Bona Fide Psycho

It's official. Law school has turned me into a complete psycho! Not a funny, zany, spontaneous person - good to have a parties and mixers, but a bona fide whack job. I turned in my final summer school assignment today after 8 hours of tears, screaming, threats, and gnashing of teeth. I think that at one point, my husband suggested I calm down, and gave him the finger while simultaneously biting my tongue and rolling my eyes into the back of my head.

Dear God - Who wants me? I know this man I married is just biding his time until the bell rings and he gets to collect on that small island nation he was promised for tolerating my inane theatrics for the last 14 years. Before he leaves, please let me meet another man with a similar name so I don't regret the tattoo on my ass quite so much. - Amen

Well, at least it's over - for now. One more year of school, and I'm finally done with the whole damn operation. I remember the first week of my first year, when I met my mentor. When I asked about her 1L year, she said she and her husband had divorced before spring break. What's an appropriate gift for a man who makes it through undergrad, grad school, and law school without putting you on a litigation chain gang and cashing your paychecks while he travels the world following Jill Scott's new album release tour? The usual undignified favors just don't seem to apply. I guess I'll just have to take it one step at a time...

Step 1: Say thank you.

Step 2: Don't be psycho.

Step 3: Put some lotion on that ashy tattoo and raise it in his direction.

In celebration of the end of another hellish chapter in my academic career, I'm offering a toast: "Here's to psychotic women everywhere, and the saintly men who continue to love them in spite of all grades of foolishness."

All This Talk About Hair

"Discourse about afternoon slow dancing, and the possibilities of grown-up, non-monogamous love, and the raising of sane and thoughtful and affectionate children, and the methods necessary to take over the world and still remain human beings is not allowed, because whenever we get together, we're supposed to bolt the door and dim the lights and look at each other and say, "O-o-o-o-o-o! This terrible hair!" - Pearl Cleage

Damn Shawana for that fall, and that flow, and that quick-handed yank back into a cute tangled ponytail. For the yearning to slide my fingers effortlessly into my tresses, and glide my cool tips accross my warm skull.

Damn Phyllis for that tighter-than-tight haircut - styled to perfection, with bangs or without. Shaved in the back. Red or blonde highlights. All my guy friends in the AUC saying, "Alright, sexy! She hooked you up!!" "Looking like that, I might have to spring for Wings-N-Things tonight!"

Damn ya'll - Pammy, Aisha, Kimber, Naadii, Rana, Chanel, Melly, Semimi, Leah, Vonnie, Jess. For praising my puffs, and my t.w.a. For offering to style it, twist it, braid it, and smoothing your greased palms against my scalp. For smiling in encouragement, as I stand squnity-eyed in the glimmer of my God-given crown.

Cradling The Baby

I spent a key period in my life working as a hospital chaplain in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Even before the experience began, I knew it would be a challenge. I was the only person of color in my counseling group, and the only full-time Black person on staff at one of the largest hospitals in the Twin Cities. I had braced myself for an interesting summer, but I got much more than that. We'd spent a week in orientation learning about the joys and challenges of chaplaincy, including the myriad of experiences we might have. I was prepared for everything from the joy of celebrating the birth of a new born baby to the heartbreak of grave illness and death. It was everything else in between that I was blindsided by - arrogant doctors, fighting families, a continual struggle with the staff of the psych ward, pressure to conduct myself as a man in the presence of grieving men. (Did you know that men stand up to greet other men, and tend to continue standing for the entire time an emotional situation is transpiring? They sort of stand in a circle and talk to one another while looking at the ground. The conversation will be occasionally punctuated by a joke or off-hand comment, but there is NEVER crying and NEVER any sitting down!) As a chaplain, whether you're a man or a woman, you're expected to comprehend, speak, and interpret the male language (if there is such a thing).

