Some life stories start out
midnight dark,
pitch-black dark,
no porch lights,
no street lights,
piping hot
black coffee dark,
short black mug in a
dark little kitchen,
one chair and a
card table,
folding legs
dark.
Then,
God throws in a
little cream,
a little sugar,
a 50-watt bulb and a
light switch,
solid wood chairs and
a good sturdy table,
a cinnamon roll on a
white saucer...
And suddenly,
misery becomes
having a cup of coffee
on a Sunday
in the way that
grandma used to,
smoke rising from the
mug rim,
index finger tapping on the
edge of the
little white plate,
"mm-mmm" sounds
that mean
"Thank you Lord"
in the middle of
my troubles.
Little hints of tomorrow
make suffering into
a quick sit down
for a drawn out cup
of whatever happens
happens.
You can't have
John's eyes and
Brian's thighs and
Alton's Saturday night
heaves and sighs and
Allen's father's and
family and nem money and
Lance's street charm
Frankensteined into your
one puzzle pieced
reality.
You can't have
Cameron's college background and
Mike's bulging arms and
Nathaniel's quick wit
mixed in with a bit of your
African man's cultural
rootedness.
You can't have
your cell phone
contacts
organized in order of importance
for
who wins
by degrees of
melanin.
You can't
mix and match
your
rolodex cards
according
to your moods.
You can't call
manufacturing a man
out of
used goods
you doing you.
You can't steal
some other woman's
married Oliver
to
spice up your
downtime.
You can't borrow
some woman's son
name Wookie
to make you feel
important.
You can't
run around town
picking up
bourbon-influenced
lawyer types and
businessmen to
collect your copy
of their Mastercards.
You can't
keep on
rocking that slit
up your thigh and
wearing your lacefront
wigs
like pimp hats
all over the universe,
leaving a comet tail of
broken and used goods
all over the place.
You can't keep on
using your
star shine to
snuff it out
on your whim
to darken
some unsuspecting man's
night
sky.
You can't keep
excusing your
"I am woman,
hear me roar"
whoredness
with
"Men do it.
So can I."
You can't do it,
because honey chile...
Honey chile...
listen...
No matter what.
You can't have 'em all.
You can only KEEP,
KEEP KEEP
one,
whatever his package.
Some rains and
rain clouds
bring on
pictures of sadness,
deep dives into
depression and
depravity,
hard to resist
sit by the window
stare far away
bouts
of dark mourning.
Some rains
make
the world look
like it has
died,
been drowned
in a
never-ending
onslaught of
wind-whipped
downpour.
Some rains
make
violent war
with the world
around them,
lifting up buildings
off their foundations,
washing away
the harvest...
all of it,
whisking away the
young and foolish
into whirlpools and
torrential
chaos.
But some rains,
some rains
are like
waterfall showers,
set up for
each lone traveler,
waiting there
all along
for their
weary wanderer
to show up,
stand still and
get wet...
really wet...
this time.
To be clean,
to be fresh,
to be really renewed,
this time.
Telling God
it's unfair to
take
one of His own
home
is like
telling a father
that he
cannot
take his
good son out
for an
ice cream cone
after
a long hard day
at
school.
The father
would
say:
What
right
do
you
have
to
decide
for
me
what
I
do
with
my
child?
Ma,
I was so busy being grateful,
busy being grateful today that I
couldn't say nothing.
Nothing.
I was overwhelmed by the fact that
30 days ago we were both
locked down in
hospital beds and
subject to team rounds and
neither one wound up
dead.
Nothing.
I was overwhelmed by the fact that
twenty years ago we were both
locked down in
section 8 housing
there in New Community
striving and
neither one wound up
dead.
Nothing.
I was overwhelmed by the fact that
ten years ago we were both
locked down in some sticky situations
that left us
grappling with issues
between us and
identity crises and
neither one wound up
dead.
Nothing.
I was overwhelmed by the fact that
we both lost our mommas but I
got mine back.
Nothing.
I wanted to say something brilliant,
prolific.
I wanted to say something
people like us could feel.
I wanted to say something brilliant,
prolific but
I was so grateful, grateful...
just having survived it.
Nothing.
I wanted to say something brilliant,
prolific.
I wanted to say something demonstrating
how much I am grateful... but...
I was in the back room
sitting with my back
pressed up on a pillow,
sleeping.
Nothing.
And you were at your own place
probably with your back
pressed up on a pillow,
sleeping.
And everything I could say...
has been said in that picture,
two mommas
so glad, breathing and surprised
we survived it.
Pushing on me
Pulling on me
Shining on me
Beating on me
Grinding on me
Sidelining me
Please.
Your ego...
Open up a window baby
I can't breathe.
It's the
way that you
think the
whole world owes you
tribute, your
ego...
Ooh... listen...
I can't breathe.
Your pomposity...
wraps itself around my neck and it
squeezes...
freezes me
seizes me
please free me
obviously
I am
too low to be
worthy, your
ego...
I'mma leave early.
I can't breathe.
It's the way
you feel
you must prove
you are
superior.
Nobody
got time to
behave
that much
inferior.
And to think I tried to...
and to think I tried
proves I
should go, your
ego...
Look how much better things could be!
I can't breathe!
