March is named for Mars, the Roman god of spring, growth, and nature. Out with the old, in with Women’s History Month, American Red Cross Month, American Dietetic Association National Nutrition Month…
And the vernal equinox: one night as long as a day.
And, of course, spring fever: the restless wait for summer.
In Florida, where, in the first weeks of March, it’s sunny and 80 degrees, we don’t have to wait for pools or the beach, or spring break. Spend an evening downing mojitos at the Sail Pavilion on a Tuesday and it’s like you’re on vacation.
When I was a kid, and spring break was in April because that’s when it is in high school, the time off was the same as a standard Friday night: Mom driving me and a bunch of high-pitched, giggling girls to Palace 9 to see some Meg Ryan movie. There was no going to the beach.
Baltimore’s got water, but it’s the Chesapeake Bay, a place for lazy Saturdays and skipping stones. Even in college, when spring break shifted to March, there was no trip for me. Black kids don’t go away for spring break, my parents said.
“Want to go somewhere? Head up to Michigan and see Grandma.”
Restless, I wanted MTV’s Spring Break. Eric Nies and The Grind. Dan Cortese before his head became the size of a mastiff’s. Daisy Fuentes before she started hocking those headband hair extensions. Cancun. Cabo. Even one lame year, at Lake Havasu or wherever, it was still pretty cool because it was far.
I never got that spring break.
And now, when March rolls around, I just want to spend a week sleeping. In the fall, my cousin, a freshman at Michigan State, asked me if she and her girls could come to my place during break. When I told her it takes 20 minutes to get to the beach, she didn’t care. When I told her I have to sleep that week, she wrote, “K. Don’t need babysitter.” When I said no, she didn’t text back.
Apparently, way back when, after some mythological battle, Mars became known as the god of war. Artists depict him wearing a Spartan helmet with its tall, bristled mohawk. Sometimes he holds a spear or sword. Almost always a shield.
When I think of the young ones storming Trinidad and Tobago, or wherever they go, I imagine them carrying shields, warding off common sense, wandering into the dark interrupted by the flash of a neon OPEN — something like a far-off fire signaling to the god-warriors that something’s amiss — time to attack. And, unfortunately, I think about the four guys I knew from my neighborhood who went to Panama City years ago and got in a bar fight, leaving two of them dead.
I’m thinking about seasons changing and Earth’s tilt, how my voice lilts a little more as the days stretch out; and, how, for years, I pronounced fecund wrong, saying it more like begun than beckon. It’s like Mars, the fertile version, offers an index finger curling to follow. Red hot and flirtatious. Suggestion and possibility idling around Pisces water and Aries air.
This article appears in Mar 5-11, 2015.