. Greg hoped to one day work as an instructor at Bennett College in Greensboro, N.C., teaching young women about the world of journalism.

One of Greg’s favorite old school songs is I Want You Back by the Jackson 5. That’s how I’m feeling, and I know that sentiment is shared by his family and many, many friends. Greg’s light among us was far too brief but it’s intensity will forever warm our souls. Farewell, my “strictly old school ” friend and brother.

Greg Lewis with Rosa Parks, South Florida Sun Sentinel

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My 16-year-old daughter sat next to me, stiffly, silently feeling the power of the images like everyone else in the room. At one point, she leaned into me, and in a breathy whisper, said nothing more than “Wow.” I reached out and touched her hand.

Charlotte was a stop on a tour of college students retracing the route of the 1961 riders’, accompanied by a PBS film crew and some original riders’ as part of a national commemoration of the bold test a U.S. Supreme Court decision that ruled segregation in bus and rail stations was unconstitutional. In Charlotte, one of the riders’ couldn’t get his shoes shined at a segregated stand at the bus station and a “shoe-in” led to the arrest of one of the riders. In nearby Rock Hill, S.C., rider John Lewis, now a 12-term U.S. House member, was attacked and beaten.

Four of the original riders spoke and answered questions.  Helen Singleton and her husband, Robert, left California and joined the effort only days after she had a miscarriage. Another rider told how he left Tennessee without telling his mother and recalled stories of other college friends who signed up to ride the buses, ignoring the concerns of their parents eventhough they knew they could be injured or killed. Charles Jones, of Charlotte, started singing “Ain’t going to let nobody turn us around.”

One black woman told them, “It was difficult for me to watch that clip. I just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart.” An elderly white woman said, “Tonight, I have come to appreciate what you worked for.”

My daughter was surprised and angered by the film, and found it hard to grasp the intensity of hate and violence that erupted in our country during the 1960s civil rights movement. But she was most stunned, she said, by seeing images of women dressed in the traditional Ku Klux Klan uniform. “I just didn’t think that women would do that,” she told me on the ride home. “I knew that men were in the Klan, but why would women do it to?”

She was impressed by the courage of riders and talked of how difficult it must have been for them to remain peaceful while being attacked and disrespected.

When I asked my daughter, what she learned from the experience that she can use in her own life, she said, “I learned that I have to be brave. I have to have courage.”

We’ll sit together in a few days and watch the full two-hour film. I’ll share some of my own memories of segregation.

Credit: PBS, WGBH

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When she had the first operation last spring, her doctor told all of us that the condition of her knees probably meant another surgery in a year or so. Over the past few months, my mother nudged the doctor to look for alternatives. But they didn’t work. Meanwhile, she’s finding it increasingly difficult to walk.

 She has finally wrapped her mind around the notion that she’ll have to endure the surgery, several weeks in a rehabilitation center and then months of physical therapy. It is a long, painful process.

The other day we talked about it. “I’m not going to complain,” my mother said. “I’m not happy but I’m going to do my best.” Other people, she added, are having more serious troubles.

That’s the kind of role model my mother has been for my sisters and me. She’ll reach deep into her reservoir of determination and pull it up when she needs it. You go, Mom.

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