If you'd
stop now and reflect
in the retrospect
you'd know your
obnoxious
bragadocity
shows out to the crowd
like a bad spray tan, we
know you didn't hit the bay man
you a fake man
we need a break man from your
ego...
And you're beautiful but baby,
I can't breathe.
Your top swag
is a
sugar rimmed margarita,
sweet taste, late high,
big drag, tall glass,
ego...
And you know I can't keep drinking!
I can't breathe.
In the
universe
there is
still not enough
room here
for the
two of us, your
ego...
I'm leaving boo!
I can't breathe here.
Too much I'm the man See me I'm the man
in your atmosphere.
Hey pretty girl
Heard that you lost your man
How long has it been
That long
That's sad I
Meant to call you then
Didn't know just what to say
Haven't seen you in a while
Time flies
Can't help it now
You were such a pretty little thing
back then
independent swag
boss type
did your own thing I
Couldn't take a step
Couldn't step up to the plate at the time
I'm a man now girl...
I'm a man now, and,
if you let me girl
I can be your boo thang.
I'll come over.
I don't need a ticket
I can pay for my flight
I don't need your nice house
I can put us in a Westin
You don't even have to drive
I can rent a nice ride
You don't have to pack a bag
I can dress you girl
Meet me outside and
Baby if you let me now
I can be your boo thang.
I'll come over.
I don't need a maid
You don't have to lift a hand
You probably still grieving
I can understand
After all, we grown now
I can see a need that
I'm wanting to please
You don't have to pay me
I'll do it for you
Baby if you let me
I can be your boo thang.
I'll come over.
I don't have to stay
You know I bought my own place
Out there in the mountains
I can come that way
Be there for a few days
Maybe stay for a week
I can set my own schedule
It's a simple thing for me
I could put myself on loan for you
It's a good deal
Get your mind off your troubles
Give you something you can feel
For a little while
Older now I got a set of skills
That you'll like...
I've already decided
You just say the word
and I'm leaving here stat and
bringing you your boo thang.
I'll come over.
You don't have to be my wife
I'm not asking for commitment
I'm not asking you to
Put up with the stress of my business
I don't really have to talk
You don't really have to listen
If you give me the permission
We'll go missing on a mission
If you let me baby,
I can be your boo thang.
I'll come over.
I know the role
We can walk through the park
Holding hands, slow strolling
Schedule reservations for massage and
Good eating
Movies and back seating
Wine and hard breathing
Baths and late sleeping
I mean it...
This is not an offer that
I can make twice
I done put myself out there
Need nothing in return
It's a package that I feel
That you've earned and
I always had it for you girl
I always had it for you
Couldn't tell you
By the time I
Got up enough nerve
Another man took it from me
I thought it was all over and
Now the season's changed
I... hmm...
Baby I don't have to be THE man
I just want to be your man
For as long as you want me
So have me
I can be your boo thang.
I'll come over.
It's a simple thing.
Boo thang...
If you say "Yes"
I'm leaving tonight and
I'll come over.
Don't thing about it too much.
I can be your boo thang...
I'll come over, yes.
And you can be my princess
For as long as you want
For as long as we can stand it.
It was a busy breakfast, so busy that there were no tables or chairs open in the common space, so my son chose to sit down his waffle and fruit selection on a modern sectional in the lobby. The weather was beautiful, a sunny 75 at 8:45 in the morning, no chilly breezes. After throwing our overnight bags in the trunk, grandpa and I came back through the automatic doors to find a victor, sitting on the edge of an open sofa, staring into a nowhere to his far left, thinking.
And I too was thinking, deeply... not because there was so much to do on this particular day and not because of all the new faces we were going to see... but because of the face we would not. I had seen the grief arrive and park like a fast train when he got out of bed that morning. It made him move slowly. It made him feel heavy. It made him unable to celebrate that he had completed one lap of many laps. It taunted him without mercy, saying So, you have finished one challenge. There will be another, and you might lose.
It was easy to identify his state of mind because throughout the previous day and night, the same grief had assailed me, reminding me all at once of the cost we used to pay as a trio--Mother, Father, Son--to achieve such an honor, such an academic distinction. It was a painful process of home studies, summer practice schedules, choke-tight curfews, choice and consequence, cancelled weekend trips, rushed test preps and late-night accountability talks. It was are you thinking about your future wrap sessions at 6 a.m. It was a ride we started together, swinging... taking hard hits at times and being found wanting, lacking, beaten and saturated... but it started with three.
Today, on this day, only two remained, and it didn't matter then that after the fight there was something to celebrate. Not just yet. What mattered was taking that seat next to my son on that sectional, sitting catty cornered and finding my own nowhere into which to peer. It was a strange feeling. Just eight years ago, he was small enough to gather up into my arms and rush down the stairs when he was ailing. Now he sat by me, a set of shoulders that stood higher than mine in profile, wearing his father's chain, a young man into whose eyes I must look up into... and in that moment in time, the grief rested equally upon us like a great, descending robe.
I wanted to be prolific, but I didn't have the wherewithal to say anything worth remembering. I decided to settle on the truth. You have to deal with one piece of stress at a time, son. It is enough that today you are starting a new path in life. Let's try to enjoy that and deal with the grief later. It is your day. The odds were against us, but we made it. Your father would be proud... all these being things that I'd had to say to myself when I too got out of bed that morning feeling as if I'd survived a great car accident and wasn't supposed to.