There were so many expectations that summer, but none greater than during my first week of work. I was scheduled to go to the labor and delivery ward to pray with a family in celebration of the birth of their child. By the time I got there, things had already gone terribly wrong. A healthy, happy, intelligent, economically sound, married woman (all the things attributed to a healthy birth environment) had given birth to a dead baby. They called it a "fetal demise" - a term that is so innocuous in its recitation - like a bag of microwave popcorn that failed to fully pop. Family, balloons, flowers, flashbulbs, and video cameras had been in place to welcome the newly born. By the time I got there the room was clear, and I sat alone with the mother and father. "I'm sorry," I said. What else could I say?!! "This is devastating." They looked down at the sheets and nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like to pray, or have me read from the Bible?" They said they'd like for me to pray. We held hands, and I prayed. The mother kept my hand clutched in one hand, and her husband's in the other. For the next 2 hours we cried. I dared not move. Didn't want to move. Probably would have run or tried to fly away if I did. I just knew I'd be fired - for crying, or for not making my scheduled rounds that hour. But I sat, and at the end of 2 hours, the mother patted my hand and thanked me. She asked about baptism. I talked to her about a naming ceremony for the baby. Explained that it would be an opportunity to gather the family together in celebration of the community that welcomed this child, and honor the baby with a name.

That's when the bomb was dropped. I was informed that it was my role as a chaplain to bring the baby's body up from the morgue for the ceremony, if the parents so chose. They did. I went down and met the coroner for the first time. She was kind, smart, quirky, and sensitive to my position. She pulled the small body from a basin of liquid and dried it off. She wrapped it tightly in a blanket, cradled it while she gave me instructions on holding it close to me in the hallways, with the face toward my chest. She said to continue holding it this way throughout the ceremony unless the parents requested otherwise. She explained what a wonderful role I was playing in the life of the family, and how it was part of circle of life. I took it all in. She handed the baby over to me, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting up against the wall on the floor of the morgue. Apparently my knees had buckled, and I'd passed out for a few seconds. To my surprise, the doctor acted as if that was the next step in her instructions. She only smiled, helped me up, and re-placed the baby in my arms. From there things were OK. I rode the elevator up. People on the elevator smiled down at my bundle, as I fought the urge to rock it back and forth. The family was there when I walked in, looking more relieved by our arrival than upset. I performed the short ceremony (still holding the bundle), gave each member of the family the opportunity to share their feelings, and presented the parents with the naming certificate. No one asked to see the baby's face. (I think the parents went down to the morgue later.) Everyone thanked me, and I returned the baby to more experienced hands.

In the years following this event, I would lose several pregnancies myself - thankfully not late enough to experience a tragedy like this. But it hasn't left me saddened. I've been sad some - sure. But with each loss, something unexpected happened. I became most acutely aware - not of what I'd lost - but of what remained...my wonderful husband, the love of family and friends, my community, my career, the endless opportunities in front of me. At times like I'm facing now, when I'm uncertain about my future, and whether or not the fruits of my labor will manifest, I look back on my loss, and cradling that baby - and I can envision all that remains.

Case of the Ex

I used to be a smoker. I know, I know. It's nasty, disgusting, amoral, perverse, and will kill you. Well...that was kind of the point. I was never a heavy smoker, but there is no doubt that for 10 years (off and on) it was my favorite thing. Although the repetitive behavior of the physical aspect appealed greatly to my Type-A/anxious/OCD sensibilities, it was the social UN-acceptability that appealed to me most. I was reared to be reasonable, fair, and sensitive to the needs of others. I often take this instruction WAY too seriously, and the result has been a far-from-healthy inability to establish personal boundaries. The joy of smoking was that it was neither reasonable, fair (to my body, anyway), or sensitive to the needs of others. It was what I did for me, with no thought of the "other."

It's been a year and a half since I quit, and I miss it everyday. I liken it to the death of a close friend or lover. Over time it gets better, and you think of it less, but the emotional connection remains. I miss the way I felt engaging in the rebellion of doing something that a nice person, a spiritual person, a member of my sorority, a graduate of my undergraduate school, or a child of my parents shouldn't do. Each puff defied the norms of my social universe. I was transported away to a remote world where all the labels that I, or others, applied to myself no longer mattered. (Places like Siberia, Mars, or La Mirada, California.) With each drag, I breathed in recklessness and exhaled self-satisfaction. I was a rebel in my own twisted mind.