There were tears, sure. We hid them in our own ways... him by dabbing his eyes between breakfast bites and me by rehearsing a don't fall apart speech on repeat in my mind. We were brave for each other, like mother and son would be. On this particular occasion, it became painfully obvious to both us, perched there on the sofa, that we had won something and lost everything. The fresh starting point was pristine and sparkling, having never been ran, but we were walking up to it wincing and battered, lanced open in places from the previous trials. It was hard to lift up our hands and be champions in the presence of the pain. It was hard to be proud and be broken.
So, we sat quietly, and I let him know that the magnitude of the moment could not, would not make sense until he had lived longer and seen more. This was true, because I would not have understood it if I had not lived longer and seen more. And we faced the day, winners, awash in the bitterness of missing our chief contender, flooded with sadness over what we could not recover, sore from the heavy lifting of the last ten months, bleeding.
Mr. President,
this is Mrs. America,
married to certain principles,
standing against hysteria,
woken from anesthesia,
woozy but I don't care I got
one chance to make it clear to ya
Mr., I'm not scared of ya.
No,
I'm not an innocent,
did some things I regret and I
said some things that I shouldn't and
haven't lived it down yet but I
know when I'm in the red
versus when I am in the black
and while I was over here sleeping, Sir
you've been setting me back.
You've been
toying with the economy
profiting from your office and
spending my tax dollars like
I cover your losses and
cutting out social programs while
padding pockets of bosses and
dishonoring people who
ask you about the costs.
You're
flaunting your phallic status like
I was a poor Geisha
you bought from a sex trader
and lowering women's status
and proud to be foul about it and
came out your mouth about it
and paid your porn stars and pussies
with money out of my wallet.
You're
celebrating amendments that
you've never seen played and you're
cutting deals with some nations that
never should have been made and you're
shaking hands with constituents
out on the world stage that have
never given me love and will
always take it away and you
thinking that I will stay.
And running these violent rallies where
Hispanics, Blacks and Women are
treated like common alley cats you know I don't believe in that
kicking out the Hondurans and
terrorizing the Dreamers and
trying to shut the borders when
I'm surrounded by water and
crossing it when I oughtta...
I'm one of the world's daughters...
The world... it can afford us.
You're
making me watch in shame as you
make a fool of Melania
I'm sorry, my first lady
at least I know how to honor her
wherever you found her and
whatever she was then I am
telling you she belongs to me, Mr.
I feel offended.
Listen,
you've had your bath and I'm
sure it was a great laugh since you've
publicly talked trash about
anybody who asked if you
understood what it meant to
makes moves inside of my house
and if you couldn't humiliate,
you simply ran 'em out.
But I'm saying, I'm not playing, Sir.
This is me standing breathing
and proving to you and others that
lo... my heart's beating and
just because I've been drugged and
just because I've been cheated... don't blink
Mrs. America
I will not be defeated.
I've seen it.
I'm not at war with outsiders,
I got spies and
most of them are recruited and kept
right under your eyes and I'm
trying now to be patient and
trying to play it cool but
I promise, I'm feeling warm and I'm
ready to bend some rules since you
underfunding the schools and you
killing bank regulations and
spewing garbage online to my people
and other nations and
going light on your squad while
giving poor people the hammer and
insulting the press while
using incorrect grammar.
Trying to change a tax code and
not releasing your taxes and
promising me new industry...
keeping your foreign backers.
This is me, praying,
I'm saying, I'm not playing,
I'm younger than most nations but
volatile in my ways and I've
sat quietly still to give
you a chance to repent
and instead of you seeking mercy
you keep on bringing me sin and
this is me...
Heart beating
I know that I've been away
I was comatose, I must say and
divided up in a way that
did not allow me to hear
from the people I love the most.
I see it.
I meant the best but I failed you.
It's not over.
Dear
Mr. President,
peace is a fickle thing and it's me
Mrs. America
brave, angry and free and you're
saying that closing borders is
keeping the threats out but me... you know my name by now...
I know what that's about.
You're really locking me in and then
blocking out world perspectives and
saturating my timeline with
well planned misdirectives and
yesterday I was woozy and
yesterday I was down but I'm saying,
I'm not playing...
get up or step down.
It was Nigeria first. :) I was on the phone with Christine a few weeks ago when she asked me, What is it with you and Nigeria, and I had to think back... back to 2010 when--finally--I'd gathered enough nerve to post my very first public blog entry. I had no idea if anyone would even read it. It was just a notion, an act that I felt had to be completed because writers write, and I hadn't written or performed anything creatively for a public audience in some time. I was newly married and a new mother in a new country, and it was hard to get oriented. What can I do, I thought. There was only one option... I had to write something down.
The first entries were non-fiction, semi-autobiographical. I suppose that was my attempt at exorcising whatever frustrations I felt as an artist and a person, but even now I find those entries quite dry and unappealing. When I put down my need to be dignified and just wrote whatever I felt, something interesting began to happen: an audience. And it wasn't just any audience. It was an audience composed mostly of Nigerians.
I had never been to Nigeria, neither had I ever met a Nigerian face to face... it baffled me that despite my intention to reach my home country, I was a full 5600 miles off with no reference for how to feed the psyche of the people. Why are you reading me, I thought. I have nothing to offer you.
From here, let's step back an additional nine or ten years into the year 2000... the first time I held Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. Things Fall Apart exposed me to a cultural history that put the world into perspective. After all, it was one thing to read the historical documents and another thing to see into the hearts and minds of an affected people. Through his brilliant storytelling, Achebe reinforced in me all I inherently knew about circumstantial evolution. I knew what that was about... when you were raised in New Community in Newark (before they blew up the high rises), you understand how socioeconomic and political circumstances can and do require change.
Finally, let's spring forward... to 2012... the first time that I asked myself, What is with you and Nigeria? My love for art stretches far beyond the few things I say about this or that in blog pieces, open mics and online broadcasts. It all moves me: visual arts, dance, music, literature... protest pieces... all of it. So, you can't be surprised that on some day in 2012, which day I can't remember, I said to myself, I wonder what their music is like. And who did I find first, climbing the Nigerian charts as a fresh face to the world? Flavour N'abania and Blessed.
Nigeria, if you are offended that I found Flavour first, don't be. You know I'm in America and all they play on mainstream radio is rap music from three or four cities.
If you know me, you may think I was listening to Black is Beautiful, but it was actually Ada Ada that turned my attention to what I felt was a deeply rooted honesty in Nigerian music. My late husband sat beside me in the car one day listening to it, and he looked at my curiously. Where did you find that song? I had simply found it by accident on YouTube, but for years after that, we were listening to it on occasion, driving back from Savannah, GA, playing it on the way to one of our 8:30 p.m. dates. Shake confirmed for me that despite the distance, Nigeria and I were connected. That's just the right thing to be listening to on a Tuesday afternoon, I don't care who you are.
This is the story of a Nigerian love affair, a relationship that spans a full twenty years without me setting so much as a foot in the country since I first began interacting with her people. Today, the USA has finally caught up to Nigeria in my blog audience page views, but I won't ever forget that it was Nigeria who loved me first. I don't know why she did it, but I appreciate it. Whatever I can do for her, I will.
Sister Nigeria,
growing your economy,
flaunting your
young entrepreneurs
and innovators
like the folds of a
grand gown
for the world to see...
Your wealth
has gotten
the attention of men
who
want to
extort it
again.
But
it is
not the
many men
from without
that you must fear.
It is the
men from within.
The men who
through their
radical religious beliefs
are
abducting your
young daughters and
ripping away their
presents and futures
by severing ties with
female elders
and
enacting
forced
marriages.
The men who
unchecked
by a
Ministry of Agriculture
roam
the fields of
private
properties,
murdering residents
in the name of
cultivating crops and
domesticating
animals.
Men who
use the
country's coffers
to buy
second and third and fourth wives
while
men with
one wife and
many mouths to feed
struggle to
bring up food
from the hard, hot dust.
Men who
join militias
to perform
lynchings
for their friends.
Men who
use their
political and religious statures
to convince
the
working poor
that
the door to prosperity
is through
hero worship...
My Sister,
Nigeria,
you must not fear so much
the hands of the
foreign man.
It is your brother,
your father,
the son that you raised
that is
reaching up under your skirts
to circumcise you.
Because he is smiling like he always did
and he looks like you,
I know
you are tempted
to believe that
he is family
and he will
come around.
But it is not true Sister.
It is not true.
Do you not see his arm?
Do you not see him standing there,
propped up under you to
steal your pleasures?
If he says to you I am not your father, I am not your brother, I am not your son,
does that change the fact
that he is?
If he says to you it is the fault of the colonizer it is the fault of the first world it is the fault of the lazy youth,
does it change the fact
that he holds the knife?
What are you doing,
my Sister,
turning and turning
like a pre-teen
at a prom?
Do not stand there
held hostage by the
black-face smile
of your persecutors,
your leaders,
your preachers,
your self-proclaimed saviors.
A woman's heart is
the world's most mysterious
bank vault,
protected by an outer steel door,
motion detection and on-sight security,
poison darts and projectiles,
city-grid alarms.
Surrounded by
cement walls and
dug down
deep into its earth,
resisting entry
from
alternative pathways.
Any man
must be wise
with eyes wide open
to lay his hands
on the 5-spoke handle,
since
he will need to
locate the place,
gain access to the outer room,
negotiate the preliminaries,
open a deposit account,
stock a safe deposit box,
get employed within the system,
be trusted with the codes and
given vault keys.
Any man
must be wise
with eyes wide open
since
she
may still misread,
may still impale you with the
sharp memories
of her past,
may still
mistakenly
dump your account
after a mistaken overdraft,
may still
call the authorities
after you've
entered the right security pin.
And then,
that man...
God bless him...
might have to begin again.
But her heart,
so vaulted,
can be opened,
can be accessed,
can be relaxed,
can be approached,
can be impressed upon
by your warm imprint,
can be softened.
With your efforts,
a great master key
can be forged,
one that
satisfies
all
lock-down
stipulations.
And,
key in hand,
the diligent man
can open the front door,
walk through the lobby,
shake hands,
present his love...
the remnants of a miracle...
and perform wonders
for all to see.
And all she will hear
and feel
is the great lock's
click.