It ended because - for me - it was childish. And, at this point in my life, there is too much at stake to embrace a childish indulgence. However, I do still find myself reciting the ever-evolving eulogy of my fallen friend, and thinking of ways to reconstruct her, like a Parliament-Frankenstein.

Not long after I quit, I was walking with my sister and my husband through SoHo, where a woman was peddling her 15 year-old son's artwork on the street. My sister noticed a painting that she knew would have meaning to me. It was a lit cigarette with little hearts in place of the rising smoke. I bought it immediately, and have cherished it ever since. It was my prize for my great achievement of laying my friend to rest. I don't know what this young artist was feeling when he painted it, but he may know me better than most. Look how reluctantly the hearts leave the cigarette - how love is drawn begrudgingly, by the tail, away from its burning betrothed. It is amazing how tentative we are in abandoning our most deceitful lovers.

Black Like Me

I'll say, in beginning this post, that much of my initial blogging may be about my childhood. Not because it was so terrible or so wonderful, but because it exposed me to a fantastically eclectic encounter with the world, and shaped much of how I see myself today. I'm sharing this memory because it was one of those events that puts a pinpoint in your life. I have recounted it to friends twice before, and they both cried. Funny, because I find it absolutely hilarious!!!

I was born in Iowa City, Iowa. My parents moved there so my Dad could work on his PhD, and my mom taught nursing. Although the University spawned an impressive multicultural subculture, my family lived in Coralville, and that was just White. Its residents were some of the best people I've known in my life, but not big fans of Amie Cesaire. The situation was not much different in my kindergarten classroom, in which I was the only Black child, and the only child that couldn't read. It's not that my parents were illiterate or lazy. It's just that my father had a fundamental belief that little kids should spend time being little kids, and book learnin' could wait until they started school. (Could someone please remind me to kiss that Daddy the next time I see him?) So, because I was Black and illiterate, my teacher sent me to the play area to play while she taught reading and math.

A few months into the school year my parents received 2 shocking revelations at once: (1) their daughter was not being taught, and (2) she had adopted a new arch nemesis that would bring tears to her mother's eyes.

I brought my simple a** home one day, and announced to my parents that not only did I get to play every day while the other kids read, but I had whupped Stinky good that day and she deserved it! "Stinky" was the only Black baby doll in our play area. In fact, she was the only Black image at all. At one time I'm sure she'd been a cute toy that smelled like powder, but in our classroom she was a f***ing pariah. She had been stripped naked, scalped, and had her head scribbled on with a permanent magic marker. At each play session our teacher smiled on as we hurled Stinky at one another, exclaiming that whomever she touched had the cooties! It was an uproarious game, and fun for all. I'd scream at the top of my lungs any time she came gliding in my direction, and laugh like a lunatic when her venom was spewed against some other unsuspecting victim. On the night of my casual recap of the day's activities my mother sat dumbstruck, with her mouth open and tears in her eyes. I had no idea why she seemed not to appreciate the joy we all shared. She looked at me with a gaze filled with both anger and pity and whispered, "Don't you know that they hate that doll because she looks like you?" The answer to that was easy! "Stinky don't look like ME!" My father stepped in, looking less angry, but equally concerned. He spoke calmly, "We'll talk to your teacher this week. Tomorrow, you're going to bring that doll home, and give her a proper name. Your mother will take you shopping for a doll dress and some hair. On Monday you can take her back in and RE-introduce her to your classmates."

Devastated does not begin to define the way I felt. I cried on the way to the store, at the store, and all the way to school on Monday. During show-and-tell my teacher (appropriately shame-faced) announced that I would be making a "special" presentation. I drug my feet toward the front, carrying the doll by the hair, as my classmates snickered and gave shout-outs to Stinky in her new duds. Through tears, I managed to say, "This is our new doll...Susie. She has a new dress and nice hair, and we should treat her nicely. [sobs] BUT I STILL THINK SHE'S STINKY!!!"