It is because we are equal
that you can stand, planted,
nose to nose and
return my hard stare.
It is because
we are equal
that
you can hear the
music in my head
and
dance to my
rhythms.
It is
because
we are equal
that
you can withstand
the onslaught
of my hard truths.
Your equality,
cooling and fierce,
offsets the steady burn
and turns a
frightening hot blaze
into a
productive simmer.
Your equality,
a diamond emerging from
a deeply tempered
earth-baked coal,
unaffected by
late flames or the
burning rays of the
world's hot suns.
Your equality,
the emboldening force that
allows you to
reach for my heart
and expect an response.
And so,
when I see you,
I am humbled by your integrity.
I can lower my chin,
curtsy my body,
live out my grace,
and extend my hand
knowing
that when I turn away from the watch,
another set of eyes
is watching.
My children,
my absence is
not permission
for you to
quit.
It is proof
that I am
human.
It is proof
that when I feel pain,
it hurts,
just like yours does.
When I am disappointed,
it burns deep in my soul,
like you have felt
so often.
When I am sad,
it festers and swells
and must be flushed,
like your sadness.
And being human,
I am subject to
all the laws of humanity:
sickness and health,
wealth and poverty,
and eventually death
(like you).
Life occurs in seasons,
ups and downs and sideways,
alley ways and valleys,
mountains and long tumbles down,
shouting and violence,
silence and tears in dark rooms...
It is all true.
Yet,
that is not permission
to lay down and
believe that
there is no hope
for striving.
You can't see me
striving,
but this is my guarantee.
I am tricked out in hospital gowns,
and keeping my face clean,
and taking medications,
and waking up with expectation each morning
because sickness
is not permission
for me
to throw in the towel
and forget my life's purpose.
Just as you couldn't see me
heartbroken when your hearts broke,
weeping bitterly when you wept,
angry when you got angry
(because a leader must be cool),
you cannot see me now,
but you can see my heart.
You have learned more
in my absence
than I could have ever taught you
sitting pretty at my desk
or walking your sidewalks.
Sometimes,
life hits you
hard
and in the back
when
you're
not expecting it.
You are not allowed
to look up at God
and complain
that the strike is unfair.
You must anticipate
strikes
from all directions
because
no one is exempt.
You don't get
permission
to ride life out
without challenges.
Challenges
grow you.
You are not allowed
to settle
for whatever is left over.
You must fight for
your rightful inheritance.
You must
raise up yourself
on whatever
strength
you possess
in the time of your struggle.
You must
let others love you
when
you are not sure
of how to love
yourself.
Finally,
you must stop pretending
that you can stop life
from striking you first.
Me being away is just proof
that nobody gets a free pass,
and I refuse to let you think
that my absence
is my abuse
of some cosmic hall pass.
I am being schooled right now,
and I have to keep showing up,
like you.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
please bring your
caddy of manicure supplies
to the Nephrology ward
and clip your sisters' fingernails.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
please come through
with an assortment of
black-fist-ended hair picks and
natural hair moisturizers
so the girls in Oncology can
pick what they have.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
please bring in some
Brazilian Remy wigs
for the sisters
with no more glory
to shake
in this place.
Bring us some
deep, moody nail polish and
punctuating lipstick
for those who can
still
moisturize and
paint their lips.
Sister,
come and
sing a song
about hope
in here.
Black Girl Candy Striper,
bring in
your scripture
and your smile.
You don't even
have to wear that
funky
peppermint outfit.
This is the modern world.
Come in your black slacks
with a backpack,
and we will
receive you.
You don't even
have to be
teen.
Just pop in after work
for a half hour,
twice a week.
My candy striping Sister,
bring
a little of your
fly
to the ward.
I thought, as a child of the ghetto and the illustrious American welfare system (in the 80s, before the coveted food stamp swipe card) that I understood suffering. Ducking bullets, keeping side eyes on prostitutes and drug dealers and falling down in snow drifts without socks can teach you a thing or two about the struggle. But I have learned that there is an art to suffering that is specific to situation. When a new brand of suffering appears, you need a mentor to talk you through it.
My late husband, even in his absence, has taught me a lot about suffering through sickness. It is one thing to adapt in order to sustain one's self in the presence of external, aggressive danger. It is another thing entirely to adapt in order to sustain one's self when the body is the aggressor. So, what does it mean to suffer well when your own body is on the attack?
The first thing is to accept, not deny, what is happening to you. Though my husband had Sickle Cell Anemia throughout his life--since age seven--he was not diagnosed with avascular necrosis until shortly after we got married. We were sitting in the room together when the orthopedic surgeon broke the news via x-ray. In essence, once all the medical jargon was removed, the doc explained to us that all of Lawrence's joints were going to decay, starting with the hips (where we were) and continuing through the knees, elbows, shoulders... It was a lot to take in at once.
We sat down to discuss it when we got home, and I just threw out all the medicalese and broke it to him straight: "Eventually, you may not be able to move at all. You will need many replacements."
A man could have responded many ways to such news: rage, depression, extreme anxiety, bitterness... but what he said was, "Okay. Let's do what we have to do to make sure that Chad [our son] is okay." We decided to fight it, lose a joint, replace a joint, to keep Lawrence here as long as we could so he had time to fulfill certain goals for the family. He set out to improve himself without end, one career to another, until he found something that stuck: home health (ironically). Most importantly, he started explaining to our little boy, age seven or so--a little at a time--that he was dying.
I prayed for God to heal Lawrence, for many years in the beginning and much more at the end, but He didn't, so we had to ride it out, which leads us directly into my diagnosis for Lupus. Unfortunately, Lawrence wasn't here to hold my hand, but his investment in suffering was. I am in the hospital now, writing this blog entry, when just yesterday a team of doctors asked me, "How do you feel about all of this?" At the time I was writing my answers on a clipboard because the ulcers in my mouth were so bad that I hadn't spoken for three days. But, I knew how I felt. "This is what it is. Why should I panic when this is what has been dealt to me. If God does not heal me, I must ride it out."
The second thing is to accept the level of illness. This must be done before you can really defend yourself. I am typically terrible at assessing my own needs, so it took me weeks to understand that the referral made for me (set for two weeks after I arrived here at MUSC in Charleston) was too long to wait. I had to do what I did for my husband: find the best specialist for this ailment and go to his or her practice. That is how I ended up sitting in MUSC's Rheumatology department, and that is how they identified my immediate need to be admitted into the hospital. I can't say I decided that on my own, since I thought I was already defending. I changed my diet. I prayed and fasted. But, I hadn't really decided to defend at all because I hadn't asked for expert help. I looked like a fighter, and I felt like a fighter, but I couldn't be... I wasn't prepared to fight such a bout without the right counsel.
The third thing is to fight the fear. With a devastating diagnosis comes the fear: fear of the pain, fear of the consequences, fear for your family, fear for your child(ren). None of these fears are going to help you fight at all. They deplete you and put you at a terrible disadvantage because you need your mind to engage the disease. In order to find your new normal (if that is required), you will need your whole mind, your whole self to do it. The gaping ulcers in my mouth made it very hard and painful to swallow, but I had to swallow water. I had to swallow needed medicines. The fear of the pain of swallowing could have kept me from doing what I needed to do, but I had to do it. I couldn't let the fear stop me for completing the course.
Also, I'm going through some sort of career evolution. I don't know WHAT that is going to look like; it is a struggle. But, I have to moderate my stress levels. I have to make changes. I can't be afraid of that. It must be done.
Finally, call your people. You might be surprised at who your people are. There are going to be people that you call that you SWORE would show up in your time of distress, and they won't. Then, there will be people that you never knew loved you so much. You cannot live out the struggle of illness on your own in prideful isolation. Say your apologies and call for help. You need it. You will need it. Your suffering is already public. How much more public are you afraid it will become? You are sick. It's pretty obvious. Call your people. Let them love you while you fight.
These are certainly not all of the steps, but herein lies a good number of them. I realize that I haven't quoted any scriptures here, but if you want one that has always motivated me, here it is: "Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ," II Timothy 2:3. In my mind, it plays like this: "Endure hardness like a good soldier," because life is hard. Don't let anybody fool you. Some things happen that will require all of your resources--financial, mental and spiritual--to survive. When the hard times come, you have to show up to the front line with your "Hurrah" in your mouth. Decide ahead of time that your "Hurrah" is with you. I believe God is with you. I realize that some of you don't believe in God, but at least try out some of those Biblical principles. I assure you, they work for nonbelievers too. That's why they become believers. ;)
Love to you from a hospital room in Charleston, South Carolina. I hope this moves you.
Don't you worry.
The Lupus is for me.
What concern does God have with Lupus?
We will bind it,
and you will live
and declare the
goodness of the Lord
in the
land of the living.
The interested man
is an emblazoned obelisk,
standing erect and emboldened,
exhibiting his gift to be
both broad and sharp,
both firm and brilliant,
both dark and inspiring...
both grounded and sky high.
He is, certainly,
a monster in his own right...
traversing the forest of some
young woman's universe,
observing for evidence and scent
of her trees' deep and sweet sap,
plucking her favorite flowers and
setting them down upon her beautiful crown.
A lion, yes!
Prowling...
circling and watching,
circling and watching,
digging in for the right moment
to strike,
to demonstrate his
strength and wit.
You will never
have to wonder
if he is interested.
If he is interested,
he will come to you,
mounting his greatest overture,
reaching into your heart fingers that
God designed,
that from the beginning of time were trained to
play the right chords,
chords that open the secrets of life.
He does not hide himself.
He does not hide.
He announces his arrival.
He enters at the front door.
He brings down the house.
"The Black Feminine Dilemma" addresses the difficulties successful Black women experience when trying to begin relationships with beautiful (but perhaps offended) Black men. Well, there is another side to this issue... which a few brothas have been wonderful to point out.
Not all of us sistas have been good to them. And perhaps, those of us who have been good might not have been good all along. Still more of us don't understand what "Good-to-a-brotha" or "Bad-to-a-brotha" entails.
There are places where we lost them... their attention, their respect, their love... and it is terribly necessary that we address those checkpoints if we can hope to rebuild the Black family again.
The Place of Total Dependency
While men enjoy feeling important and needed in relationships with us, they don't want to be made gods in our lives. They don't want to be responsible for purchasing nuanced items--like feminine products and toothpaste--for their girlfriends; some requests aren't valid until wife status! They don't want to become our only source of friendship because they are not our female peers. They don't want to plan all of our experiences, all of our excitements, all of our dreams. They don't want us to be entirely dependent upon what they do or do not do.