My parents transferred me to a new school for first grade. By Christmas I was reading and doing math at a fourth grade level. But, it would be years before I understood that Susie was, indeed, me.

Go, Daddy, Go!!!

My father is legally blind. This has not limited him in many ways, but he has always lived with the frustration of not being able to drive a car. This past weekend I was in Atlanta visiting my father and friends when my husband and a close girlfriend began a light discussion about cars. My father expressed his regret over never being able to drive one. I was thinking that he is more than able to afford to hire someone to drive the car of his choice, but I know it's not the same. For him a car represents freedom - something that I (having been a driver since 16) tend to take for granted. Thinking about this in the presence of my loved ones made me remember something from my youth. My Dad used to do the routine repair work on our family car. As a little kid, my friends and I would watch him get under it in the garage and begin his inspection. It was mostly mundane, but every so often something fantastic would happen! I'm not sure why - maybe the light in the garage wasn't good, or he needed more room to operate - but my Dad would climb behind the wheel and back the car up to the end of the driveway.

OK, you're not astounded. But, to us, this was like watching a miracle. Like seeing a crippled man walk, or a blind woman regain her sight. We'd immediately jump to our feet. I was 6, my best friend was 9, and my baby sister was 3. With every hair on our heads standing on end we'd scream, shout, embrace each other jumping up and down and yell, "Go! Goooooooooo!!! Go Daddy, go!" "Keep going Mr. Davis! Keep driving!!" "Look at him! He's doing it!!!" "All the way to the end of the block. All the way, as fast as you can! Keep going, Daddy! Gooooo!!!!!"

For the 10 seconds it took for him to back the car up from the garage to the end of the driveway, his dream was our dream. His freedom was our freedom. We dreamed with him. We imagined with him. We screamed, and shouted, and stamped our feet at the possibility of this independence.

He never went further than the end of the driveway. So afraid that he might hit a child he didn't see - so aware of the danger. He'd only get out of the car, smile at us, and laugh. He'd point at us and shake his head. He felt our love for him. He allowed our enthusiam to wash over him. He appreciated the love of these children he loved so much. The possibility that I celebrated was not my dream at all. But I don't think I've ever felt so free.

My Latest Soapbox...

OK. I'm married to a good man - there's no denying it. He's no angel, and can be a grade-A a**hole when he wants to be, but he holds his own and loves his wife. Apparently that's hard to come by these days, because I'm constantly inundated with commentary from friends and family about how "lucky" I am. Don't get me wrong. If there is such a thing as luck, it was certainly in play when we met one another and started a relationship. We have a lot in common, a lot of respect for one another, and a deep mutual attraction. HOWEVER, when you meet the couple who has maintained a successful relationship for 14 years based on "luck," you let me know so I can smack the s*** out of them for not sharing that secret with me! NOT TO MENTION, how f***ing rude it is to imply that I'M the lucky one. The boy is cute, but I've been making magic happen for 31 years! LOL!!!

Seriously - There's a huge misconception out there that, in love and life, getting what we deserve means getting what we want. I think that what we want is overrated. What if you deserve more? I'm not sure if any of us "deserve" anything, but if my relationship with my man MUST be evaluated, he was only part of what I wanted. I had a whole laundry list of what my "ideal" man should look, feel, think, smell, talk, and be like. He was only some of those things, and I entertained the idea of holding out for more. I thank God every day that I didn't. He wasn't all the things that I wanted, but what he was was so much more - so much more than I knew to imagine for myself. So, maybe luck did open the door, but we continue to live in the happy home because we work hard everyday to be good stewards of the gift that God has given us in each other.

Don't hold on so tightly to the dream of the love you want, that you can't let go and embrace the fantastic reality of what God has promised for your life!

Ready, Shoot, Aim

Okay. Is anybody out there? Hahaha!!!