For sure, that brotha feels proud when he is asked to lift, to move, to fix, to improve anything, but... he does NOT want to be asked to lift, move, fix and improve EVERY THING. There is a balance to be struck. The moment a sista turns her man into her personal butler, her personal piggy bank, her on-call counselor, she has likely begun building a new exit for that man to use out of her life.
The Place of Infidelity
Women cheat. We do. We make and take booty calls (like men do). We creep away to covert locations (like men do). We make commitments to men who are head over heels in love, and we--intentionally--target other brothas who are willing to be temporaries to fill in the gaps (like men do). We are not innocent here. We have got to realize that in the process of living out these fantasies, what some of us might call "Being a Boss Chick," we breed distaste in the lives of two, three, four, five, fifty brothers. Why do I say that?
The brotha that you play is gonna tell it to at least one more because--we know this--they talk a lot amongst each other (like women do). Break one heart, and his whole crew has to suffer the awkwardness of rebuilding a dude who put his all out there for you to enjoy. The bitterness takes root and grows up in the group. The story gets retold and retold. And guess what happens? A whole team... maybe even that team's following generation... writes us off in one fell swoop.
They decide, "I'll never be played again."
The Place of Abuse
I'm not talking about physical abuse, though that sometimes occurs and some of us want a pass for it.
No honey. You don't get a pass for punching a brother up and crying out, "I'm a lady and you can't hit me back."
I'm talking about women who willfully manipulate good men into wasting or tabling their intellect, their social prowess, their finances, their vocations, their drives. Women who enjoy and exhaust all of the energy in a relationship and then refuse to let a brotha go when the courtship has obviously ended. Women who threaten to expose brothas' weaknesses when things don't go their way. Women who systematically war against brothas being brothas: wanting to watch the game, wanting to watch The Godfather on repeat, wanting to find out what rappers are wearing and driving (whether or not they ever intend to wear or drive any of it). It is abusive to ask a man not to be a man!
This does not mean that we ought to lower expectations such that the brothas can be primitive man, running about the world grabbing up any sista by the hair and just dragging her into a spot for some bang and a good day. It means that there are things that men enjoy, introvert or extrovert, young or old, that they must be allowed to do! They are good things. They are clean things. They are sometimes outstanding things. To ask him not to be and do those things is abusive and criminal.
The Place of Entrapment
Now, there are a lot of ways we can look at this, and I need to be candid about them.
Babies are gifts to the world. They are innocent and pure and totally unaware of what it means to be alive... clueless and totally dependent on their parents. They are beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Some people would take the issue of premarital pregnancy and use it to argue for the woman's right to abort, but this particular conversation has nothing to do with what happens after conception. This has to do with what happens before.
Sistas, you know what is required to raise a child. You know the sacrifices that must be made. Why would you allow a brotha in his moment of passion--if you're going to let him borrow you in his moment of passion and you don't belong to him permanently--why would you let him borrow you in such a way that both of you might end up trapped in a relationship in which neither of you intended to commit? Unprotected, pre-marital sex can't be more than one person's intention to trap the other.
We all know the consequences of unprotected sex, and not-a-one of them ends with lasting, win-win pleasure. If you're still doing it that way, you setting up for the cage to drop and neither one of you will escape. Watch out for a brotha that asks you to "go raw" that doesn't belong to you. That brotha has a problem.
And then, there are some of us who take on men who are totally dependent upon us. This too is a trap. The brotha in his defeated state is a ticking time bomb. He will allow himself to be mothered by you, to be your personal slave, to be subservient to your financial lordship for a time... but after that time, both of your lives are going to atomic-bomb-style explode with anger and hysteria. That you have trapped him by becoming his surrogate mother is a huge mistake. You are still going to lose him the moment he grows up.
The Place of Least Resistance
Finally, sista, don't be mad. The old women used to say, "He ain't gone buy the cow if he can get the milk for free." You might hate that I used that, but the brothas tend to agree... it pretty much applies. The "milk" doesn't have to be the body either. In general, brothas need to see and know that we have standards. Without that, they don't trust us!
It seems contradictory, I know! The word on the street is, "All they want is one thing, and if you don't give it to them, they'll leave you." Perhaps a few will... but if you keep giving it up to the street on every third date, I guarantee you that nobody will keep you. See above. Men talk. If it used to be you and you changed your life, you get our solidarity... but if you are still kicking it by easily giving up the goods, you are asking to be left by the wayside.
These are just some of the ways that we have lost the men that we love, but I want to invite them--the brothas--to further explain to us where we have gone wrong in the equation. If there is any hope to restore the fabled Black love that we once held so dear to us, it rests--surely--on our ability to discuss these issues openly.
The game has changed. It used to be that when grandma called you into the kitchen to talk about women's things, it was to make sure you knew how to cook the family's best "way-to-a-man's-heart" recipes. Now when grandma calls, it's to say this:
"Get a good education, get out of this town, get a good job, and once you get yourself settled you can buy or borrow any man you want."
What happened between conversations A and B that changed the Black feminine narrative so significantly? Was it, as people regularly conjecture in Black "love, sex and relationships" blogs, the result of a social movement to empower women as a whole? Was it the revolutionary way that depictions of Black women have changed in the entertainment industry? Was it the total deterioration of the myth of the Black Superman in the modern world?
It was none of those things. In truth, the Black woman evolved--she became something different--when the Black fairy tale ended.
A Perceived Lack of Interest
Damon Young, Very Smart Brothas Editor-in-Chief, explains that the brothas have ceased trying to begin relationships with women before they "have their sh*t together," and we can respect that. We, your sistas, know the narrative about the slack Black man, and we know you want to prove that you are not that guy. At the same time, this means that you are not speaking love to us at all. You are doing excellently, building your dream life, padding your bank account and working overtime to prepare yourself to be the perfect man for the perfect woman, but you have forgotten what the elders taught us. It takes a lifetime to build a dream.
By the time you finish padding that nest, you'll be forty... fifty... maybe sixty, and this is not a Snow White situation. We could not lay around waiting while you became a magnate, so we learned how to make moves of our own to create our own stories: stories of personal power, of wealth, of self-sufficiency. How could we not have done that? It appeared to us (as it does now) that you would never come, and when you did get ready to saddle up that horse and ride off looking for your princess, we would be forty... fifty... sixty... and you would expect us to be, look and behave like we're in our twenties.
Because you, seemingly, weren't interested, we just decided to be more interested in ourselves and introduce you to "the perfected her" as we saw fit, on our terms. Turns out, you don't like her so well.
A Change in the Black Female's Status... in Your Eyes
For centuries it was "us" against "them," whoever they were. There was some social travesty that thrust us together in warfare against outsiders: enslavement, racism, wage-ism, you name it. When we fought together, against "them," it was a ride-or-die situation. We had to be "we" to survive.
The game has changed. While there are still faint heart beats of these social wars raging in our current world, most of the battles have been fought and won. The remaining struggles are turning in our favor. There are now no "theys" to contend with. There is just "us." But... there is no "us."
The Black woman, to Black men, is now the butt of a deep, secret joke among the brothas. Where being strong, forward, loud, impressive and (dare I say) thick were assets in the fight against injustice, they are now mocked as uncultured, wild, embarrassing and inconvenient. The argument can be made that among other cultures, the black woman has always been deemed exotic using these same negative adjectives, but it's not "them" anymore.
It appears that you, our own brotha, can only see us as the Hottentot Venus, an object of sexuality and fertility to be ogled and jeered at, but not kept, cherished or loved for any period of time. The entire music of a generation--the current generation--is being built upon this premise, that the Black woman is only good for you if she strips, if she's into three-ways, if she's a trap queen, if she's willing to hide your secrets and use her energies to... well... be uncultured, wild, embarrassing and inconvenient.
A Realignment of the Race
I'm not talking about skin color or ethnicity either. Remember grandma? You should probably know that she is also saying this:
"The Black woman is last. It's the white man, then the white woman, then the black man, then you. If you want to be somebody, you can't just work hard. You got to work the hardest. You can't just run this race. You got to be the fastest to be first."
She's not saying, "Be fast enough to run next to your man." She's saying, "Be first." While we recognize that this sometimes puts our men in an awkward position, we have learned to enjoy the splendor of standing on the top block and having the proverbial gold medal placed around our own necks. I recognize that this is a huge turn for our brothas, who may have been taught--again by the elders--that a Black woman is empowered to push you until you achieve that coveted win. We are! We are! Yet, you must remember what happened when suddenly (for reasons we understand) you weren't there.
Now, when you encounter the woman who is equipped to thrust you into your shining moment, she is as bright as the sun herself. She works full time. She goes to school at night. She manages community events. She has her own properties and investments. She has a full calendar. Her phone rings non-stop. She is a boss in her own right. She is ahead. In some cases, she is way, way ahead, and she is busy trying to keep up her own pace.
The Dilemma
The dilemma is, despite these changes in how we handle our dreams, your interests and your perceptions of us, we still want you to want us. For sure, when you encounter your sista now you are looking at something bordering on alien. There is this blend of gender roles that might be overwhelming--hurricane-style overwhelming--and we cannot help that this is the end result of having to do things differently for a long time. Yet, we want you to walk up and introduce yourself. We want you to ask for our numbers. We want you to ask us out for coffee. We want you to send us flowers. We still want your love.
We can still cook grandma's "keep-your-man" dinner, but we might not be able to do that every night. We can still disappear behind the scenes sometimes to develop and support your vision in private, but we also have to live very public, very professional lives. We can still raise your children, but we cannot change all the diapers, do all the play dates, handle all the doctors' visits. We probably cannot do stay-at-home. We are runners now, and we want you to be proud of that.
If we are better runners than you, we want you to see that as an asset since we are still willing... after all these years... to unveil to you the secrets of how we got there. We can still hide behind you, by choice, when appropriate, and we still desperately need your embrace, your words of strength and your approval.
Here is our olive branch to you. If the sistas offended you by becoming what we felt we had to in order to enjoy life, I can assure you that was not our intention. You should know that we thought you weren't interested any way. We need to change the conversation regarding how we see each other in the modern age. We need to rewrite the Black fairy tale in such a way that you are a winner again, a winner with a co-winner. We need to make falling in love with each other okay again.
